The Sun is shining everyday, but it's far away...
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Saturday, July 28, 2012
PROLOGUE
Contributed by: Will
This is the greatest turning point mankind has faced in modern history.
I know that you’ve seen them. They might even be surrounding you now: the vultures, the chameleons, the snakes, the robots — all wearing the skin-tight mask of a human, all pretending to fit in. So many of them, it seems... enough to make one wonder if they were here all along and if realizing them is just part of the process, the aging process, though in happier, youthful times we called it, the growing process. A sense of urgency creeps into our lives as we get older and discover that we've been bound by an electric fence all this time. We grow angry at the world and the people inside of it because we can't ever seem to break free. We feel the anxiety — the lingering presence of the zoo keeper, shrouded and cunning and more powerful than we.
It happened to us collectively, that anger. And when it all sank in, we decided, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." We scurried to gather it all, to suck every last drop, even before the Freeze we did. They called it the Rat Race, where life was filled with lies and survival meant schemes and trickery. But that wasn't life. It was a spell of damnation luring us to hell, with neon signs guiding us to the Great Pyramid Scheme — we scaled the walls with bloody fingernails to a place where the one-eyed man is king. Could we ever really make it to the top? Would we ever be satisfied?
If we avoided the race, we avoided life altogether. Many chose the comfort of false insulation: parmaceuticals and television sets. In such ways, we floated in our yellow submarine long before we ever set foot on the podmarine. Hymns of ignorance and flashing lights kept us afloat, hypnotizing us to believe the world was a wild and brutal place without them. So wrapped in this artificial womb, we carried along...
Denial was a common defense mechanism. Sure, we all wanted to be hopeful, to believe what we were told. Some willingly embraced the lies — the advertisements screaming at us: life is good, life is happy ; the preacher on a late night infomercial promising light at the end of the tunnel, a money-back guarantee. There was comfort in believing, but that comfort had a prerequisite and it was insanity: vapid, robotic insanity. Still others found solace in a different type of insanity, the type that got you quarantined from the rest of society, and the rest of society often wondered if these lunatics were onto something... something genius (of course, no one ever spoke of such things).
So in this concrete jungle, if we didn't succumb to sheep life or smiling madness, we were paranoid instead. Distrusting, internalizing fear and hate. Quietly aggressive. It kept getting worse, to the point where it was driving each and every one of us to the edge and we couldn't understand why.
We didn't know the problem was culminating from the outside in. We didn't know the power of negatively charged ions on the human psyche, or the true meaning of cosmic imbalance and how it affects one's biological state. We didn't know solar flares were driving us mad, or that planetary alignments were tugging at our sanities with invisible strings. How could we? We were man. We were the cause, never the effect.
Man was polluting the atmosphere.
Man was destroying the forest life.
Man was disrupting the ecosystem.
Man was killing the Earth!
And if man wanted to, man could save it...
But man was a control-freak and couldn't grasp the Design as something beyond his own making.
Really, if the world don't like us, it would shake us just like we were a cold. And that's exactly what it did, with the force of the Cosmos behind it.
In December 2012, the winter came and never left. We called it, the Great Freeze.
Don't think for a moment we were all in the dark. Some of us had anticipated this for a very long time, world leaders and the scientists they paid, multi-billionaires who funded all the research: Oil Tycoons, Wall Street, the Vatican, the Cartels, etc., etc. The Major News Networks knew too, and they kept things under wraps like they were supposed to by discrediting the "fearmongers" and "doomsdayers".
The Elite — these people had access to the information. Valuable information. And they hoarded it because resources were scarce and there wasn't enough to go around. They fled the Apocalypse on board the the Atlantis, which brought them to the Lost City, "twenty thousand leagues under the sea." They called themselves, the Survivors, and they left the rest of mankind to die.
Of course, some of us "poor people," skilled workers of the wage slave class, were offered a third-class ticket to survival onboard the Atlantis! (Well, someone had to scrub toilets, among other menial things...) They called us "lucky," and we agreed.
The lucky ones told no one. We knew better and besides, we can't all be lucky, can we? So we allied with the team of Power and, together, embarked on the ship. Together, we went under, closer to the center of the earth, where reality is an inverted Universe with water black as void, where monstrous fish roam with torch-light antannae and medusa crawl like writhing space amoeba. The podmarine (as it came to be called) hovered above the warmth of a geyser, fastened by ghostly, agglutinant webs to the ground, like the glistening egg-case of a spider. A luminescent light encased the hull, green as the iris of reptilian eyes.
We fit right in.
My name is Will. I'm a "lucky one," a Mover, and a true survivor.
This is the greatest turning point mankind has faced in modern history.
I know that you’ve seen them. They might even be surrounding you now: the vultures, the chameleons, the snakes, the robots — all wearing the skin-tight mask of a human, all pretending to fit in. So many of them, it seems... enough to make one wonder if they were here all along and if realizing them is just part of the process, the aging process, though in happier, youthful times we called it, the growing process. A sense of urgency creeps into our lives as we get older and discover that we've been bound by an electric fence all this time. We grow angry at the world and the people inside of it because we can't ever seem to break free. We feel the anxiety — the lingering presence of the zoo keeper, shrouded and cunning and more powerful than we.
It happened to us collectively, that anger. And when it all sank in, we decided, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." We scurried to gather it all, to suck every last drop, even before the Freeze we did. They called it the Rat Race, where life was filled with lies and survival meant schemes and trickery. But that wasn't life. It was a spell of damnation luring us to hell, with neon signs guiding us to the Great Pyramid Scheme — we scaled the walls with bloody fingernails to a place where the one-eyed man is king. Could we ever really make it to the top? Would we ever be satisfied?
If we avoided the race, we avoided life altogether. Many chose the comfort of false insulation: parmaceuticals and television sets. In such ways, we floated in our yellow submarine long before we ever set foot on the podmarine. Hymns of ignorance and flashing lights kept us afloat, hypnotizing us to believe the world was a wild and brutal place without them. So wrapped in this artificial womb, we carried along...
Denial was a common defense mechanism. Sure, we all wanted to be hopeful, to believe what we were told. Some willingly embraced the lies — the advertisements screaming at us: life is good, life is happy ; the preacher on a late night infomercial promising light at the end of the tunnel, a money-back guarantee. There was comfort in believing, but that comfort had a prerequisite and it was insanity: vapid, robotic insanity. Still others found solace in a different type of insanity, the type that got you quarantined from the rest of society, and the rest of society often wondered if these lunatics were onto something... something genius (of course, no one ever spoke of such things).
Courtyard of Lunatics by Francisco Goya, 1794
So in this concrete jungle, if we didn't succumb to sheep life or smiling madness, we were paranoid instead. Distrusting, internalizing fear and hate. Quietly aggressive. It kept getting worse, to the point where it was driving each and every one of us to the edge and we couldn't understand why.
We didn't know the problem was culminating from the outside in. We didn't know the power of negatively charged ions on the human psyche, or the true meaning of cosmic imbalance and how it affects one's biological state. We didn't know solar flares were driving us mad, or that planetary alignments were tugging at our sanities with invisible strings. How could we? We were man. We were the cause, never the effect.
Man was polluting the atmosphere.
Man was destroying the forest life.
Man was disrupting the ecosystem.
Man was killing the Earth!
And if man wanted to, man could save it...
But man was a control-freak and couldn't grasp the Design as something beyond his own making.
Really, if the world don't like us, it would shake us just like we were a cold. And that's exactly what it did, with the force of the Cosmos behind it.
Planetary alignment over the Pyramids at Giza, Dec. 3rd 2012
In December 2012, the winter came and never left. We called it, the Great Freeze.
Don't think for a moment we were all in the dark. Some of us had anticipated this for a very long time, world leaders and the scientists they paid, multi-billionaires who funded all the research: Oil Tycoons, Wall Street, the Vatican, the Cartels, etc., etc. The Major News Networks knew too, and they kept things under wraps like they were supposed to by discrediting the "fearmongers" and "doomsdayers".
The Elite — these people had access to the information. Valuable information. And they hoarded it because resources were scarce and there wasn't enough to go around. They fled the Apocalypse on board the the Atlantis, which brought them to the Lost City, "twenty thousand leagues under the sea." They called themselves, the Survivors, and they left the rest of mankind to die.
The Nautilus as Imagined by Jules Verne. Alphonse de Neuville, c. 1870
Twenty Thousand Legues Under the Sea
Of course, some of us "poor people," skilled workers of the wage slave class, were offered a third-class ticket to survival onboard the Atlantis! (Well, someone had to scrub toilets, among other menial things...) They called us "lucky," and we agreed.
The lucky ones told no one. We knew better and besides, we can't all be lucky, can we? So we allied with the team of Power and, together, embarked on the ship. Together, we went under, closer to the center of the earth, where reality is an inverted Universe with water black as void, where monstrous fish roam with torch-light antannae and medusa crawl like writhing space amoeba. The podmarine (as it came to be called) hovered above the warmth of a geyser, fastened by ghostly, agglutinant webs to the ground, like the glistening egg-case of a spider. A luminescent light encased the hull, green as the iris of reptilian eyes.
My name is Will. I'm a "lucky one," a Mover, and a true survivor.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
INTRODUCTION
I've started this blog for the sake of truth.
For so long it seemed like we'd lost it entirely. The lot of us were too busy gnawing the bones they threw and digesting what they told us. They told us, "people can't handle the truth," and they waived it like some secret envelope above our heads and tickled our noses with it — The Truth: we have it; you want it; come get it. But it always was a false truth, a fool's truth.
Truth can never be told. It can never be taught or learned, only recognized. Because truth exists inside and all around us, in the fabric of our existence. It is elemental, and we must adapt in its light or else go against our own spiritual nature.
What I'm about to reveal to you, you already know.
My name is Jane. That's my real name, though I hardly ever use it.
For so long it seemed like we'd lost it entirely. The lot of us were too busy gnawing the bones they threw and digesting what they told us. They told us, "people can't handle the truth," and they waived it like some secret envelope above our heads and tickled our noses with it — The Truth: we have it; you want it; come get it. But it always was a false truth, a fool's truth.
Truth can never be told. It can never be taught or learned, only recognized. Because truth exists inside and all around us, in the fabric of our existence. It is elemental, and we must adapt in its light or else go against our own spiritual nature.
What I'm about to reveal to you, you already know.
My name is Jane. That's my real name, though I hardly ever use it.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank all those involved in the creation of this blog: the artists, the videographers, the photographers, the illustrators, and the musicians—all of whom will be credited and enjoyed throughout.
I would particularly like to thank Inga Birgisdóttir for her short film to the Sigur Ros song, Varúð (via The Mystery Film Experiment #2). It was a piece of art that finally nudged me to begin what I have delayed for so long and as truth-in-art strikes a resonant chord in the collective soul, the film enticed me from the depths of my uncertainty to relate what is both my drive and purpose in life: hope for humanity even in the most despairing circumstances.
Again, I would like to thank Will for reliving the madness, the love, the anguish, and the faith.
I would like to thank Professor H.G. Ridley for making all this possible.
Of course, everyone here in Utopia would like to thank Lucia. She has given us a renewed purpose. Like Marley said, "Truth is, everyone is going to hurt you, you just have to find the ones worth suffering for" ;)
Finally, I would like to thank you, the reader, for opening your mind and searching for truth. Don't ever stop looking; you'll know it when you see it.
I would particularly like to thank Inga Birgisdóttir for her short film to the Sigur Ros song, Varúð (via The Mystery Film Experiment #2). It was a piece of art that finally nudged me to begin what I have delayed for so long and as truth-in-art strikes a resonant chord in the collective soul, the film enticed me from the depths of my uncertainty to relate what is both my drive and purpose in life: hope for humanity even in the most despairing circumstances.
Again, I would like to thank Will for reliving the madness, the love, the anguish, and the faith.
I would like to thank Professor H.G. Ridley for making all this possible.
Of course, everyone here in Utopia would like to thank Lucia. She has given us a renewed purpose. Like Marley said, "Truth is, everyone is going to hurt you, you just have to find the ones worth suffering for" ;)
Finally, I would like to thank you, the reader, for opening your mind and searching for truth. Don't ever stop looking; you'll know it when you see it.
PREFACE
For the sake of clarity, I must explain how I intend for you, the reader, to follow this blog.
I am the blog owner, Jane. This is a platform I've created to get the message to the world, but I will not be writing the actual story. You'll hear from me only at the very beginning (in the Preface, Acknowledgements, and Introduction) and at the end. I am acting mostly as an editor, compiling the blog using transcripts of Lucia's original diary entries. I will also include photos, art, music, video, and any other material of relevance in order to give you a better, more intimate portrayal of events.
Will is going to narrate. He's the only one that can; he was actually there. I have invited him as a contributor to this blog, convincing him that Lucia's story must be told despite the pain it will cause him to relive what they had and what was lost. Understandably, he could not bring himself to transcribe her journal entries, so that task will fall upon me.
I hope to interject as little as possible throughout the chapters, but if any reader has a question or concern, feel free to comment in the boxes below or message me at jane.thelostcity@gmail.com.
I am the blog owner, Jane. This is a platform I've created to get the message to the world, but I will not be writing the actual story. You'll hear from me only at the very beginning (in the Preface, Acknowledgements, and Introduction) and at the end. I am acting mostly as an editor, compiling the blog using transcripts of Lucia's original diary entries. I will also include photos, art, music, video, and any other material of relevance in order to give you a better, more intimate portrayal of events.
Will is going to narrate. He's the only one that can; he was actually there. I have invited him as a contributor to this blog, convincing him that Lucia's story must be told despite the pain it will cause him to relive what they had and what was lost. Understandably, he could not bring himself to transcribe her journal entries, so that task will fall upon me.
I hope to interject as little as possible throughout the chapters, but if any reader has a question or concern, feel free to comment in the boxes below or message me at jane.thelostcity@gmail.com.
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