Welcome To A World of Smoke & Mirrors

By James Fitzgerald

The Great Awakening, eh? That term gets thrown about social media
these days. First time I saw it, I immediately tried to place myself
among it; as someone who might be more awakened; someone who has been
exposed to more hidden narratives or whistleblowers, or who has met more
central bankers and CEOs than most. That’s certainly how the ego
complex would view it; as a tangible and competitive advantage.

From
a spiritual or even quantum perspective, the impulse to place myself in
some kind of order of “awakeness” would seem pretty immature and
parochial. Afterall it would involve weighing up other people’s
“awakeness” to reach a conclusion about my own status. And, as a wise
soul once said, “judge not others, lest ye be judged yourself.”

So,
with me more confused these days than awakened, let me share with you a
few anecdotes about people and events that first rattled my cage. And I
won’t include paranormal happenings — that’s another article for
another day.

Journalists used to smoke and
drink a lot. My father bought into that noirish cliche, about the
grizzled hack plying his trade (looking to prise government secrets or
scandals from loose-tongued civil servants or other reporters) over
drinks in some grubby bar. He was the type of person who called women
“dames” and had ink for blood. If I ever wanted to see him, I would have
to venture into the big gray city and follow the din emanating from the
busiest bar in proximity to the newspaper office.

Truth be told, I never really heard anything startling or insightful in those places — except once. As fleeting as it was, it left a lasting impression. One day after college, I called into the “Press Bar” to offer my father a lift home. He was playing two people at chess simultaneously while holding conversations with two other people, so I sat down next to an unassuming man with spectacles and curly silver locks while I waited for the interval. My father spotted me, and shouted over: “Hey, James! Buy him a drink and he’ll tell you a good story.” I bought the gray man beside me a whiskey and soda. He must have been a copy-editor, because he truncated an event lasting five years into about three sentences. The event was the second world war — and according to him, it “didn’t happen the way they said it did”. Through the fog of nicotine and roar of voices, I discerned that he had written a book about the secret players behind the war — who had dangled their puppets on both sides of the conflict, and staged a massive false flag event. Despite having swallowed the narrative I had been fed at school about aggressive Nazis and a benevolent alliance that sent them packing, what he was saying had a vibration of truth; it felt right; it was a missing piece of a puzzle that made the bigger picture clearer.

I
never got more than that out of him, before heaving bodies and sloshing
pints of beer separated us amidst the melee. I later asked my father if
the man had published his book. “No,” said he, “he got a visit from two
men in rain macs one day in the street.” What surprised me more than
this revelation was the fact that this community of “truth-seekers” were
aware of these anomalies and discrepancies in their official world
history, but were happy to seek solace in the latest soccer scores or
celebrity gossip. This gentle, intellectual man had stepped up and asked
questions about his social and political history, but had been silenced
with the threat of violence from two immaculately dressed assassins
working for some hidden controllers. That meeting in the bar took place
thirty years ago. Only now are such narratives gaining traction among
the questing elements of social media. It’s been a long wait.

They
say, when you sow a seed, it grows. That man’s claim created a fissure
in my mind; because almost every day after that would involve some
exposure to people or places that challenged the dull consensus. I
received a call at the office once from a contact in the security
services — who talked me through a live robbery. It wasn’t a high street
bank or liquor store, but an island state having its artefacts stolen
by a larger western military power. All anyone could do was watch as an
unmarked jumbo jet was loaded with looted gold and silver coins from a
sunken galleon, as the mercenary crew of a submersible carried chests
from the quayside to the plane.

Another
time I was introduced to an American scientist who reputedly had worked
on a secret space program. He told me he had been on Mars — “It takes
about five minutes to get there”. Other scientists would tell me that
most commercial shampoos were designed to give you dandruff, and others
that vaccines had “bad things added to them to harm people.”

When
a customs officer stumbled upon a huge stash of drugs on a ship out of
North Africa he called me before he told his superiors. I was working
for a Sunday newspaper, and it was a Monday, so I offered the story to
the news editor of our sister daily paper. The news editor took offence
to “the enemy [me]” dictating their news agenda, so didn’t run the
story. Two days later another rival paper ran the exclusive that the
main drug route into Europe had been busted. Ego and ignorance are a
toxic mix for news people.

You might think
that being a magnet for whisteblowers would be fruitful in the media,
but in fact it engendered its own cognitive dissonance, because all
those great tip-offs and investigative work would always be dismissed by
news editors. It was easier to be a copy-editor, adjusting and refining
the safe, clipped and compliant work of other journalists. And so
that’s what I became — for an easy life. 

All
of those scientists, soldiers, police officers, clerks and writers knew
something wasn’t right in the matrix. Message and matter didn’t match
up. It bothered them; it bothers you. Why? ‘Cause you are alive, and
awakening.

Before setting off down any rabbit hole, I invariably ask myself two things: am I afraid of the dark, and do I believe in ghosts? The answers are almost always, no and yes, respectively.

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Author: James Fitzgerald

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