I am referring to the widely discussed work of the Far Sight Institute and the Web Bot Project. For as I sit here, it is well into the evening of June 1st and the Sydney Opera House is still standing, according to the webcams. A scan of the headlines shows little in the way of global coastal flooding. In fact, everything appears pretty much 'normal', such as we can apply that word to anything these days.
Whether you understand the word apocalypse in its modern context as a noun meaning 'the end of everything, or in its true sense as a verb meaning 'to reveal or grant insight', Earth looks to have successfully dodged both.
If you're lost, then perhaps a little rehash is in order. You might want to click on the Radio Far Side tab at the top of the page and listen to the interview with Courtney Brown.
For a number of years now, Clif High's webbot project has been 'predicting' a Global Coastal Event (GCE). Though he has yet to place an exact date on things, he made enough references to "immediacy data" and the Far Sight research to imply some catastrophe in this region of time.
On the other side is Courtney Brown's Far Sight Institute for remote viewing research, which published some time back a series of viewing sessions that foresaw global catastrophic events on or before June 1st of this year.
To be fair, the Far Sight Institute published a newsletter back in February that explained the possibility that nothing would happen. And Clif is always saying the bots are an inexact science and that he has the most trouble pinning down precise dates and times. OK, 'just in cases' noted.
The cause of my mirth is the millennia-long obsession with Armageddon - the final and fiery destruction of our race. Even more absurd are the folks who, in justifying their 'moral' codes, seek to actively destroy life as we know it on this planet to prove that they were right all along. The absolute contradiction of extraordinary immorality to prove extraordinary morality is not lost on me nor my wry sense of irony.
At any rate, here we are discussing the end of the world on the night after it was to have happened yet again. I have notched the old hide on the wall with yet another apocalypse averted, and despite the size of said hide, it is nearly covered with marks since I began tracking my incredible streak of luck in the early 80s.
If collected Humanity invested just a fraction of its time improving our lives upon the Earth, as it does actively anticipating our ultimate demise, this world would be far more tolerable, kind and clean than it is. Instead, we seem fixated and resigned to our end, like an old man convinced that he will die, so he stops eating and drinking, thus bringing on the very thing he feared.
And really, therein lies the crux of the situation. If I were an evil genius Hell-bent on ruling the world, then I would first seek to implant a fatalistic mind-set in my subjects, so as to neuter any resistance. I would claim special revelation from some god and the exclusive right to interpret that prophesy. And then I would go about making it appear as if those things are coming to pass so as to reinforce my position of privilege.
It's a dastardly plot and one befitting of an evil genius such as myself.
So, here we stand, survivors of another apocalypse. And once again, no one will learn anything from this and soon another prophet of doom will spring up and the cattle will follow once more in eager anticipation of great suffering, death and destruction. All of the prepping and hang-wringing and wailing and gnashing of teeth, with not a single person lifting a finger to improve our lot.
Suppose we shared food instead of hoarding it. Suppose we built houses instead of Armageddon shelters. Suppose we demanded an end to wars, rather than watched them breathlessly wondering if this was "IT". Suppose we fostered love and understanding, rather than supporting hateful nations of death because of their perceived role in our doom. Suppose we tread lightly on the Earth so as to preserve it for our future, rather than callously destroying it in fatalistic orgies.
We each will face our own apocalypse in turn. We can not exist except that we reach that point. Perhaps that is the root of our problem.
We fear death with such passion and abhorrence that it manifests itself as a collective death wish for our kind. And again my wry sense of irony is tickled. It seems the more we fear, the more fear we breed, until we are nothing more than a mass of psychotic adrenalin junkies looking for disaster under every stone and around every corner.
A fairly smart guy, one of the few in our history, once said that those who live by the sword must die by it. It stands to reason then that those who live in fear are doomed to find it.
Armageddon comes to each of us in turn. We must face our final battle at some point, and ultimately lose - or win, depending on how you view death. Perhaps that is what all this obsession with doom really is: fear of death. And in a crazy turn of psychotic logic, the more we fear it, the more we wish it upon ourselves, individually and collectively. The more we seek death and fixate on it and place it at the center of our lives and casus vivire. It is a singular kind of mass hysteria that has spanned centuries and cultures and civilizations.
Could it be that all these things are but expressions of our own souls?
Why not change the world? It could be as easy as preparing for wonderful things to happen, instead of catastrophe. Anxiously await Life instead of Death. Predict peace instead of war. And if the various saviors are indeed coming back, then why not clean up the place a little in preparation? Hell, they might arrive and find the place in such good order that they decide not to destroy it.
Wouldn't that be more fun than destruction, death, collapse, war, and the end of all things?
I'm just sayin'.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing. — Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5
