A Snowball’s Contemplation

Last I was here in my commentary I was at Paddington Station awaiting my train to the west-country where my granny and school were, and where I had run from in furtherance of de-schooling. Well, I had to turn myself in. First to my long-suffering Mum and plain suffering Grandmother, and then to the Headmaster of Blundells School. Granny had little to say, probably because things like that just were not done in her day. In her day boys volunteered for the slaughter in Europe, and King and Country were the highest possible calling. Except for the idle caste of course. They tended to die from a 100 mph cricket ball to the scrotum, or a murder most foul over the family jewels. Same things really.

Mother was obviously upset, but gentle as always. She knew what I could expect from the Headmaster and for my Father’s sake and the ‘family name’ all she could hope for was for me not to be expelled, and all I could hope for was to be expelled in as few and least angry words as possible. I won, except not in so many or rather too many words and granny remained angrily stoic mixing two quite non-miscible adjectives. The Head ranted, raved, and in every way reiterated his position, his school’s reputation, the superiority of the English Way. Once his wad had been shot there was not time for refractory rest so out we went to the still leather smelling Austin Cambridge and went for tea. The truly scary part was yet to come on the other side of the Atlantic where my Father would be fit to be tied. I had some time before that fateful time.

I cannot speak for it today, since privatization of British Rail and any number of other changes to the system, but I can say that in the early 1970′s taking the Cornish Riviera Express was an adventure, not too costly and full of historic scenery from castles to the horse. Who put it there? The horse is the divide between south-east and the west-country, where we are going. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/journeysbyrail/8516133/Cornish-Riviera-Express-On-a-slow-train-to-yesterday.html
Apparently leaves from Paddington daily, more than likely expensive and goes too fast for proper appreciation. Back on to your gadgets ladies and gents where I’m sure you will find a decent picture.

Do I have to decant my meetings with Dad, school guidance, admission to a high school of last resort, skipping of those classes to sit by the Ottawa River and on the colder days reading my way through the University of Ottawa library? Only that last bit? Wonderful, as that’s the only one that matters anyway. Father accepted my bull rushes for the most part out of a desire to not have to deal with the under performing anti-establishment, ‘is that really my son’, progeny. School guidance was some kind of a pretend game – my drug was hashish, his cocaine and alcohol, we both knew it right away and the less said the better. My ability to learn remained unabated and the university library my church. I would walk in and wonder where the day would take me – mathematics to philosophy, Scientific American to Smithsonian – always knowing that I would be more enlightened leaving than when I entered. Didn’t even have to go out for a smoke in those days. This meant I leaned to learn stoned on hash too as I could go to the bathroom and have a toke or two.

The longitudinal researchers, assuming there were any such acronymic creatures following my progress must have been quite impressed. Why was I not hanging out at the pool hall and other teen habits. I was doing a bit of that though not often. I couldn’t do that if I was to follow my other great passion. Sitting at the pub with my ex-classmates discussing politics, and every other topic including girls and hashish. Our favourite haunts were within blocks of Parliament Hill, I had a pass to swim at the pool in the Chateau Laurier; had to be careful there though as, well, let’s leave odd goings coming where they wish.

Interesting observation: within two blocks of Parliament Hill one could go from the highest art at the national gallery, to the greatest performances at the National Arts Centre, to some of the most talented writers at the National Press Club, to world-class shopping on the Sparks Street Mall (no vehicles allowed, best psycho-actives encouraged), to pubs where what was said at the pub generally stayed there. Unless so inclined one did not go to the parks after dark however. Oh my goodness, and the espionage. Next time.

The Odd Person

I will get back to my adventures in education and where I left off in England, but first I must clean my mind of a very strange winter I had last year, why I allowed it to happen to me, and the fellow who made it so. Creepy.

I wanted to save on rent and agreed to move into a house with a spare bedroom. The moment I moved in I should have turned tail and moved home. I thought I would give it a month which in this case turned into six, a stolen Korg T1 keyboard and a stolen Wisper electric bicycle; though I still have some slim hope for the return of those. The basic error I had made was to misjudge how difficult it is living with a man with severe PTSD, or whatever the latest incantation for living through a terrible time and being terribly affected. I do believe that he intended me harm and whether he did or not I certainly suffered it.

First I broke my back on his slippery bathroom floor, L2 fracture and herniated disc, which required some months in a brace and then not too long after that recovery I suffered a bout of pneumonia which with emphysema required hospitalization yet again. Somewhere during that time I also got hit with norovirus – thoroughly unpleasant.

I have not smoked in some months now but when I first moved in I had fallen back on the wagon and I left a burn on the bedroom carpet. When I finally had myself up well enough to move out the man decided that cigarette burn was worth thousands of dollars, but that he would give me back my guitar back for six hundred. Needless to say that my Gibson, worth somewhere in the four to six thousand dollar range that he was holding hostage was not going to stay with him and a helpful Constable with the RCMP arranged a trade for the Korg piano. This was more in line with the damage he had quoted. Unfortunately neither the Constable nor I had read the Landlord and Tenant Act at this point and it turns out he cannot make a summary judgement such as he had done. It turns out that the onus was on him to go before a Justice of the Peace within seven days in order to put a bond on a piece of my property to ensure payment, since we had no damage deposit arrangement in place. I need go no farther down this lane as he is in possession of both the e-bike and piano for damage I would estimate at closer to two hundred dollars on that old carpet.

What I am trying to get at here is I am beyond what I am trying to get at here. Be very careful who you share accommodations with. Unless you are a qualified psych-person there is nothing you can do to help except be a friend. Sometimes knowing someone for a year or more does not mean you really know them at all. Saving money is not all it is cracked up to be. L2 will attest to that.

Frack Our Water, Love Cute Ducks

The rules of the game are inviolate. See a bug while driving along – VW, rear engine, etc., first, say its colour and type and repeat the rule, “yellow punch buggy no punch back”, and then proceed to punch your seat partner on the arm as hard as your mood dictates. Always delicately if it’s a girl, excepting sisters I would imagine not having had one. Always very hard if it’s the neighbourhood tough guy both so he can prove his ongoing toughness, and to prove your up and coming toughness even if that’s not actually in question. This essay is about fracking, why is he going on about punch buggies?

The rules of the game are inviolate. See a certain type of rock formation while hydraulic stamping along creating a seismic profile, and when a reasonable possibility is spotted call in the drill and say the magic incantations as loudly as mood and environment dictate, to the drill crew. This group of skilled, in some sort of way, and certainly able to take yelling and punches, will put the drill in a precise spot and head the head down into the shaley deep. The process has been done over geological time in its own geological ways an innumerable number of times; but not in the goopy gluttonous fashion we are soon to explore.

In this process the drill will be going very deep and punching very hard. So deep, in fact, that the companies involved claim without equivocation that fresh ground water supplies, such as for crops and cows, can in no way be contaminated. There does seem to be some backtracking on that one but only in limited conditions and improperly trained crews. Punching really hard sounds like fun. I mean, only microbes and such are getting harmed, right? Well. no.

This is where things go sideways. In order to get a pressure to frackture the shale which is under tremendous pressure already – 200 million years at 15,000 psi could even make Keith Richards grumpy – requires concoctions of special and often secret ingredients at even higher pressure are systematically applied, eased, and reapplied until the whole bunch is allowed to flow as it will and then separated into its component usable, re-usable, and disposable parts. Collected as such, the good bits such as natural gas are burned off – you see there is no where to store it nor a pipeline to ship it. The nice sweet crude is put to use if only to ship the rest of the good stuff.

The bad stuff that creates massive headaches, literally in the case of methane as an example, is burned or disposed of in diverse ways. Migratory birds fall from the sky, polite Canada Geese thence completing the cycle all on their own with barely a de-flight honk. Worst of all however is the ponds left over by 90% fresh water (won’t somebody please think of the cows?), 5% sand, the new gold in frack-world, and 5% foams, gels, de-foaming and de-gelling agents. Why Canada Geese fall instead of doing the bidding of wings everywhere to fly, baby, fly, is blocked from our understanding by Crime Minister Harper’s separation of science and public. You see, Mildred, I told you that it wasn’t church and state or science and state but those things and us. Science and church are where they firmly belong together; in bed.

The tiny, nay minuscule, amount of information I have provided within this short essay about fracking is leaps ahead in information for most, even the frackers themselves. Why are we embroiled in this?, because we have passed peak oil, some would say well past, which leaves us with natural gas (highly dangerous in all its shippable forms), coal (equally dangerous in different ways), and so-called “green” energy creators such as solar and wind which take dirty energies to make, and in some instances have a few incidental problems of their own. And the elephant in the gigantic room; nuclear.

Now, this could all be undone. It could all be undone without undue suffering here in our gluttonous West and in ways that help the developing countries not fall down in despair and poverty. “You mean, Grandpa, that they used to cut up these ships by hand using oxyacetylene?” “Yes, and many died doing it.” Why, Grandpa?” “Because those that already had more than enough wanted more, and those workers with barely anything at all were willing to risk it all for just a bit.”

First we have to go back to frack.

The water has to be essentially fresh since a high level of dissolved solids will interfere with the rest of the various interactions at every stage. The amount of fresh water per fracked hole will average 3 million gallons. This is a supply removed from an already depleted source, and this contaminated brine, which it is by this point, cannot be rehabilitated. The cost of filtration and ion exchange resins would make this prohibitive. Right from the get-go the fracking technology is a loss leader that keeps the unemployment rate artificially low.

The sand has to be of a particular quality, particularly with a crush resistance significantly higher than 15,000 psi and it too is non-recoverable and left with the discarded water in ponds. The land leased from the farmer is rarely told about these ponds, or the land is bought outright, obviating the problem. The cows and the crops will still be hayed and harvested until such a time as contamination makes that not possible any more.

That last 5% has me temperless, my sense of humour fleeing the scene to be replaced by a holy disgust. What have we done, in who’s name and, deeply, why? A few, only a few mind you, of the agents that make up this injected mix are napalm, jellied gasoline (and the irony is only getting started), acetic acid, soda anyone, methanol, bring out the still Grandpa, and a (sic) soup song of things like guar gum found in everyday processed foods. And then there are “Radioactive isotopes chemically bonded to glass (sand) and/or resin beads (which) may also be injected to track fractures”. The monitoring of these substances, ostensibly by the Federal Regulitary Comission, in fact only put out the guidelines while the monitoring is left to the companies themselves. If this doesen’t have your comedy bone apoplectic, then the fact that the companies are their own monitors for all else too will leave what was left of your humour quivering in the corner; they don’t even have to tell us what they use. Fascism wrings us dry, creates an oily shake, makes an awful mess in the process and leaves the mess for our children, and their’s, to clean up.

That Bovine Revolution as sung by Dana Lyons “Cows With Guns” is almost starting to sound good. Then, so is a T-Bone.

What we can do about all this is learn and teach to live with less here in wealth-land, and give, yes give, those who need more, more. The ecology works as a full employment scheme, which I think is considered 3% all things considered. Everything that can be is recycled in the most environmentally sound way. That’s in place if possible as for making it the most ecological way would usually involve major transportation. If that system is in place already for ecologically based recycling that’s great, I do like the idea of tens of thousands of rubber duckies carefully dodging the Pacific gyre to find Nan King and their birthing tank of plastic. I think I hear my sense of humour returning.

Our Government has no business in the bedrooms, science labs, or churches of this or any country. The business of Our Government is that of making law and enforcement of those it makes. The Charter of Rights and Freedoms is a good start and a means for amending the Charter is in place if and when neccessary. Enforcement of environmental law already on the books is another good place to start. “Oh boy Mum! I got my new homework today.” “What is it dear?” “I have all year and bit more in order to come up with a plan for who can use our National Parks.” “Isn’t that a bit premature for Grade 8?” “I don’t think so, and our team starts at 10,000 and I’m sure we’re not all in 8th. I hope I’m one of the 2,000 selected for project-end at the Banff Springs Hotel!” “Sounds like an amazing year for you. Just let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” “MUM!” Some things never change.

In this newly imagined educational age students are given one long-term assignment, along with an interconnected and indeterminate number of classmates working on the same problem. At the end of the assigned time a paper is submitted to a board of review, in the case above consisting of grad and post-grad physicists, chemists, engineers and so on, where cherry-picking and, on occation, wholesale adoption of suggestions are brought forward. On the part of the students they are expected to bring all of the knowledge and knowledge of how to gain knowledge to the assignment. Not only are they learning, and learning how to learn, they are also approaching real-world problems.

What we have, in essense, is the very learned and highly compensated professionals either working for Dick Cheney, who was somehow able to take an 8 year break from Halliburton and get all executive branch on us, and arranging a $250 million get out jail free card with Nigeria and a let’s ignore environmental toxins bill with his name on it here in good old Younited Mates of Good ‘Ol Boys, here on Turtle Island. By the time the American Law was in play neither the EPA nor Canada’s equivalent had much to say and even less to do with the thousands of holes being reclaimed. Blackburn, Lancashire never had it so good (4000?). In Oklahoma alone 6,500 new holes per year would exibit the Red Queen Syndrome: “It takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place.” Again, a make-work project. There is no real product. In fact the production is the saddest one can imagine; A town, Lac Balintique, blown and burnt into oblivion along with the lives of 47 vibrant souls.

The beaureaucrats that are suppossed to work the other side – the ones that record and enforce and ensure ‘accidents’ like that don’t happen still draw their ample salaries, as do the Halliburtonions. The people in place, to whom this is home, receive their pittance slowly, intermittantly, and whether they wished to be acknowledged of their loss or not are reminded when it makes for press convenience and raised ratings for some reason. When the time does come, somewhere past Johnson’s Crossing, the kudos will go to the figurehead of the day, a beaureaucrat from the shuffle, a local work-hard organizer, and a cute kid who is happy for a day in the attention and all the pop she can drink — ascetic acid on the rocks please.

Meanwhile nothing has truly happened. The trains still pull/push oil making work for the pipeline proponents, the pipeline pushers bleat plaintively about cows for some odd reason seeing as they’re sheep, a coin has been tossed as to wheather to add one engineer to a 100 car train, and all fades into time for the next crisis – this time a shortage of fresh water in a particularly prone area.

Most get a paycheck that varies according to a mysterious formula with money created from nothing. Kurt Vonnegut put the words on the table: “…and so it goes.” Shall we say grace?

What’s My Price?

What’s your price? It takes more than 450 people to enable a Global Hawk drone strike. Let’s call the length of the operation 24 hours from leaving the hanger to post-flight debriefing and aircraft maintenance back in the hanger.
With salaries ranging from $20,000 per month for perhaps one officer in this scenario, yes, he spends his time at the Officer’s Club, to $10,000pm for the first actual working person on this job, to $1,700pm for the go-fer, with the drone operator making something around the middle of this range, it’s easy to see the costs are exorbitant. I’m making a ballpark guesstimate that one drone-kill-op costs upwards of $1.5 million; and I think that’s a low ball.
That of course does not include initial purchase price of about $140 million per unit, incentive driven gifting (wow, that was polite), and too many other obvious and not so obvious costs that counting them all would explode my brain. Seems to be doing that all the time these days. It’s the heat I tell you.
I think the question of my price comes back into the picture here. Wingnut Widgets offers me a job at $27.50 per hour, which I desperately need as I’ve been out of work for some time. I know that they are affiliated with the military, but exactly how I don’t know. My partner will be happy, we’ll have groceries, rent. I take the job.
About three months later a release mechanism that I had machined for a fake rock, containing reconnaissance equipment, performed a miss-timed release and at 03:35 local time said rock slammed into a home in Nebraska and weighing,in at well over 800 kilo demolished a sleeping Ashley and Kevin and removed their father’s legs; the bedrooms were adjoined. The rock was part of an inter-agency operation and designed for long-term neighbourhood watch and listen. This was a rock of the police’s dreams.
Had it fallen where it was supposed to, close to a high school, middle school, and parks, the ability to listen directionally or generally, visually see through a full range of the spectrum from hundreds of angles, and perform a wide range of other technological wizardry from phone and computer hacking to quite literally blowing itself up. Now it was a guest of what was left of the Miller family.
I’m going to leave, quite properly, how this story ends to your imagination. The Rock from the sky as it became known was unable to be explained and it was removed as expeditiously as possible. Alternate delivery methods for the technology were utilized in future operations. As for me, I had no clue that it was a slight error in my machining that had caused the mayhem. My company was in Tulsa. We used steel of unknown-to-me origin. All I did all day was work and be happy for it.
Meanwhile, other parts I had made during my training period were in use in Northern Pakistan on Predator drones with killer intent. I did not know this either of course. I had been bought for $27.50 per hour and could afford cable, watched the news and shook my head in disgust at the depersonalised approach to undeclared war that our government, and others’, were taking. But what could I do?

Taxing Work

Do banks own our police? Yes, where else would the cop go for money. Does the government own our police? Yes, but not our government of the people but the government within that. That government is appointed not elected, and able to create money from nothing in collusion with the banks. The government of the 1964 coup d’etat.
Do corporations own our police? Yes, these are the people for whom the money from nothing, and the laws that support that illusion by not-our-government enacts, exist.
All of this begs the question: if I am not part of appointed government (this includes innumerable acronyms from A to Z, a partial list of which may be found here – http://www.acronymslist.com/ and includes all police agencies,) banks, or the executives of corporations, then do the police work for me?
No.
Have fun with that list, you will find laughs, chortles, guffaws, and many other synonyms, and surprises. We also find fear. The younger Bush spat in our faces with ‘you are either with us or our enemy’. He was not talking about Al Qaeda, which is only a database anyway, or any foreign terrorists. He was talking about and to us.
As with the previously linked PNAC, the terror is being fed to us straight. We are too attached to what we have, we recognize that revolution and mass gatherings will be suppressed by whatever means necessary. By the police.

New Readers

A reader fresh to this site would do best to start at the beginning. Hey, Doc., I hope that’s you knocking at the door of insight. This is a one-time notice and need not be heeded in the slightest way but, go ahead, you know you want to go here: copy/paste

http://abuddhas.net/?paged=7

I am jumping away from the fiction as I don’t have the time for doing it justice right now and will spell out the facts as I know them and be done with the sordid affair. My Facebook is fully transparent for this, and I am using this forum to put the order back to properly linear from FB’s necessarily reversed blog style.

Poor plain not-real Beth. I have no real sympathy for her. She was a greedy character who deserved no neural adventures in the brainy pathways of real people. Suffice it to say that the hidden, secret elevators below the Twin Towers of WTC1 and WTC2 were real. What really happened as the deliveries were made to those small empty rooms was that the elevator shaft was filled with an ultra-fast hardening slurry. One of the more technically difficult bits of the whole operation. You will soon know why.

The World Trade Center buildings known as WTC1 and WTC2 were turned to dust by dial-a-nukes, either RA-115 or RA-116. These were placed a very precise distance below each building and released exactly the energy required. I will be detailing each aspect as I can muster the time and energy, and will answer any and all objections once the detailed description of the crime have been published.

World Trade Center building 7 was brought down initially by pre-placed controlled demolition devices, and a dialled-down nuke was released at the exact end of that process to ensure destruction of the command and control equipment.

The devices used at WTC1 and WTC2 were not atomic weapons. They were thermo-dynamic two-stage hydrogen/helium devices. The radiation release was very low, in effect negligible at ground level.

In one of the few mistakes made in what can only be described as the most well planned and executed false flag operation in history, perhaps never to be bettered, there was slight gamma contamination at the sites of the placement elevator shafts. This was written off as background anomalies from various equipment being used on site.

The Pentagon was hit by a missile that precisely hit its target. Had it not there was a 0.5 megaton thermo-nuclear device on board that would have ensured destruction of a large part of Washington D.C., including the office of ONI which was the intended target.

All of these devices were of Russian/Soviet origin and purchased by the perpetrators, with the Pentagon missile fired by a Russian ship some distance offshore.

This is in no way to insinuate that this was a Russian operation. Their crime was one of capitalism taken to the extreme. This gives Putin insider power far beyond any other leader/oligarch.

The criminals are arranged in layers of knowledge with Dick Cheney and Don Rumsfeld as the ones with the bulk, but not all, of the plan. They both had back-up shadows I will talk about later as they were not required and eventually disposed of quietly.

The key instigator and chief perpetrator was/is George H.W. Bush.

I will get on with describing the crime of the millennium (okay, that’s obvious hyperbole in many ways, but maybe not so much in some…) in the morning. A distillation so far: WTC1&2 dustified by dial-a-nukes placed below with WTC7 finished off as clean-up. Pentagon struck by missile. Criminals GHW Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld and many others. The easing into the conversation by Architects and Engineers and others is the criminal’s fall-back position and was accomplished by the actual placement of some these things so as to leave traces. There had to be a fall-back as the official theory was not physically possible. Now journalists and bar room talksters can say that yes it was controlled demolition but with all the evidence gone let’s just get on with life.

Here is what the “pile” disappeared into… oh, the disgusting puns are going to get worse…this is old, old tech. but is your homework for tonight.

One Act – Act 1

What follows is Part 1 of a short story that fictionally tells what cannot be factually told due to compartmentalization of those involved in the affair, and airtight plausible deniability for those very few that know the full scenario and how it went down. My research began around 10am Yukon time on September 11th, 2001, and has never ceased. This date should be properly known as 11/9 but the propagandists ensured the Americanization of it to 911, forever etching that initial emergent crisis into global consciousness as a phone call away.
Within half an hour Osama, CIA asset, had been made the fall-guy, and the rest is history as dictated by various acronymic suits and uniforms, a compliant and complicit press, and me and you in not wanting to upset the cart too much lest we all lose. No criminal investigation, disposal of evidence as quickly as possible, withholding of in-disposable evidence, and an agenda lain bare right in front of us within the PNAC http://www.wikiwand.com/en/Project_for_the_New_American_Century

Act 1

A woman stepped confidently out of the deepest elevator shaft available

to the maintenance staff of World Trade Center building 1. The smell was

of a concrete stuffiness despite the huge space. Perhaps it took decades

to cure way down here, she thought to herself, and fired up a cannabis

cigarette as if to dispel the notion. Decades? The way the world

conceived of itself would be changed within hours.

The orders for her and her other two con-patriots (sic. – there’s to be a

lot of sic(k)ness ahead Dear Reader) were clear, precise, and the pay for

such a simple task plain extraordinary. Her Cayman account had already

received $10 million with another 90 to be deposited upon her phone call

to the Pentagon from a lobby payphone here at WTC1. $100,000,000. Nobody

would turn that down.

The task was dead simple. She walked a few hundred yards through the

echoes, smelling and starting to feel just fine, until she spied the tiny

red dot. Unless you knew better first instinct would be to sweep it up

or, as it had been for a very long time for the few that came down here,

ignore it as a flaw in an otherwise perfectly poured floor; in the manner

of the finest Persian carpet requiring that almost invisible blemish,

proving that only Allah could do perfection.

Beth was not Muslim or of any faith. Twenty-five years old, plain and

dressed the part, with a large multi-hologram badge that allowed access

without question anywhere she wanted to go within the building. Removing

the jeweller’s kit from her false phone, Beth placed the smallest

screwdriver on top of the red cotton microdot and pushed. That seemed so

silly but there it was, a micro-hole and she turned the driver one full

turn and two full turns the other way. The doorway to hell consisted of a

lock the size of nothing, in essence.

A block with a Maxwell Smart phone booth rose up and in she stepped. What

happened next rather surprised her as they had said this was another

elevator. Instead, as soon as the door had been properly pushed shut, the

downward velocity got fast in a hurry until it was a virtual free fall.

That lasted virtually no time, slowed to a carnival ride quick stop, and

did nothing. She pulled open the door, always a hassle with those old

payphones, and stepped into a small room with one bare cupboard and an

off white bulb.

Beth had been told that her package, weighing around 20 kilos she

guessed, was to be placed in the cupboard any old way and that was it,

job done. This she did, though being a neat type person she squared it up

to the centre, admired her non-work and took the step back to the phone

box and shut the door. The expectation was to be whisked back up, ready

for the abruptness this time, return to the lobby, make her call, and hop

a flight to Belize where she had booked a high-end suite.

What actually took place was nothing. There seemed to be a lot of nothing

these days and she was starting to take it personally. Like any rational

person she did all the usual opening and closing and banging and clanking

and swearing things she could think of to get some action, always keeping

in mind that a sudden start at the wrong time could deftly remove a part

or parts of her body. She got out of the phone box and stared at it. That

is when she knew.