The light that never burns out

25th June 2010

Epitaph for a murdered planet: There is no money in the truth. That’s why everyone, or just about everyone, accepts all these lies, always calculating the money to be gained against the relative truth of the subject at hand, always forgetting there is no such thing as relative truth. Relative truth is always a lie.

“A girl’s gotta eat,” she said quickly, reflexively, fingering the large diamond bauble on her finger. And there, for all eternity, was the bottom line, in all its unsavory glory.

This is how we have rationalized our own self destruction.

The bottom line is that we are willing to destroy ourselves for something — in the very last of final analyses — that we really didn’t need. But we talked ourselves into believing that we needed it, all the while forgetting the ultimate purpose of why we’re here at all. It was something — for all the best minds on the planet across all those bloody ruins of time — that we could never really figure out.

There were those who chose blind belief, and locked themselves into concepts which, when practiced long enough, would never let go of the believers who chose them, and blindly they went to the heaven of their choice.

And there were those who chose to think it all through, to figure it all out. A very small percentage of humanity over the years. But these are the thoughts that stayed alive from civilizations long crumbled into dust, these are the thoughts we tried to live by. But all too often, with each generation, these noble thoughts were merely used as hypnotizing deceptions to lure the less reflective types into a permanent type of thought slavery, which was then ruthlessly exploited by the old men in black robes who held the formula most people never even dreamed existed.

Either way, both groups failed miserably to prevent the thing they always feared would happen. And it was the very attempt to PREVENT the thing they always feared would happen that ACTUALLY ALLOWED the very things they feared most to happen . . . again and again and again . . .

Lost in the dusty rubble of history was enough information to get the job done, but those controlling the cash register — and each of us shares the guilt of this — pushed this knowledge out of the way, hid it, diluted it with fancy names and philosophies and religious rituals. And it was all because there was no money in the truth. So now we see — finally, clearly — the shadow of what money has done to us. It has banished the truth from our discourse, because the truth is not profitable. And now we face the ultimate payoff in our collective quest for lots of money, which is our total obliteration from existence. Be certain of this. No one will remember your name.

As we try to rate the significance of the deliberately planned oil volcano scare of AD 2010 in the group of natural and unnatural disasters that have changed the world — the Coba volcano of 75,000 BC that killed 90 percent of the world’s population, the Thera volcano of 1200 BC that put the darkened fear of God into the Old Testament, the Jewish-implemented World Wars of the 20th century AD, the permanent fouling of the atmosphere in the 1950s and ‘60s with atomic bomb tests, and now the chemtrail poisoning of the skies, oil poisoning of the water, and biotech destruction of the world’s food supply — we see how humans with power have assumed the duties of God, and vented their wrath over all life on the planet, merely because they would not accept the truth . . . BTW, because there’s no money in it. Such is the nature of our collective disease.

So the history of our time is, then, not much different than any other year, with new disasters to challenge, and new lies that are always the same when viewed from the perspective of hindsight.

We had the information to save ourselves, but we ignored it, because there was no money in it.

But, forsooth, lest I leave you in this agitated condition without some positive chord to strike a chord in a soothing and harmonic way, let me just uncover a little bit of that ancient wisdom that we ignored because there was no money in it, and see, just maybe, if it doesn’t make you feel better.

All these years I meant to write a paean of praise to all the people, all the friends, I have made on the Internet simply by trying to figure out what’s going on. A delightful fraternity they are, I must say. I have learned more in the past ten years simply by asking questions of people who appear to be sincere than I did in the previous 50 years of my rococo life.

Somehow, this fraternity and sorority are all on the same page, in some sense. Each one of you, to a great degree, is not participating in this great snipe hunt for money. Can you believe it? Yes, I believe you can. I know you can.

Thus, for my noble and steadfast friends, who scramble through the corridors of thought, searching for the sense of it all . . . this message was written by someone I admire and wish to emulate for his clarity in sorting folly from fact and always reaching the heart of the matter. This appreciative fragment, dedicated to all of you, is titled . . .

On Friendship

The duties which we owe to our friends seem an awful lot like the emotions that all of us, in our deepest hearts, aspire to feel about ourselves. You could call it self-love, if you like, and the feelings you give to your friends could rightly be called a kind of love.

We ought, it is said, to wish their good, or what appears to us to be such, and to promote it to our best ability, merely on their own account. With this kind of disinterested affection mothers are animated toward their children, and those friends toward each other, between whom some disgust has arisen which, though it interrupts their congenial relations, does not destroy their mutual kindness.

Others say that friends must spend much of their time together, have the same inclinations and pursuits, and sympathize with each other in their joy as well as in their sorrow. On whichever, or how many soever of those conditions friendship principally depends, we shall find that all of them belong to the affections by which a good man is animated toward himself; and by which all men are animated in proportion as they either approximate, or only think they approximate, to an honorable and praiseworthy character, which in questions concerning human nature, is justly considered the sole unerring standard.

Only the virtuous man is at peace within himself, since all the powers of his mind are actuated by the same motives, and conspire to the same end: always aiming at good, real and intrinsic, the good of his intellectual part.

To him, existence is a benefit, which he earnestly wishes may be preserved, especially the existence of the thinking principle within him, which is peculiarly himself; for every individual strives after its own good, real or apparent, which only in the virtuous man coincide: but could an individual love its change into something quite different from itself, the good of the latter would be to the former a matter of slight concern.

In Deity all goods are accumulated, because he is ever and invariably that which he is; and in man the thinking principle is the part that is properly and permanently himself.

He who pursues the good of his mind is pleased in his own company, being delighted with the recollection of the past as well as animated with the prospect of the future; and having ever at his command innumerable speculations, in which he exercises himself with the most exquisite pleasure.

Both his joys and his sorrows are respectively consistent with themselves, since they invariably proceed from fixed and regular causes; for he does not delight at one time in what will excite his repentance in another; and thus harmonized within his own breast, he is similarly affected toward his friend, whom he considers as a second self; and his sympathy for whom, when it reaches its highest perfection, resembles that internal concord which is experienced in his own mind, when the various principles of nature coalesce into one movement, and flow in the same homogeneous stream of virtuous energy.

Yet many men of very irregular lives seem to be highly satisfied with themselves. Is this because they mistake their own characters? It should seem so, since the complete villain is always visibly at variance with himself; and all others similarly affected in proportion to their progress in wickedness; willing one thing, yet desiring and preferring another as those who allow themselves to be subdued by vicious pleasure, and who may be said, with their eyes open, to rush into voluntary destruction.

In the same manner, through laziness or cowardice, others avoid that conduct which they know most likely to promote their happiness.

When men proceed to the last stage of depravity, they become as odious to themselves as they are detestable to others, and therefore often destroy their own lives; and even before they arrive at this deplorable condition, they fly from and avoid themselves; preferring any kind of society to that of their own reflections; the past crimes that haunt their memory, and meditated guilt which is continually occurring to their fancy.

As they have nothing in them that is amiable, they cannot be the objects of their own love. Neither their joys or their sorrows are consistent. Their whole soul is in sedition, distracted between contending principles, the pleasure of one giving pain to another; and when the worst principle prevails, a foundation is laid for the bitterest remorse.

If such be the wretchedness of wickedness, how strenuously we ought to exert ourselves to become good men, that we may live in friendship with ourselves, and be worthy of the friendship of others!

This, as you may have guessed, is a snippet of Aristotle, culled from his Nicomachean Ethics, dedicated to you for the inspiring intent of your efforts, which have made me — the man who knew too much — a much, much better person than I otherwise would have been.

What a great group to hang out with. Too bad we could never figure out how to make truth profitable, because as we come to learn, it is the ultimate profit.

Today, I can hardly see truth anywhere. But one place I know I can get it on demand is from you, because I know you don’t read these screeds I write for the money, and that is why we struggle to bring the truth to light, even though it is now a very unprofitable direction under the current and enduring tyranny of money that has trapped us in its death grip.

Thank you. Now is the time to think fast.

John Kaminski is a writer who used to live on the oil-soaked Gulf Coast of Florida, and is mulling a return there for his final days.