On the night of September 10th, 2001, I was at a friends house getting high on stolen over-the-counter cough medicine. ‘Robotripping’, the kids all called it, and I was fortunate enough to have a friend, who worked as a pharmacist at the very CVS I stole the drug from, instruct me on the recommended over dosage to take. I didn’t even know she worked at CVS until she showed up wearing her lab coat just as I was about to take the drug. It was a funny little coincidence to kick off the night. I didn’t have the word synchronicity yet in my vocabulary, but if I did, I probably would have invoked it.
Our high school hadn’t started classes yet because of a teachers strike, and so we were all enjoying an extra long Summer vacation. In those days I was endlessly seeking new internal experiences. I had no direction, no guidance, no framework to compare my experiences to, but I wanted them anyways. I was, after all, just another slacker kid looking for kicks in the prefabricated doldrum of suburbia.
My best friend at the time, whose house I was staying at for the night, was not at all into drugs. He thought I was foolish messing around as I did, but usually enabled my nonsense anyways by providing his basement as a place to hide out, whenever I needed to get away for awhile. He had his computer in the basement, and would stay up with me all night sometimes- listening to music or playing video games. That night was no different from the usual. I was sitting on the couch with my eyes closed going into hallucination while he played a video game- something about a mystery, a skull, a monkey, and an island.
DXM, the psychoactive component of cough medicine, is a dissociative. The quality of hallucination is far more dreamy, cloudy, dark than LSD. It is less demanding of the attention than purely psychedelic drugs. It is highly influenced by tactile feelings of waves. On a proper dose the waves are like a pleasant gooey surge through the body. On an overdose the waves feel like a burning centralized in the back of the neck,which threatens to black out consciousness- feels like dieing.
(PRECAUTION- If you are going to try to get high from cough syrup, use a brand which contains only DXM as the active ingredient. Other active ingredients will dry you out with no psychoactive benefits, and will increase the danger of dieing at high doses. Dieing from a psychoactive drug is about the most terrible thing you could do to yourself accidentally- terror and confusion as your last living experience just because you wanted to get high? Best advice for DXM is to order it in powdered form from the Boards of Canada. RECOMMENDED- If you are interested in legal dissociative drugs, MXE, an analogue of ketamine and PCP, can be purchased legally in some markets. None of these drugs are safe without proper dose and setting. Every choice has a consequence. Do your research.)
That night I did not come close to death. It was the first time I ever tried the drug, and I took a proper recreational dose as advised by my personal pharmacist. In the darkness of the basement I relaxed into imaginative visualizations. The content was of an abandoned superstructure. My attention focused onto the upper floors of a massive tower. It was early morning, and birds sang as they dodged to and fro the decayed architecture and the brilliantly blue sky.
As far as I could see, the entire city was vacant of human life. Humanity seemed to have disappeared, and as I sat in the basement thinking that thought; I imagined that this had already become. I opened my eyes to the room I was sitting in, and I wondered how it was that we remained here, when everyone else was gone. It seemed that we were the last humans in a dead city at the center of the world. My sense of location was playfully distorted, so that I was under the real impression that we were in the city, not suburbia. What city was this? I wondered, Philadelphia was the closest, but Philadelphia did not have buildings as tall as the ones I had seen.
This scenario persisted the entire time I was in the basement. When I finally went upstairs, to fall asleep watching MTV, as every suburban kid does, I was reminded of my place and setting enough to relax to sleep. The Alien Ant Farm cover of Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal was the last thing I heard before fade to black…
Annie, are you OK
Will you tell us that you’re OK
There’s a sign at the window
That he struck you
A crescendo, Annie
He came into your apartment
He left the bloodstains on the carpet
Then you ran into the bedroom
You were struck down
It was your doomAnnie, are you OK
Are you OK, Annie
Annie, are you OK
Are you OK, Annie
Annie, are you OK
Are you OK, Annie
You’ve been hit by
You’ve been struck by
A smooth criminal
I awoke the following morning quite early for how late I had gone to sleep. I didn’t want to go home yet, so I took a walk to my girlfriends house. It was a beautiful morning, and even without proper rest I was feeling great about life. I could still feel an occasional surge in my body,- a feeling which persisted for days. I have noticed this in particular with DXM, and it may be something to do with my own body chemistry, but after the effects wear off I get recurring body sensations. The only other psychoactive drug I have noticed this with is 2CE, which has a nasal flare sensation which reoccurs for me weeks after ingestion.
When I got to my girlfriends house she was still wearing her pajamas, but seemed wide awake and excited about something, then she said, “A plane just flew into the world trade center!” Her older brother was in the living room laughing nervously as the news reporters scrambled for meaning. We all had shit eating grins on our faces, not sure what to think. Society seemed at the brink of some unimaginable collapse and we were just hoping school would be canceled forever. I was imagining Fight Club. I was hoping for Fight Club! I must admit that I was a very ignorant youth, and understood nothing of the world outside my teenage obsessions. It was not that I was disinterested in understanding the world. I was simply uninformed. Whatever the television projected, I saw as history- with no elaborations outside of the immediate narrative provided.
I saw 9/11 as most people saw 9/11. My drug induced fantasy of post-societal ruin, the night before, had lubricated my anticipation for all out disaster, but in no way did I think it odd that there would be a cohesion between fantasy and reality. It took many years before I began to cognize this process, to develop a language to describe it, and to attempt to use it as a psychic technology.
9/11 was a bit like an initiation whose ceremony was performed unbeknownst to the initiate. On a mass scale, we had been blinded and led through the pillars of some invisible temple, to have our lives dedicated to an oath whose debt was our freedom. It was a blood ritual whose sacrifice was paid for by the masses, for the masses.
As the second plane hit, we knew this was not an accident. Immediately the terrorist narrative was provided. As the events of the day unfolded we were supposed to feel the fear, the unknowing fear of, ‘how far will this go?’ The anger springs forth from the fear. I was already too cynical to bite onto it. At least I had that going for me. On the way walking back to my house latter that day; my girlfriend, two friends, and I were pulled up on by a white jeep, and offered a ride by a man that looked high on meth,. “No thanks, we like to walk.” I said. He pulled up a couple of yards and then stalled. When we approached the vehicle he started to burn out the tires, Skreeeeee, and wove a hand full of kitchen knives out the window, shouting at us, “Woooooo, I’m gonna go kill me some sand niggers!”, before tearing off down the road. I felt more shaken up by that than by any of the news events.
It spread like wildfire. Suddenly everyone had little American flags on everything. It brought our nation together, and our presidents approval rating went up. Anything felt possible- so long as it had to do with defensive emotional appeal on the national level. This was long before conspiracy theories were a common language, at least for suburban slackers such as myself.
I didn’t need to hear speculations that 9/11 was an inside job to see exactly how it was being handled as a convenient pretext. Before I ever even imagined it could have been a staged event, I realized that it was being handled very opportunistically by some. I had older friends who were in college at the time who kept me informed about otherwise unnoticeable progressions, such as The Patriot Act.
To most of my peers in high school, whatever it would take to protect our freedom and get our vengeance was necessary- at all cost. It was assumed pretentious to question these developments, and provoked real emotions of anger from fellow citizens who were under the ‘you’re either with us, or against us’ mentality. All of it was churned out as anti-intellectual axioms blubbered by of our baboon president Bush, who somehow had the nation transfixed enough to only ever be laughed at, and not beheaded.
By the time I was a freshman in college the conspiracy theories about 9/11 had hit the public at large. It was 2004, people were sick of Bush, and the alternative narrative which implemented him and his establishment was the not so perfect storm; as most Americans mimicked the mainstream medias act of disgust for even suggesting that our government would do such a thing- pure treason. The 9/11 Truth Movement became like a barometer for the effects of narrative control. Both sides, pointing to evidence, but who was really listening? Besides what the media told us, who among us really considered the narratives for all of their implications?
It would seem that a great number of people could simply not be bothered to consider new information which was not directly reinforced by the establishment. Both mainstream political parties, their respective media brokers, and state led education were all indifferent or hostile to the alternative narrative which was conveniently self-described as a conspiracy theory. The phrase ‘conspiracy theory’ had long been transposed through the hyperreality of popular entertainment to be a ‘faery tale’. Show the truth as fiction, and it will be internalized as an unconsciously validated reality which eludes the conscious mind who received it as fiction.
And so the cognitive dissonance drives us insane for the pharmaceutical industry to sedate, and slowly poison us out of existence. Problem solved.
Does it seem too contrived? Too much like something out of a movie script? It is all narrative. To delineate the possibilities of reality by an alternative narratives seeming congruency with prescribed narrative is to self regulate ones own mental enslavement. There are no chains in the theater. It is only our fear of rejection which keeps us seated in the great cinema hall. Inside we already know. Fiction has always been telling us, all the world is a stage! We fail to see the reality in fiction, and so we live in falsehood- unable to grasp the screen. Who wrote this stuff? you may ask, and it all depends on how far back you want to go.
On an exoteric level one need go no further back than Project for the New American Century, a think tank started in the late 90’s to envision America’s long term strategy for securing global dominance. It is mostly hinged on oil, and how to secure our access to it. The fact of the fiction is, the whole terrorist aspect is a controlled measure, and we don’t care about bringing democracy to the Middle East. All we are really concerned with is securing dwindling resources in a power grab with China. We don’t talk about China, because that is the long term opponent in the American nationalist perspective. But American nationalism, at least how it is carried out by those in power, is really nothing more than the disembodied will of some ancient Western Imperial ideal; which saw it self though the Roman and British empires- with their chimera like royalty schemes- and claimed in America, a secret reign for building their next great empire. How far back does it go? How far back do you want to go?
The readily offered narratives of history are spotted at best, and purposefully altered; with enough force, at times, to completely distort human reality- with no way to rewind the film. We are a narrative bound species, whose greatest mental capacity- to tell a tale- to conceive a possibility- has been hijacked to serve the agendas of a long line of inbred narcissists. True innovation moves at a snails pace in this backwards world of fictitious reality. It is not a matter of truth versus fiction, but of real fiction versus false narrative. Which is a matter of interpretation?
How would you take it if I told you that your birth name was a fictitious creation? What if I told you that the people who named you, selected some words by choice or at random, still unconsciously influenced by the choices of others, and on top of it laid a crown which was forged in the same manner a long time ago? “But my genes!” you might declare, and what of your genes? Are they not a revised compilation of narratives? G, Cat… Our thoughts, actions, and exposures affect our genes, and so goes the story we’ve been telling ourselves for so long.
I wonder what kind of genetic markers were placed by the mass trauma of 9/11? I wonder how this story will develop as the narratives collide into what has always been destined to be our future? As the individual becomes self aware as a social animal, created out of story telling, perhaps we as individuals might learn to write better stories for ourselves. The art of Politics is too weak and outdated to survive the emerging politics of Art. As fiction becomes known as the supremely real narrative of mind- new realities will become conceivable- realities in which our imagination is our possibility.
But this is getting a little ahead of ourselves. We are still existing in a very static dynamic, and getting to a truly dynamic dynamic requires first that we undue the static. The static is the predictive programming we have all been conditioned with since birth. It has laid us in lines of predictable parameters which can be controlled as easy as counting to five. It only takes one hand to rule the world. Is it an iron fist? Is it covered in a glove? Is it making a peace sign? Does it have a hypermobile thumb for hitching an automobile? Is it your hand?… It is your hand. We have been trying to tell you this all along. Stop hitting yourself! Who is making you do that?
It’s not an easy answer. It starts God and ends with NSA. It’s a general pretense of externalized authority- all seeing, all knowing, all controlling. It’s not about realizing that you are God. No, that would be petty and new age. We all know it’s not even about that at all. It’s a human thing. We do it to ourselves. We put on these masks and scare each other, but why? Are we afraid of some authentic communication which is free of self defensive pretense? Does dropping the act feel like a fear of dying ? Perhaps it is that we are afraid there will be nothing left if we stop pretending.
What would the neighbors think? What would Russia think if we stopped pretending? They might laugh at us! We might seem weak and confused… It’s the fear that holds us back. We are afraid to fly… It’s a long way down to the bottom of the 3rd world, but it seems like we are headed off that cliff anyways- so may as well start flapping those arms, kid. Just don’t look down (they always look down)!
Even if we don’t make it, at least we can say we saw it coming. Even if no one will ever notice that we notice- we will notice- and this is all we could do, but to notice. The universe is here supremely as an event for the observant; any amount of appreciation had in that observation is fuel enough for a million more worlds- in one of those worlds we might just get it, really get what we were looking for. Pure conjecture, so let’s get back to the dominant narrative.
The standard Left/Right forward march of the American political machine is really just a straight line of bullshit! Our predictive programming had us already set up for Obama. A progressive black man with the scripted pretense of being intelligent; exactly what we wanted to wash our hands with after Bush- but not a thing has changed. The measures which were implemented under Bush have only been compounded by Obama. It is hardly imaginative to play such a racially contentious nation by the race card. It is simply economics. Obama is bought and paid for by the same constituents as ever- more names- more fictions- none of it is real; but we elect it to be so, by the resignation of our mind to the power of the belief that it is real. You believe what you are told. The words somehow have a magical effect if they come from the right person. Don’t they?
Especially if that person has a gun to your head.
Every symbol, word, and phrase is a coding device for imprinting the human mind- these gather a collective resonance by the mutual understanding they evoke, and the hidden objectives they encode. We are collectively plagued by the unexamined implications of our shared cultural vocabulary. Who has the master coding book? I doubt you can learn it from Websters, though any place is as good as any to start. It comes unraveled from every point of departure- all interconnected, even at random. The question I ask myself is, not how intentional, but how conscious of interrelation? Someone is riding the beast, but is there another beast riding them? Again, conjecture ad infinitum- back to the narrative.
After 9/11 a lot of people started noticing coincidence in art, music, movies, and books- which seemed to almost predict the event. To hail, to salute, to call forth, to beckon the arrival- as an operative form of sympathetic magic the sorcerer will use symbolic forms which imitate the desired object, place, thing, or event to arrive into manifestation.
The official documents themselves act as self fulfilling prophesy- because much like religion, they must find ways to affirm the proper narrative.
But when your favorite pre-9/11 movie…
your favorite pre-9/11 animated television series…
your favorite pre-9/11 x-files spin off…
your favorite pre-9/11 card game…
and your favorite pre-9/11 visionary artist- all contain coincidental allusions to 9/11…
You start to wonder, what is coincidence?
The masses have been trained to disbelieve in magic, while the elite play dress up and ritual- and so magic may be practiced openly on the masses, so that any attempt to reveal it would be judged as based only in fiction. But Yes! It is all fiction! It is just that which we have been told is truth, is the least imaginative, and most self restraining fiction of all. It takes a lot of really bad writing to keep the human animal in it’s own mental cage. It is the identification with the cage as the sense of self which keeps the mind from realizing that the bars are imagined. A thin veil of contrived imagination separates us from imaginative freedom- which is the only true freedom, real fiction.