“Oh, on a flight like this maybe up to thirty-three thousand feet,” I tell Casey.

Casey rolls her My Little Pony suitcase along behind her. “How high is that?”

“Well, that’s about six miles.”

“How much is a mile?”

Casey’s five years old, and full of questions as we approach the ticket counter for her first airline flight. The line is moving along quickly. We have twenty minutes before our flight, plenty of time.

“Will I be able to look out and see the clouds?” Casey asks.

“No, I’m sorry, Casey. I told you. You can’t see anything during the flight.” I shift my purse to get a better grip on my rolling suitcase.

“Aww,” she says quietly as we step up to the counter. I hand over our identification cards. The ticket agent plugs mine into the reader and checks my face against my picture on her monitor.

“DNA scan, please, ma’am,” she says. I press my thumb to the red circle on the small scanner terminal. “Thank you. And what’s your name, little lady?” she asks my daughter.

“Casey. I’m five.”

“That’s delightful,” says the ticket agent. “DNA scan, please, miss.” I pick Casey up so she can reach the scanner. She’s used to this; she does it every day at school.

“Thank you. Okay, are you checking any bags today?”

“Just these two and my purse,” I say, lifting my suitcase to the conveyor and placing my handbag on top of it. “Come on, Casey, put your suitcase up.” She does, and the ticket agent tags each bag with a sticker. A few taps on her keyboard, and Casey watches as My Little Pony is whisked away into the bowels of the airport.

“All right,” says the ticket agent, “I’m coding your pod routings into your ID cards. Pod Lounge B, just follow the signs. And for you, Casey, here is a happy kitty sticker you can put on your pod! Have a pleasant trip!” She winks at Casey, who smiles at her sticker as we walk away.

A clock overhead shows fifteen minutes until flight time. I used to hate flying. First there was 9/11 and the fear everywhere, the machine guns at the airport. Later came the super-sensitive metal detectors, removal of shoes and belts, and just more hassle and more time spent at the security checkpoints. The new system is so much easier.

“Mommy, can we get an ice cream?” Casey asks.

“When we arrive, honey. We need to get to our pods now.” We’re just coming up on the entrance to Pod Lounge B.

“Do I have to go alone?”

“Yes, honey, but everything will be fine. I’ll be right next to you the whole time, and everything is perfectly safe. You’ll see,” I tell her, giving her a warm smile and squeezing her hand. We step into Pod Lounge B behind a big family: grandmother, mom and dad, four young children.

Flying is so much nicer now without all the security stuff. The shoe bomber and the underpants bomber forced the government to introduce some pretty tough screening procedures.

First there were the body scanners that showed naked pictures of you to the security staff. You could choose to skip them (a few people were afraid of radiation), but then you were searched by hand. I didn’t mind the scanners – anyway, it was much better than having your breasts fondled and your vulva examined with those cold blue rubber gloves.

Later the body scan became mandatory, along with the hand search. Nobody really liked that, and some people just stopped flying. A couple of airlines went bankrupt and were bailed out by the government. Then there was the vagina bomber and the full cavity searches. I always took the fast-acting tranquilizers the Bureau of Transportation Safety starting handing out for free at the entry to the security lines.

But then came Norman Greer. They said he was some kind of militia terrorist. While in flight, Norman must have taken plastic explosive and a detonator out of hollow cavities inside his metal femur implants. 523 people died that day.

“I don’t want to go in the pod!” The youngest of the family’s four children is screaming loudly. Casey looks nervous, but this doesn’t go on too long. Dad grabs a tranq dispenser off the wall, dials a dosage and applies it to the little girl’s neck. She goes limp, and mom and dad load her into a pod. Then they put their daughter’s happy puppy sticker on the pod and feed her ID card into it. A low beep, a light turns green, and they go about getting the rest of the family settled in.

“Here we are, Casey,” I say as we approach a pair of the silver pods a bit further down the line. I point to a spot on Casey’s pod, underneath the rim of the open lid. “Put your sticker on here.”

Casey peels off the happy kitty sticker and presses it to the surface of the pod, smoothing it down. “Now, hop in.”

Casey gets in the pod and lies down. “Will I dream, Mommy?” she asks.

“No, it will be like you just go to sleep and wake right up again. And Grandma will be there to give you a big hug.”

“Okay,” she says. I kiss her and close the pod lid. I push Casey’s ID card into the slot. After the green light and the beep, I can hear the gas starting to fill the inside of the pod chamber.

They say the pod freezes you to just above absolute zero. Nothing can explode when it’s so cold, so there’s no way to launch a terrorist attack as a passenger. Luggage is handled the same way. Baggage and passenger pods are all racked into the planes by robot loaders. All very efficient, and much cheaper.

I get into my pod, take a last look at the happy kitty, and close myself inside. I push my ID card into the inner slot over my head, and close my eyes as the gas starts flowing in.

* * *

Waking up from pod sleep is a little strange. It’s hard to focus properly and things sound odd for a few minutes after the lid opens. I sit up and look around until I spot Casey’s pod among the others, the happy kitty cheerfully identifying her right next to the BTS rampant eagle logo. Some other passengers are already wandering, somewhat groggily, out of the pod lounge toward baggage claim.

No sign of Grandma yet. Casey’s pod is still closed, so I walk over. Red light, two more minutes until she’s ready, the display says. Suddenly, a woman’s scream drowns out all other sound in the pod lounge. Her cries are quickly joined by the terrified shrieks of children.

It’s the family of the little girl who had to be tranquilized in the pod lounge when we were leaving. They’ve got the lid open on the girl’s pod; I can see the happy puppy sticker. The mother and kids are screaming as they look inside, the father is ashen and the grandmother stands gaping.

Casey’s pod beeps softly and the light turns from red to green. I open the lid to see her fluttering her eyes at the light. We both start at a crashing noise behind us. The screaming stops. I lift Casey out of the pod and we start walking to baggage claim to look for Grandma.

The screaming starts again. We glance back to see that the happy puppy pod has fallen off the rack and a thick, reddish goo is flowing thickly out of it, pooling around the stunned family’s feet.

Ah well. There hasn’t been a terrorist attack for three years now.

“Hey Casey! How about some ice cream?”

“Yeah! I want blueberry!”

Most reaction was very positive: smiles, thanks, change of body language to indicate a dropping of defenses.

Sign for the Biedronka supermarket in Gryfów Śląski

Those who refused to accept my little gift, by and large, tended to be working in wage employment. Marketplace vendors, sole traders and so on were delighted. The lovely young woman wearing a boring gray knit corporate shirt behind the counter at the KFC, and the security guard there, didn’t want anything to do with ladybugs.

The ladybug (Polish: biedronka, Slovak: lienka) has positive associations in people’s minds in this area, at least in Poland and Slovakia. Killing a ladybug is considered bad luck, at the very least, which leads a lot of folks to consider seeing one as good luck.

And my luck seems to be increasing.

Interviewed was Nick Rosen, founder of Off-Grid.Net, talking about, of all things, how to more or less disappear officially while not having to become a Mountain Man (“…or Woman!” “Quiet, Stan!”).

I only caught the last couple minutes of the segment, which seemed to have been a good deal longer.

Captions on the screen at one point, with no apparent connection to what was being discussed, said something to the effect of, “Hushmail can be used to send encrypted email.”

So, how is Hushmail not a honeypot again? It was mentioned on-screen, for free on CNN, it’s gotta be a honeypot, right?

Did anyone DVR this? Giev youtubes, please!

I have two tasks:

• Exchange a quantity of Slovak koruna banknotes for euro notes
• Purchase a number of commemorative coins for a friend who is a collector

I hand over the banknotes, my card with my account number and my canceled US passport, asking to exchange the money for euros. The teller lady flips through the passport a few times, checking the data page and my visa page. She types in the passport number and confirms it against my account records on her computer screen, satisfied that they match. She then returns to look, curiously, at the four holes punched through the passport booklet, then picks up a telephone, signaling me to wait a bit.

Nope, that's not the guy.

A supervisor lady comes over. I tell her that the passport is canceled. She steps away to speak to someone out of sight for a few seconds, and comes back to tell me that they can’t accept the passport since it’s no longer valid. “I’m sorry,” I say, “but I probably don’t have any document, then, that will be sufficient.” I present my still-valid Florida driver’s license and the notarized copy of passport and visa I had made before the passport was canceled. No love. The supervisor steps away again, this time for about ten minutes. She’s on the telephone with someone.

While she’s away, I briefly address the teller, saying, “This is a matter of identity; I lost my citizenship, not my identity.” She just smiles emptily, and asks my patience for waiting.

The supervisor comes back and apologizes, saying that she’s spoken to the bank’s legal department. The passport can’t be accepted since it’s no longer a valid document.

All I wanted to do was exchange one pile of fiat currency for a different pile, and maybe buy some shiny metal tokens with the remainder. I didn’t even need any access to my accounts.

I wonder if, when the US State Department person was operating the hole punch on my passport, little wisps of smoke might have been observed coming out — magic smoke which wafted away, carrying my identity as well as my citizenship along with it.

There was a time when presenting ID at a bank was done for only one purpose: to verify that the person attempting to withdraw money from a given account is actually an owner of that account. Just ten years ago in the US I could walk into a bank and deposit cash or endorsed checks into any account, even one I didn’t own, without needing to present any ID at all. I haven’t tracked exactly what’s gone on in the US banking system lately, but with the introduction of POS fingerprinting and all manner of other “Know Your Customer” measures and such mandated under the guise of combating money laundering — which isn’t even a real crime — I imagine the situation there has only gotten worse.

You are not the bank’s customer any more. The bank’s primary customer is the state. You are just an epiphenomenon, fluttering about that core, corrupt relationship.

If the bank people wanted to serve me, they would have responded to my letter asking about alternative forms of identification differently than they did. Instead of saying, “you must bring us one of these official documents,” they could have said, “come to our office, satisfy us of your identity; we will then take your photo and put it in the computer, and establish a password by which you can access your account at the branch.”

Remarkably, I can log on to the bank’s internet banking website using nothing more than a password and GRID Card code. I can move money between accounts, issue payment orders, even invest in securities. Nobody even needs to see my face. Yet that same method of authentication is unavailable or unacceptable if I appear in person at the branch.

So, whatever. My collector friend won’t get his coins unless he can find someone else in Slovakia to deal with it for him. And I’ll phone up the guy I know who operates as a black-market money changer and see what kind of rate he’s giving on Slovak koruna notes. I’ll bet it’s still better than the official exchange rate.

Roderick, do I get Agorist Demerit Points for this, or issue them?

How can you sleep at night?

Merry Christmas, you fucking tool.

If you’re the victim of identity theft, does that mean you lose your identity, as in “an identity is not something you have any more”? If not, what about agency? Status as a human being who ought to be subject to the same law as everyone else? Do you cease to be a person? An entity? Do your friends hold a funeral, or maybe put up posters around town, hoping that someone has been able to identify you and knows why you lost your identity?

Hopefully you answered all of these questions “no”. If you haven’t lost anything and if your situation in all those ways hasn’t changed, it can’t rightly be said that your identity was “stolen”. The identity referenced by “identity theft” is not identity of any intrinsic value (except, I believe, in certain exceptional trade situations), such that it can’t be easily replaced. It is Ihre papieren, bitte. True, someone can steal all you own and encumber you with debt for the rest of your life, but it’s not like you cease being who you are. Your circumstances change, you do not.

At some point during the dissolution of the institution of the state, new methods of authenticating people shall arise which are created by the market according to its needs and tolerances. Will that happen due to market initiative or in response to states ceasing to provide the identification function? What forces and acts will lead to the bulk of humanity ceasing to rely on states’ methods of identification? What would a non-state identification system look like? How much would it be used, in comparison to how much intrusive provision of identity documentation we suffer today?

I don’t know how many of the security cameras disguised as birdhouses around Hviezdoslav Square catch sight of me. Doesn’t matter, really. I also don’t bother with my usual survey of the people around, looking for the undercover secret police and intelligence agents who can sometimes be spotted in the vicinity through careful observation.

Hviezdoslav the bollard, via bratislava-photo.com

I haven’t been to the Embassy since its renovations were completed over a year ago. The visible signs of that renovation included moving the security perimeter of the compound outside the building proper into a small, newly-constructed building dedicated to being an access control choke point. A metal detector was added, supplementing the X-ray machine for visitor baggage. Perimiter fencing was extended to encompass the new man-trap building, and new vehicular denial devices installed at a couple of points. Modifications to the underground parking garage connected with the adjacent Carlton Hotel were performed in order to prevent close access to the Embassy premises by unapproved vehicles. Additionally, a passive cordon consisting of a series of bollards linking areas bounded by long fountains was added to prevent vehicular access from all but approved directions. One of the ironic features of this cordon is that the monumental statue of famed Slovak poet and parliamentarian Pavol Országh Hviezdoslav, the square’s namesake, has been incorporated into the bollard lines, thus making a symbol of Slovak cultural identity part of the American Imperium’s local outpost.

A small line of people wait outside the man-trap security building to speak with the woman behind the bulletproof glass. They are all hoping to pick up visas. They present their paper receipts, the woman looks through a box of documents, and to each one says to come back on Friday. A woman next to me asks me, in Slovak, something about Friday. “Sorry?” I say. “Oh, I mean…” she fumbles, switching to English. “Aj po slovensky,” I tell her, indicating that she can continue in Slovak. She asks me what the woman behind the bulletproof glass was telling the others, and I say that I don’t know, but that it appears the folks here must come back for their business on Friday because the Embassy is closing for the day in a few minutes and tomorrow, Thursday, is Thanksgiving, an American holiday.

I’m at the front of the line in about a minute, show my passport and tell the bulletproof lady I’m here to renounce my citizenship. “Okay,” she says, “but very quickly; we are closing.” She tells me to go to Window 5, and confirms that I know where that is.

At right, US Embassy in Bratislava. At left, the man-trap.

I shuffle around and enter the adjacent door as I am buzzed in, passing inside the man-trap. Backpack off and into the X-ray machine, pocket contents into the plastic tray for X-ray as well, and I pass through the metal detector — much less sensitive than those at airports, as my belt buckle and the studs in my shoes fail to set it off. One of the four guards in the room hands me a visitor’s badge and a receipt token for my mobile phone, which must remain at the security checkpoint until I am ready to leave the premises. I reclaim my backpack and pocket contents.

Through another door and out into the small parking area in front of the embassy, surrounded by high metal hurricane fencing. I enter the first door, turn, and find myself in an unfamiliar place. I take a few steps in, up a couple of stairs, and find myself in a small room with another bulletproof box containing a young United States Marine Corps junior officer. “Your badge, sir?” I show my badge, and he tells me I’m in the wrong place. Go to the next door down. Ah, right, the proles’ entrance. This door for ruling class tools only.

Back outside, and through the door that was always the entrance before. The security checkpoint used to be here, but now I just breeze in, turn right, through the door, up a few steps into a waiting room, turn left and into the sound-muffling, heavily camera-monitored room which is the place where petitioners to the almighty American State come to present their pleas, again to women safely ensconced behind bulletproof windows.

I approach Window 5, pull out my passport and all the documents I’ve brought with me, all pre-filled-in and ready for execution. After a few minutes’ wait, a Slovak woman employed by the Embassy comes to the window and asks how she can be of assistance. “Hello, I’m here to file these documents and take the oath to renounce my citizenship.” She pauses a moment, frozen, and then a sly smile steals across her face. “Are you sure?” she asks. “Yes, quite sure.” “And may I ask why?” she inquires. “Political reasons.” “And have you spoken about this with anyone?” Yes, I tell her, I’ve spoken with a great many people about it. “Ah, but anyone here?” she insists. “No, not yet.” “Very well,” she says, and invites me to pass my passport and documents to her through the narrow slot which presents the only opportunity for contact between the two worlds separated by the bulletproof glass. “Please take a seat in the waiting room, and I will call your name.”

I go back into the waiting room, plop my backpack on a chair and head over to a wall to examine a large poster with attached paper addendum laying out the fee schedule for the various “services” performed by the Embassy. A quick scan of the lists shows that there are no fees given for renouncing one’s citizenship. I sit down and pick up a week-old copy of Nový Čas, a trashy daily tabloid paper, and settle in to read a short editorial celebrating the fact that Slovaks no longer require a pre-arranged visa to visit the US as tourists, but doubting that the young people taking the most advantage of the “privilege” of visa-free travel reciprocity today really have any appreciation of how much the world has changed since the 1988 Candle Demonstration, which took place right outside where I am sitting now on Hviezdoslav Square and which was an important event toward the fall of the Communist regime in Czechoslovakia.

“Mister Gogulski,” comes the woman’s voice over the loudspeaker. I shuffle back into the petitioning chamber.

“So,” the woman behind the translucent barrier tells me, “if you really want to do this, we need you to fill out this form, and contact us to make an appointment to speak to the Consul.” Again, the wry smile: in her eyes, perhaps, I am either insane or stupid — or both.

Form? What form? Oh, damnit. It’s the Questionnaire: Information for Determining Possible Loss of U.S. Citizenship. I forgot about that one. Nuts. Oh well, another day.

“One more thing,” I ask, packing up my things, “are there any fees for this?” “No,” she tells me.

“Thanks. See you on Friday,” I tell the woman, and leave for home.

Via Jeremy at Social Memory Complex:

Adam Kokesh, “Duty to Resist“. 12 July 2008, Washington DC:

Text of the speech, from Adam Kokesh’s blog:

When I joined the Marines at a little strip mall in Santa Fe, and when I was in boot camp in San Diego, and when I was dodging mortars in Fallujah, I could not have imagined that I would one day share a stage with such renowned speakers. However, to march shoulder to shoulder, and to stand in solidarity with you, is a far greater honor.

It has been said that when in the course of human events, an oppression so revolts its subjects, it becomes necessary to alter or abolish the means of that tyranny. Is it that time when our Bill of Rights is defiled every day? When our adventures abroad threaten our security at home? When the Federal Reserve keeps our free nation enslaved by debt? When the people of the world tremble under the thumb of corporate imperialism? And now our nation is drifting dangerously from freedom to fascism. So I have to ask, is it time? The time is now, the threat is clear, the bands of tyranny are tightening around America, and it is our duty to resist!

As empowered patriots, let us take stock of our commitment to the ideals upon which this country is founded. America without her freedoms is like a body without a soul. The challenge before the Freedom Movement is no less, than to bring about a revolution of values, inspire a renaissance of American politics, and breathe new life into the tortured body of our nation. We will meet that challenge with courage and love, and as always, we the people, will prevail!

To rally the troops of the Revolutionary Army in the winter of 1776, Thomas Paine said, “These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot, will in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered.”

As Iraq Veterans Against the War, we are resisting an occupation that we once risked our lives for. We swore to support and defend the Constitution of the United States of America, but we found out the hard way that the greatest enemies of the Constitution are not to be found in the sands of some far off land, but rather right here at home! We are your new winter soldiers and we are still defending America.

We bring the values, skills, and commitment that make us warriors to the fight before us today. We are working to end the war by strategically withdrawing our material support and inspiring others to do the same. By advocating for veterans, we honor those who served, and empower soldiers to become successful civilians. With Truth In Recruiting, we are inspiring a generation of young Americans to find a better way to serve this country than dying for empire. By supporting those who are actively resisting, we inspire further resistance, and ensure that soldiers still have the right, as is their duty, to disobey illegal orders.

During the siege of Fallujah, a young Lance Corporal was shot through the side of his flak jacket in a firefight to the west of the city. The bullet hit an artery near his spine. My team was called to help get him to the field hospital at Camp Taqadum. He was on a stretcher in the humvee in front of me, and I watched the Corpsman treating the external wound in a frightened, hurried panic, as the dust from the hot road swirled around us. When we got there, I carried him in as he moaned and writhed in pain, barely conscious. He flailed his arm off the stretcher, and as I put it back by his side I told him, “Don’t worry. You made it. You’re gonna be OK.” But he died only minutes later from the internal bleeding.

I have to live with that memory every day, but I have learned from it. I will not tell you that the band-aids applied by Republicans and Democrats will heal us. I will not pretend that everything is just going to be ok while we are bled dry by tyrants. And if it takes the last full measure of devotion, I will not allow the same fate to befall this country!

This young movement, is getting past the external wounds to the greater evils plaguing this nation. We know, that the greatest threat to American security is the current corruption of our government! No politician has ever ended a war. Civil rights were won in this country not by any legislator, but by a movement. I have great hope for America, but not because of an election. No, my hope comes from you!

Our tragic love affair with the state, has led us to put far too much trust in a government that we hoped could improve our lives, but has instead come to run our lives for us. We have become, as a people, like a frightened, battered, beat down victim of an abusive relationship. A servile, unquestioning, obedient people, will always produce tyrants. We must, as a nation, once again, embrace defiance, rebellion, and resistance!

Every day more and more Americans are avoiding unenforceable taxes, leaving government jobs out of disgust, and sending their kids to college instead of combat. But our efforts as a movement must become unified and deliberate to fully withdraw our compliance and support. Be it with your lives, labor, or tax dollars, stop investing in your own oppression! Guard your communities from the police state! Do not waste a single vote, or a single dollar, on the two-party system! Do not be content merely to grumble and to march while they are using fear, force, and violence as weapons of oppression. We must embrace the opportunity to resist civilly while we still can!

We are compelled to be here for many different reasons, and there is strength in our diversity. As within Iraq Veterans Against the War and Veterans For Peace, we do not need to be uniform to be unified. Take a look at the thoughtful, passionate people around you on this field, and throughout this country. Do not leave here without meeting a new brother or sister in the struggle. Take with you the inspiration to share your passion with someone who does not know they are yet part of our movement. Seek out where you can be most effective in the cause of liberty.

Challenge our force fed culture of unquestioning conformity and compliance. Embrace a world that is not defined by the politics of fear, our obedience producing schools, or the false prophets of the corporate media. As we have been awakened, we must stir the sleeping masses. As the forces of oppression are diligent, so must we toil. As they are committed, we must surpass them. As they step up their efforts, we must rise up to defeat them as a unified movement!

We have been labeled rebels, traitors, enemies of the state. All terms King George would have used to vilify our founders. I, for one, will always rebel against oppression, a traitor only to tyranny, and I would be remiss to not be the enemy of a state, that so blatantly tramples our freedoms.

American values have been nearly vanquished by consumerism, militarism, and authoritarianism. Yellow ribbons and lapel pins will not save this country. When injustice becomes law, resistance becomes duty. The utmost manifestation of love and devotion to America, is today as it always has been, resistance of tyranny! Resist we must, and resist we will! We will not be silent! We will not obey! We will not let our government destroy our humanity! We will not wait another moment in fear to stand up for what we know to be right! It is time the government starts fearing the people again! It is time that we meet oppression with resistance!

They cannot stop us! Humanity marches on. You can fight it, or fight for it. When we say revolution, we say it with love. As we march onward from this place where we have pledged to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor, let us embrace the struggle, cherish the fight, and live in that love. The passion of our hearts will be raised with our fists!

First of all, and let me be very clear, I love you guys (and girls).

Around 8:30am Pacific Time on September 11, 2001, after my girlfriend and I had watched — shocked, horrified, and barely awake — mass murder in our bedroom as the second World Trade Center tower collapsed , her prior boyfriend sent out a message on a local Santa Cruz, California-based chat and messaging system that predates the modern internet.

What he said exactly, I don’t remember. But the essence of it was this: “This is the end of America. Martial law is coming. The last barriers have fallen today.”

I recognized the truth of this immediately. The thought was my own, though he found a voice for it first. He’s at least one more standard deviation away from the human average intelligence than I am, so it was no surprise that he’d get through the shock to the most important conclusion more rapidly than I could.

He was right of course. We both were. The USA PATRIOT Act, the Global War on Terror, Military Commissions Act, FISA, fusion centers, national security letters, Abu Ghraib, Guantánamo, Afghanistan, Iraq, FOX NEWS, stormtroopers on the streets, gleeful embrace of the new American authoritarianism, mothers forced to publicly consume their own bottled breast milk at the airport, the Imperial Presidency, $400 million for construction of large-scale detention centers inside the US, no impeachment no matter how great the lies, the rise of a modern Stasi culture in the land of the “free” and home of the “brave”, all set to the stirring anthems of American exceptionalism and slogans evoking bygone days when things like words and principles and logic actually meant something.

No matter what you think is the truth of 9/11, no matter what you’ve heard or read or thought or said, you do have to watch the video. I’ll explain why in a moment.

What do I believe, you ask? I am really not sure what to believe. I’ve watched and read and listened to probably every substantive argument made, every investigative dissection and every crackpot, jackass theory about the events of 9/11. I’ve seen all the movies, I’ve watched all the YouTube videos. I’ve read the manifestos, the scientific probes and the loony fringe theories.

What falls out of all this, so many years later, is that there does not exist a preponderance of evidence  — nay, not even so weak a standard as probable cause — to believe that the official story of the events of that day is substantially in accordance with the truth. Some ancient cultures believed such rubbish as that the Earth was flat and carried on the back of great elephants who stood on the backs of cosmic turtles who rested atop more elephants and further turtles, ad inifinitum. At least the ancients chose such solid, believable creatures as elephants and turtles. What we are asked to believe today is that the modern reality of Western civilization is a world, donut-shaped, resting atop a house of cards supported by toothpicks and propped up by tissue-paper origami.

The 9/11 Chronicles: Truth Rising is a landmark film. The actors are nothing special, the audio mixing is often sub-par, the cinematography is uninspiring and there is no plot to speak of. Even the subject matter, at times — and especially for the uninitiated — may fail to connect and evoke the emotional response necessary for cinema to be an effective medium for human expression.

Also available in higher quality via BitTorrent download and from infowars.com on DVD.

What you are watching, though, isn’t an entertainment production. It’s not even really a documentary in the traditional sense. But what occurs, powerfully and over and over again is a profound conflict, a human story of several extraordinarily passionate serfs confronting their masters with their own hypocrisy, and refusing to back down in the face of overwhelming force. Whatever you believe about 9/11, whatever you believe about “Islamofascists” and “Axes of Evil”, even the most benighted and deluded of you should recognize — in what they do, what they say, and how they act — the human spirit. The indomitable, courageous and unyielding force of a being strong and brave enough to stand up to his master and say: “WHAT THE FUCK?” and “NO MORE!” and “HOW CAN YOU SLEEP AT NIGHT, AND STILL CALL YOURSELVES HUMAN?”

And again, and again, and again and again, the response comes back, oh so clearly, from those they challenge, those who have sold their souls and their humanity — be it for mere money, for status, for power or just for the chance to be on the team they feel is winning. The response is nearly uniform in its contempt, in its disgust that these mere peons would dare to question their masters. It is entirely uniform, though, in the self-abnegation, the servility displayed by those so-called “humans” who would defend that donut-shaped earth atop that house of cards supported by those toothpicks resting on that tissue-paper origami.

For showing this clearly, the authors of the film have won my endless praise. The bravery and dedication necessary to do this is no trifling matter. These people face death threats, harassment, physical assault, ridicule and legal action everywhere they go.

The fundamental analysis of the 9/11 truth movement is simple: the global elite — whoever they are — using their governmental tools either caused the attacks to happen or let them happen in order to profit from them. Those responsible are criminals of the highest order, and must be brought to justice.

If you accept that analysis, however, you must imagine that this elite is both very powerful and completely divorced from the morality of the common people.

Yet the 9/11 truth movement has adopted a rather strange posture in response. The call goes out over and over again to “demand a new investigation”. Who is going to carry out this investigation? Who shall be charged with carrying out the mechanics of bringing the criminals to justice? Why, the state, of course! That very institution which the fundamental analysis of 9/11 truth puts forward as being the instrument of the attacks. That very institution which is the tool of the elite who wanted the attack to happen. A great many of the people in the movement believe that the state was culpable in producing the destruction and terror of 9/11, yet they persist in appealing to the state to discipline itself.

This is madness! If the fundamental analysis of 9/11 truth is correct, what you are doing is the equivalent of asking a group of war criminals, the darkest evil in their hearts, heavily armed and with the support of millions, to simply turn themselves in. Why on earth would they do that? Why would they take any action whatsoever to disadvantage themselves? And do you really think that trying to shame those responsible will have any effect whatever? If they are responsible, they set aside such petty human concerns as shame, guilt and empathy long, long ago. You might as well approach the rabid dog that just tore your child’s throat out and ask, “now, puppy, don’t you feel ashamed for what you’ve done?”

If the 9/11 truth movement’s cause is just and if it is to succeed in bringing justice, a change of strategy and tactics is required. The state will never deliver justice if it itself is culpable.