Forgot to Check the Weather

Tom Young never planned for the weather, which is what made the changing of the seasons so hard on him. He went along... our old, faithful Tom - taking his lumps - never caring too much about the calendar. He didn't worry about wasting time.

But he couldn't escape the way the work week always looked down on his laziness, his stubborn will to do what he wanted – all the time; they hated him for it. The hard-working Americans that Tom fought for – 16 months in Iraq, fighting to ensure forever-war and servitude to mysterious debt monsters – ridiculed Tom for his total rejection of the system that indebted him - the one that “disabled” him. They thought he was a “crazy hippie.” They thought he believed in “Utopia.”

Tom couldn't escape the True nature of things - the parts most refused to see... which, of course, involved banking, Christian and Jewish supremacy - Islamic terror – the C.I.A. et al. and the indescribably old, nasty money behind American military might (don't get him started on inter-dimensional shape-shifters or Satan's motley Crew).

We heard it all before... seen it in lives we can't remember; this shit is nothing new. It's as old as Alabama... as old as slaves singing cadence in cotton fields, or Jews stacking stones in Egypt.

It's as old as language itself - the “Rat-i-tat-tat” sounds the same in every era. Hem said it best, “the truth has a certain ring to it.” But the powers that be – those ancient and evil forces - have always succeeded in drowning it out. They succeed in convincing you that your heart is a liar.

I'm here to tell you it is not. Forgive me, but... F*ck "they!" I swear to @God: your heart is a righteous and noble organ... as big as the universe reaching. I'm here to say: you have no ends. No limitations; it's merely the weight of the world wanting you to be like them.

Don't do it.

Pharaohs knew it, Queens drew it. Thieves and the secret oligarchs at the Federal Reserve grew it... bloated so big even the most mechanical minds couldn't construe it. Made complex to be misconstrued... this shit is nothing new; they add more layers every year. It took them all of human history to build this cage around us, and we are the lucky few – alive - for the big reveal...

Believe me! In our times, all the secret emperors will stand naked before us. Principals will be spanked. Lawyers, bankers, and doctors will be tarred and feathered. Mark my words: before century's end - the meek shall inherit the earth.

Once, and for all.

But it's goona get real weird before that. Mark their words: THERE WILL BE BLOOD. Terrorists only go down swinging; before their historic reign and tortured masculinity falls by the wayside, unfortunately, they're gonna cry like a bunch of broken snowflakes... their mass hissy-fit may just destroy the planet.

And that's where you come in. Tom, too. That's where we meet – the warm, mellow goo – in the middle... Hey you. I see you there. ←-> I like you. Please... Come closer.

I want to smell you, and for you to smell me. It's good when we get that scent of each other - when we realize we mean no harm - a courage grows to move closer. Our hearts get braver. Mmm. Smells good...

Hey, You. My name is Tom. And given the opportunity --> I'd love you. I'd forgive your sins. Care for your humiliations; I'd kiss your feet. Half of my loaf of bread is for you. You see... all these harsh changing of the seasons – all these lumps I've taken – has made me a bit punchy for love. I choose, as much as possible, to be as drunk on love as possible, for as long as possible, and not to worry much about what love may obstruct.

Needing it so bad, I sense how badly you need it, too. No kidding - I know we just met – but believe me, I would die for you.

Strangers caring?? Well, I know, it's rather new... but we'll be living proof: indiscriminate love doesn't need to be reserved for the few. We can all do it.

Yes, it's true: a lot of people need to die; it'll take a while for old, violent ideas to flame out... still no matter what they say on their way out... we can create a world that cares. We can live free.

Trust me: we won't have to kill anyone in order to succeed. We won't have to raise our voices to be heard. And in the end, a rapturous thunder will whisper through our collective lips: Victory. And no human will ever club, whip, electrocute, poison, or kill another human again.

Nation/states will no longer keep standing armies. Jack boots will only exist in museums exhibiting our undeveloped ancestors. Justice, education, well-being, and democracy will be completely divorced from profit. In lieu of state violence, we'll deploy kindness from every corner of the world and easily help everyone in their hour of need. In place of regular misery, cooperative miracles will be commonplace.

But before that a-battle is a-comin' - it might involve famine; we're gonna get real poor and sick - before we get free. We're gonna go through some pretty severe withdrawals. Due to lack of care, many will perish. I'm sorry, but if "they" win the day... we can say goodbye to the idea of comfort for grandma.

A storm's riding in... Troops moving out. Everybody's clapping saying, “please - put em' down.” Gotta trust somebody, but information's gone... when they cut the power, it's your neighbors who you'll depend on.

What a world, what a fate! You'll soon have a decision to make: will you go along to get along, keep staring at your feet, or will you look up - to see - it's up to us to get Free'd? Will you answer the call - be a non-violent soldier to save our children - or will you continue hoping someone else will do it for you?

Yeah, sure... we didn't plan for the weather. Yes - we're gonna take our lumps... but a good storm always makes life come back stronger. We're gonna get free... non-violently. We're gonna wage a war... on inhumanity. We're gonna have to die a lot. But believe-you-me - I've seen the promise land - and we're gonna get free.


Or...

I'm wrong - and it's too late.

We're doomed. The brainwashing can't be reversed.

We let it happen. Slow submission to a thousand poisons.

The machines win. And we become zoo animals for artificial children.


To be continued...