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.