Changing The Cartridge

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Tue, 23 Aug 2005 11:17:42 -0500

Changing The Cartridge

 

 

 

 

http://www.judyandreas.com/index.php?page=showmonth & m=08 & y=2005

 

Changing The Cartridge

Saturday August 6th at 10:58 AM

 

By Judy Andreas

 

 

Lately I have been receiving a number of letters from people inquiring

as to why I have not written. (They are referring to my essays rather

than a personal " hi, how are you? " letter.)

 

Quite frankly, I am never sure why I do not write, I am too busy

figuring out why I do. It's not that I haven't been touched and deeply

disturbed by recent events. Believe me when I say that although my

mouth has been enjoying a quiet summer vacation, my eyes and ears have

been hard at work.

 

" You haven't said a word about the London bombings, " an Internet

friend wrote.

 

This friend was not privy to the email I had written to a relative in

London after the bombings occurred. The response had been, " Can't you

ever believe that anything is just the terrorists? "

 

" Well, shut my mouth! " A voice inside my head whispered. And " shut

it, " I did. However, all the while, I kept my eyes glued to my

favorite Internet truth sites and my ears close to my favorite

Internet radio shows. Yes, there was a great deal to say about the

London bombings and people were saying it very well. I sat in my room

applauding one of the kings of courage, Alex Jones, as his voice

bellowed into a megaphone in London, spreading truth to the gathered

throng and startled passersby.

 

Aside from circulating videos, I have adopted a " one to one " approach.

Every unsuspecting repairman who enters my home, even the

acupuncturist working on my lower back, has seen me climb up on my

soapbox.

 

My " one to one " philosophy has brought me many pleasant surprises. The

man at the Auto Body Repair shop was knowledgeable about the New World

Order and we talked for quite sometime. No, I did not get a discount

on my bill: there was no method in my madness.

 

The car salesman who sold my son his car was also an agreeable and

informed audience.

 

The man repairing my bathroom, on the other hand, terminated the

conversation with a simple sentence, " I like Bush. " I tried to spin a

Bohemian Grove story in an effort to trim the presidential shrub, but

this man was not buying. And since I did not want to find any surprise

leaks in the plumbing, I wisely decided to plug up my mouth.

 

Last week my aching back urged me to take a trip to an acupuncturist.

As she needled me, we easily slipped into a conversation about

medicine and health. She remarked that all medicine is toxic and

affects the liver.

 

" The doctors are taught poorly, " she continued.

 

I heard the knock of opportunity. It was a quick trip from the " holes

in the medical education " to the faux terrorist attacks in London, and

an easy connecting flight to the official lies about the WTC collapses.

 

Our conversation was as painless as the treatment and I left the

office feeling unusually optimistic.

 

It has been a brutally hot summer and everyone is New York is

complaining about the heat and anxiously anticipating the time when

they can begin complaining about the cold. And so, on a sticky August

morning, I turned on the local radio station to see how much longer I

would have to wait until I started breathing again.

 

It was not yet time for " traffic and weather " and a lively discussion

about the wisdom of searching people on the subway was underway.

 

" Anything that stops a terror attack is a good idea, " was the general

consensus.

 

" Better check that elderly lady's purse, " I thought. There may be a

bomb in her pillbox.

 

My dialing fingers took a more aggressive approach.

" Our next caller, Judy from Suffern "

 

I broke into a tirade about the London attacks, the drills that were

going on simultaneously, the bombs exploding from the floors of the

buses, the surveillance cameras that did not work, the Mi6 asset who

masterminded the whole enchilada, and that was just the beginning. My

rant led me to Scott Ritter's comment that we had planned to be in

Iran by the beginning of July. I squeezed in PNAC, Operation

Northwoods, and even got into the 911 anomalies. I knew that much of

my audience thought their radio dial had drifted into an audio

presentation of Mel Gibson's movie " Conspiracy Theory. " My mouth had

reached the speed limit and my mind was racing for I knew I was

competing with the arrival of the 8 a.m. (ahem) news.

 

After the traffic and weather, the phones at the station began to ring

off their proverbial hooks.

" Where does this woman get her information? "

 

" Why haven't we read about it in the paper? The papers print everything "

 

I searched for my blood pressure cuff.

 

In the midst of my foray into the mouth of madness, the voice of an

elderly gentleman caller brought me back to planet earth.

 

" That woman was 100% right. I hope she will call the station and leave

her phone number. I would like to buy her lunch "

 

John is a man in his 80's who fought in the Second World War. His

credentials as a Vet gives him credibility among the station's

listeners. After picking up my remains, he continued where I had left

off. He talked about how our country had been tricked into the wars.

He talked about Pearl Harbor. He talked about a great deal more as I

basked in the validation of my sanity.

 

I was able to make a phone connection with John.

 

" I want to buy you a big Italian meal. " He expressed his gratitude for

my courage.

John hails from that imaginary place we have come to know as " the

right wing " whereas I am a " recovering leftie. " And yet, in these

troubled times, the present is all that matters. Our minds meet in a

common arena. We are two human beings who know that our country is in

trouble. We know that we are being manipulated and lied to. The

left/right, divide/conquer paradigm has no place at our dining table.

It is merely a weakly penciled illusory boundary, sketched into our

collective psyche, which is in dire need of a large erasure.

 

I wish I could say that my lunch with John filled me with hope, but I

cannot. That part of me has, I'm afraid, waved good-bye to optimism.

There may be an awakening taking place but it is moving too slowly.

Time is a luxury which, unlike oil, cannot be replenished. Has it run

out? Have we let a cold blooded, calculating cabal pull our strings

while we obediently and blindly walked off the cliff of survival?

 

Forgive my lack of optimism but life is the only reality show in which

I have any interest. And therefore, deluding myself is a habit which I

have struggled to break. The possibility that we are about to become

extinct is moving into the realm of probability.

 

Are we standing at our deathbed watching as humanity gasps its last

breath?

 

Copyright: 2005 Judy Andreas