Reading Cats, Reading People

It's Valentine's Day. My folks called me up to see if I wanted to go to dinner since I would be alone otherwise. I fibbed and said I had plans to go out with 'the guys'. It's not that I don't enjoy spending time with my parents, but politics always comes up in the conversation. Let's just say that my views couldn't possibly be more different than theirs. They refer to Bush as some sort of messiah with a direct link to the Almighty. So, I suppose you actually COULD say that I don't enjoy spending time with my parents. We're apples and an orange.

Instead, I decided to spend a quiet evening with the cat. The lady chose Fancy Feast, and I ordered a pizza. Then it was off to the spare bedroom for some romantic blog and forum surfing. My cat likes to sit on the desk and read along with me.

I hopped over to LibertyForum and found a highly relevant article entitled Me, My Mother, and The NWO:

Me, My Mother, and The NWO

February 13, 2005
Author: Lisa Guliani

I just got off the phone with my mother. The conversation left me numb. Why? Because my mother is asleep, or mostly asleep when it comes to what’s going on in America. My mother can’t allow herself to absorb my words because my words unnerve her. They make her mentally freak out. I speak of those who really drive the U.S. government and shape public policy. I might as well be talking backwards. My mother is not a mentally deficient person - just a brainwashed person. I try to tell her of the Bush-bin Laden family connections, she says nothing. Hello, are you in there, Mom? I describe the Bilderbergs. I tell her of the Bush family’s past history of funding Hitler and the Nazis, and she responds with, “What happened to you? You were never this radical before.” Are we having the same conversation here, Mom? I tell her that our government not only facilitated the events of 9-11, but they - along with the media, have engaged in a massive cover-up and have deceived the American people. I explain things slowly. My mother replies with, “Whatever you say.”

I tell her the television is a conditioning tool with repetitive stories on every channel. My mother says she sees "different" stories because she watches FOX, the History Channel and National Geographic. Okaaay, I ask her to name one news story on television that she would classify as “different”. I’m still waiting for that answer. She does finally get around to asking me (in a snotty way) who is running the government, if not her precious“W”. I point her toward the PNAC and people like Wolfowitz, Perle, Kissinger, Kristol, Krauthammer, Cheney, etc.. I bring up the CIA and some of the fun stuff they’ve been into the last few years. I use the words "global elites" and "international bankers".

She tells me she ADMIRES the PNAC men, although until I told her, she had never heard of the PNAC. The first wave of nausea sweeps over me. Hellooo, Mother. Anybody in there?

I tell her we are close to war with Iran. She says, “GOOD! We should bomb them.” I have to hold my breath and count to ten before responding to this, or I’ll scream at her. I count to ten by two’s, hoping to quell the second wave of nausea. I systematically list all the reasons why - NO, Mom - war with Iran is not “good”. I point out how different war with Iran will be if it comes to that. I point to their intact military and their size, their larger population, the fact that they haven’t suffered from 13 years of UN sanctions. I point to their potential use of nuclear weapons against us. I use the word “bloodbath” because it’s very vivid and my mother can picture that. She was a nurse back when her brain worked. I add, “We may get more war than we bargained for if we attack Iran, Mom.” I talk about central banks in Iraq and Afghanistan and Bush’s axis of evil.My mother says our troops are not ready because they’re tired. I tell her they're tired because they're stretched thin all over the globe, in more than 140 countries to protect the interests of international bankers. Our national de fense is being misused. She asks what is wrong with me, rather than seeing what is wrong with that. My mother thinks our troops are where they should be, because “W” told her so when he read off the teleprompter. She asks suspiciously, “Who have you been talking to?” I fought the urge to say “Elvis”. This would have been the perfect moment for her to accuse me once again of being in a cult, but she took a pass. Tonight, she settled for sc reaming at me in her head.

This woman who gave birth to me believes the talking heads on FOX news. FOX is different, she says. Third wave of nausea hits me. My mom says quite firmly that she is “aware” of what's going on in America. She's aware bec ause Bill O'Really keeps her informed. God help us. I’m taking chances by trying to have this discussion with her. We don’t speak often. We probably won't talk for a long time after tonight. As in, years. I have to give i t my best shot. The level of mental conditioning in my own parents is astounding to me because they are smart people. I try not to condemn them for voting for Bush, but frankly, it’s embarrassing and inexplicable. It woul d be different if they didn’t have all the books we’ve sent, which they do. It would be different if they didn't know me. Then again, they don't want to know me. I grew up to be too "radical".

I’ll cut her some slack for not reading the books we send her, because she needs cataract surgery. Maybe in March, after the surgery, she’ll pick up a book again. If she does, it will likely be some slobbering epic multi- generational love story. She actually takes notes when she reads those books. She can’t handle our books.They’re too “radical”. She says to me, “Well, I suppose the next thing you’re going to tell me is that the holocaust never happened.” I start to go there, but then I decide to tell her how the Zionists betrayed the Jews in Europe and what’s really going on between the Israelis and Palestinians, instead. I get into the American Union, F TAA, the Patriot Act and illegal immigration. I hit everything but anti-hate speech legislation and unrepatriated POWs. Man, I’m on a roll because I can’t believe she even let me get this far this time without slamming th e phone down. So I push the envelope of her patience. I broach the subject of Skull & Bones and ask her if she wants to know the initiation rite “W” participated in. She says “No, I don’t want to know.” I didn’t think so. I tell her anyway.

I return to the slightly more palatable subject of Zionists within our government and media, and mention the story of the deliberate Israeli attack on the USS LIBERTY back in 1967, thinking maybe my mother will have sympa thy for NAVY men, being that my father is also a former Navy man. She takes a deep, heavy breath at this point, which I correctly interpret as exasperation. The lack of argument is still a good sign and spurs me onward. N o dial tone yet. It’s not often my mother’s words fail her, even when she’s dead wrong. After all, she’s Sicilian. I then tell her how and why the Israelis killed Rachel Corrie and how the U.S. government constantly gives Israel a free pass on their crimes, not to mention tons of U.S. taxpayer dollars. I relate how Israel engages in terroristic activities with the sanction of the U.S., and how all this is being done brazenly, openly and s hamelessly. I tell her our government is betraying Americans and our leaders are guilty of treason - and why. Her voice becomes louder and she tries to yell over my voice. "Where are you getting this crap???" So far, so g ood. Yelling is better than the dial tone, so I’ll accept that. This is how we communicate nowadays, when we talk.

I then figure, what the hell and jump into the deep end of the pool (as far as my folks are concerned). I say “IRS”. This is TABOO in my family because once-upon-a-time many years ago, my parents were audited. This audit traumatized them for LIFE. It destroyed them. They won’t even whisper “IRS” or think loud “IRS” thoughts or God-forbid dream “IRS” nightmares. This is the final straw on my mother’s camel. Her brain - and this conversatio n - simultaneously implode. All discussion abruptly ceases. I envision her clutching rosary beads in one hand and Xanax in the other, mouthing a silent novena, praying for God to remove my vocal chords. There will be NO t alk - ZERO - of “IRS”, not in my family, not in this life or the next. My parents have erased “IRS” from their vocabularies. They refuse to acknowledge its existence, except when writing that “check” on April 15th. On the “IRS”, my parents know I’m right, but they’re too freaked out of their minds with fear to venture into any sort of intelligent discussion about it. I scare the hell out of them because I won’t shut the hell up about how criminal it is. When they have nightmares, I play the leading role. In real time, they dutifully disavow any knowledge of me - ya know, just in case anybody comes knocking...”Lisa who? Never heard of her...” I can picture it.

Still, I tell this mother of mine about "Freedom Drive" and the time we went to Washington, to hear former IRS agents give speeches about IRS crimes against tthe American people, and to march in protest around the federal buildings. She says, “When were you in Washington? and Why would you want to do that?" Figure it out, Mom. Like I never mentioned it. Guess she doesn’t remember that particular conversation or the article I wrote and sen t to her describing it in detail a while back. What’s my name, Mom? I tell her (again) that the FED is a for-profit corporation and not “federal” in any way, shape or form. She begins to stammer and sputter as I go on abo ut how domestically earned income within the U.S. is not supposed to be taxed, and so on. I move on to the Fed banking cartel. Her breathing is becoming more rapid. I hear a huge gasp, like she just sucked in wind. She's probably trying to take her own pulse. Suddenly, I find myself cut off in mid-sentence. The party’s over. “I don’t believe what you’re saying,” she tells me. And I don’t believe that for a minute, Mom. My mother hates the IRS with a razor-sharp Sicilian passion. So I shoot back with, “What do I have to gain by lying to you about all this stuff?” She has no answer. There is no answer. Again, I’m tempted to ask, “What’s my name?” "Better ye t, what's your name?"

I can feel her anxiety seeping through the receiver. It happens every time I resurrect my “radical” self into their lives when they’d rather I stay dead. I know this time, for about 15 minutes, she heard me, sorta. Then I lost her. They wear a scarlet "A" on their chests. "A" as in Audit. My father chooses not to get on the telephone with me at all. He doesn’t chat with “radical” dead people.

The books we send are never acknowledged, probably never opened. The covers alone probably make them hyperventilate. They never acknowledge the links to information in the emails I send. I might as well email Bush. At lea st, I’d get the warm, fuzzy auto-generated response. I’ve just sent them some links to radio interviews Victor Thorn and I recently did on his new book, “9-11 On Trial”. My mother says she hasn’t been on her computer for a year. Like I'm buying that b.s. She will not turn it on even to hear me on the radio. Who am I, Mom? I tell her to have my father, the ghost, check them out. Weakly and unconvincingly, she says “Okay, but he’s not going to do it now.” He will never do it. I then catch her on something she should know very well about but apparently, she’s forgotten. Either that or it’s the brain drugs she’s chewing on. Brain drugs make you forget who you are, as well as a zillion other useful bits of important information. My mother has forgotten about how long it takes to cremate a body. She used to know this stuff. My father was a funeral director for more than 30 year s. My mother damn well knew how long it takes to cremate a body. She’s watched bodies being cremated, for God’s sake. I tell her that over 1000 bodies were vaporized on 9-11 at the World Trade Center towers and couldn’t b e identified. I asked her what she thought about that, considering my previous discussion with her of controlled demolition at Ground Zero on that day. She starts screaming at me. Whoa, there’s life in there after all...c ool. I tell her how long it takes to cremate a body at temps over 500 degrees. Her voice is high-pitched and shrill. She argues indignantly and incorrectly. She says, “That is NOT TRUE! Ask your father!” I say, “Sure, let ’s ask him.” Of course, this doesn’t happen. She refuses to put him on the phone and remember, he doesn’t get down with the dead. He just embalms them and sticks them in a box. It’s no use pushing the point. I've planted some more seeds in my mother's mind. Good enough for now. Later, I send her the “cremation info” in an email, directly from a funeral home website, which totally substantiates what she denied. She will never read it. But my father will. He will just shake his head and mutter again to himself what a crazy bitch I’ve become.

She says she is listening, but who knows. I assure her that I know how difficult this stuff is to hear, absorb, digest and believe. I urge her to read, read, read and not to simply “believe” anyone - even me. I tell her my name for good measure. Part of her is still alive in there somewhere. De- programming is virtually impossible with someone who is zonked on anti-depressants and sleeping meds. My mother’s reality is far different from mine.

Our phone call ends like this: "I love you dearly, but I don’t want to talk about politics with you. I don’t ever want to discuss politics with you - especially over the phone. Fear and paranoia. I lost her. Conversation over. Click. The dreaded dial tone.

I’ve spent the last few years telling people every single day that they must not live in fear. Fear paralyzes and dictates behavior if allowed to consume your thoughts. It it rules your brain, it will consume your life. The only thing that terrifies me: I cannot wake up my parents.

Well, doesn't that sound familiar? In fact, it describes perfectly my political discussions with my parents. The one thing that seems odd about Guliani's approach is that she seems to want to beat her mother over the head with this stuff until it clicks. The problem is, what if it never clicks? What if it can't click?

I am reminded of those who are so sure of their religion that they will wander around door to door and try to convince others to adopt their beliefs. It's no different with politics. In New America (as opposed to "Old Europe") one can be threatened and fired for strongly disagreeing with, say, the official explanation of 9/11. It's either think like everyone else, or hit the road.

The question, then, is this: Should we who are critical of Bush's Grand Vision try to force anything on those who simply don't want to know? Sure, we have lots of facts to back up what we say - but those who are supportive of the current regime also believe that the facts stand behind them, if only because Bush told them so. Dubya could scribble some lines with a crayon on a piece of paper, hold it up on national television, and declare, "This is proof that Saddam had WMDs!!" Far too many people would believe him without question. How do I know? Look at what happened in Iraq. Where are the WMDs? Remember way back when WMDs that could reach the US were the reason we were going to invade Iraq and take out Saddam?

As my father told me during one discussion, many people just "have to believe" that even if Bush isn't totally honest, he has a good reason for doing what he's doing - we just can't know about it just yet. In other words, giving up the illusions is just too hard to do for people like my father, so he's going to hang on to them at least a bit longer... I really can't blame him.

In a sense, it is like the two opposing "camps" are living in completely different realities. I would like to think that on my side of the fence, black is black, white is white, and nothing is believed until there is evidence to back it up. I don't care about propaganda and singing God Bless America before a baseball game - I want to know what happened, and why, even if it makes me ill for awhile. On the other side of the fence are those who "have to believe" that our country never makes big mistakes, our president would never deceive the people, and our cause is always peaceful and just - despite any evidence to the contrary.

It is clear to me at this point that many people just don't want to know anything that even remotely resembles the truth. And that IS scary, because they are the ones who are gathering all the power along with Bush. But for those who have made it quite clear that they are happy where they are, maybe trying to "convert" them is a waste of time and energy. Like Guliani's mother, one who has never seen the progression of facts and made all the neural connections themselves will probably not understand in exactly the same way that a second grader cannot be forced to understand calculus.

I guess I have just found another reason to continue this blog. Maybe somebody out there will find it and get something out of it, with no coercion on my part. In the meantime, I think I'll adjust the strategy with the parents just a bit by presenting information in a more digestable and less confrontational format - sort of like Fancy Feast for people. If it doesn't work, there's always the weather and the local ballclub to talk about...