It’s always dawn somewhere. The Sun heats up the Moon and the Matrix crackles and the elite hold all the energy inside their chapels, and feel strong. This is illusion. As the light floods back in suddenly but predictably, they pull the knife across the victim’s throat, release some negative power drummed up from torture and torment and wicked plans over generations to enslave us in a huge game of Risk.
And they get to take a little bit of this energy for themselves. A pathetic bit for all the horror. But they adore it because it lets them pretend for a few seconds that they control the day, that they will never die. But they will, and they can only barely touch even the dawn.
This is what you get with Satanists. Because they worship Saturn, which is a very powerful heavenly body. It creates time through its cycles, which end in death. It takes the natural order and sets it upon itself. It forms another strand to your life, the light, to your DNA and it makes you secretly want to tempt death. And seeing as the Moon picks up and resonates Saturn and other planetary energies, they worship the Moon too. And what the Moon does is twist things, and bounce negative thoughts back at you. Even if you turn back to the Sun it’s broken, because Saturn is meant to be it’s ally, but they’ve been set against each other. So if you want to find any solace you’ll have to go beyond this universe of time and limitation.
The crimson dawn may signify rain or maybe it’s blood on the horizon to remind you of what’s to come if you don’t wake up from the game you’re all pawns and pieces in. A game of life and death, forwards and backwards, day and night with both sides fighting, and you’ve forgotten the rules so don’t know how to break them.
At least at night no one can see you crying for the promised new beginning. The re-start, reinvention that we’d all happily drift into if it meant our troubles would disappear. No matter which side of the pond, divide, borderline or production line we come from. It’s teased and hung over you, glimpsed through TV screens that implant collective dreams and political rhetoric. Dripping drops of promise onto your brow, and anointing you as the ruler of your own kingdom. Cut-off, in a bubble. Somewhere over the rainbow in your head. The blessed land of self delusion in which the most prominent decrees succeed in many pointless things. Like your subconscious desire to get fat. Tell yourself something’s wrong and then do it. Drink more, go faster, play the lottery, you’re a good citizen, now die.
We corrupt the day, and chain ourselves for survival to computers and cash registers and work our lives for the benefit of people we’ve never met, but who get beyond obscenely rich off us rocking back and forth ad infinitum in our daily ruts, gradually going crazy like bears in a zoo. Where’s the day? We lost it somewhere. They took it from us, because we gave it away.
It’s the modern disease. Chemicals infiltrating the brain, showering in toxic rain, carelessly flicking negative waves, stress pushing us into early graves. Caught up then coughed up by self-obsession, pulling you so high you lose your head, then throwing you back down fast enough to break your neck. You’re trying to find an island of gratification but can’t stop traversing the tides of emotion long enough to realise they’re all sinking.
Round and round we go. Always striving for a future that ends up resembling the past. Getting stuck in loop within repetitive loop. If there’s one word we all know, it’s again.
The time is now baby it always was, even when it provably wasn’t.
From the dawn they came. At this time of the cycle the Moon was still in the sky when the Sun rose. The Sun’s rays were strong, bright and piercing. Refracted through the moon and warped into seasons, focused to blind the eyes of those who trickled out that morning. Ready to begin their journey in the new dawn, pulled out of sync and bent into hard angles by mistress Lunar. And squinting from town and village, from remote locations and over-populated conurbations, not all were overwhelmed by the spikes of brightest light. To more or less degrees the people on this journey had their fingers pointing at the super-massive black hole twisting in the centre of the galaxy. Batting back the radiation from the Moon and tanning themselves as they tuned into the base frequency, expanding from suppression and breaking all the right angles into broad strokes, flexing muscles out and roaring deep breaths of the day, becoming a conduit and feeling out what it meant to be sun-conscious. And then to feel what’s beyond.
And I did say feeling out, because this isn’t an experiment to be measured on a graph or in a Petri-dish, this is every person finding their own way out of the prison labyrinth. It’s like any maze, stick to one wall and eventually it’ll take you out, and it doesn’t even matter which wall. If one thing is true, it’s that there’s many walls, but at the very same time there are no walls at all. The walls aren’t really there. As a wise man dressed in a turquoise shell-suit once alluded to on Wogan.
This is what the people knew. It brought them together. They’d read the books, seen the DVDs, attended the Brixton days and Wembley days and bought the tees. They were there that day to take a pilgrimage that had been coming for a long time. They were going to worship David Icke.
It was one of those pop-up internet clubs, where they all arrange to be at a certain place at a certain time, and generally on a theme. The theme of this blog gone out-there was ‘I like Icke’ – it certainly was impressive to see the diversity of the attendees. Fantastic costumes, angels and spirit-beings red, yellow, blue, every skin colour and age represented, some bearing flags with freedom slogans, none of them said ‘change’. But some said ‘BE’. And some fantastic looky likeys that day, a horrible Peter Mandelson with red face and devil horns, Colin Powell in a kimono, the classic Obama in the Joker make-up, Lady GaGa looking, well, just as she normally looks, and an older woman who had done a marvellous job of impersonating the Queen, right down to the swishy green tail.
The throng gathered together in the Portsmouth ferry terminal at midday, the mood was jubilant, no harsh words, all power and forward motion as they boarded the ferry to the Isle of Wight. The boat seemed to bounce with the anticipation of the crowd. They just about fit on one ferry, and twenty-two minutes squished between an eight year old dressed as a grey without its suit on and a friendly seven foot lizard, was the worst anyone would have to deal with that day.
By one o’clock they’d found Mr Icke’s building and gathered around it, but now nobody knew what to do. The guy who started the web log had not planned this far, but one thing was absolutely certain. He was buggered if he was going to be the one to ring the doorbell. And so he did the only thing he could think to do, ‘Don’t think it, know it,’ rang though his thoughts, and he opened his mouth.
‘David Icke,’ he called and punched his fist in the air, ‘David Icke,’ he cried again.
And then one person and two and twenty, until all called out this chant to the early afternoon seaside town. ‘David Icke, David Icke, David Icke,’ again and again and louder, louder, ‘DAVID ICKE,’ faster and faster, with growing pride, joy and satisfaction they pumped their arms and called out.
Mmmmmm, warm sun and sand beneath strong feet. To the right dunes and dunes and tall grasses to the horizon, to the left the infinite ocean. The air was just the right temperature as it rushed over his face, and his brain worked so fast, faster than it was possible to keep up with, it blurred and the beach under his feet moved faster, and the feet ran, the legs pumped and it was all so effortless, whizzing along side the water, ever increasing speed and the information flowing at the same pace or faster maybe, only the mind was sizzling in the sun, the consciousness just soaked it all in.
The whole scene lurched and slowed and slowed more to a jog and the information travelled further away and tailed off, ‘and each body of water works together and separately and the frequency of the saline is carefully balanced to match the body but the band is so fine that here is yet one more weeeeeeeeeeakneeeeeeeessssssssssssssssssss…….’
And on his right was a bamboo beach bar, and a young woman was sitting at a stool, the barkeep was shaking his head and shaking a cocktail. And he slowed down from a jog to a fast walk to glide straight up and stop by the woman at the bar. And now he could see she was crying.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked David Icke.
‘Outed!’ She sobbed, ‘so awful!’
‘Outed?’ Asked David, ‘from the cupboard?’
‘That’s right,’ she said and stopped crying, looked up at him, make-up bleary, ‘the whole village knows I’m a lesbian,’ she returned to her sobbing.
‘And that’s a bad thing,’ noted David.
‘It is, it is, they’re so backwards, the heathens, they’ll surely want me dead.’
And dead they did, did they not? For at that moment over a sand dune some way off, came the fires of lit torches, and underneath them, angry, very angry Amish looking people. They weren’t moving right, they seemed to be static, then flooded forward like ants, only to be static once more and they thrust the torches up and down and screamed after the woman, ‘Dyke! Dyke! Dyke!’
Totally they did, and twisted faces, coming in all around them, the hit squad, a lynching, the lesbian! Good night.
‘DYKE! DYKE! DYKE!’
David opened his eyes and the room swam, changed colour a couple of times as he wrestled away from the coma-like sleep. The image came back into focus but still the chant of ‘Dyke!’ was in his ears, even louder now. He leaned over to the window where it came from and it was at this point he realised the enthusiastic chant was in fact his name running together over and over.
Out of the arm chair David hurried to the front door.
He threw it open to rapturous applause. And just stood back for a second, taking in the merry crowd and blinking, trying to push the sleep away. He took in the costumes and the beaming faces young and old, read the flags and banners and smiled at the couple holding up a large image of his face, crafted from tea-towels. Underneath a series of dishcloths spelt out his name. Unfortunately a few had flown off on the ferry and now it simply read, ‘DAV’. He smiled some more and pushed his lips together, nodding gently. It was a good likeness.
‘Thank you,’ started David Icke, but he was cut off by a massive cheer, David made a gesture for them to let him speak, and he got out, ‘this….’ Before the cheers erupted again. ‘This is lovely,’ the cheers, the cheers.
After a minute or two they hushed.
‘This is lovely but,’ he raised his finger, a mistake, the crowd went wild once again, one man in a turquoise shell-suit screamed and fell over.
‘Please let me speak,’ said David, holding his arms up, he repeated it until they were quiet, then he spoke really quickly to get it all in before he set them off again.
‘This is lovely, and thank you, but people live here, people trying to do ‘stuff’, could you use your energy to go and ‘wake up’ other people? Maybe grab a drink first, just let it all go.’
The crowd began to nod and murmurs of approval went through them, but the organiser of the blog knew that this was his time to shine.
‘But we have a slogan for you, we bought it to you.’
‘Really?’ David was happy to entertain this.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Dr Blog, and he took a deep breath, ‘I am you and you are me, don’t believe me?’ He raised his hands and the entire crowd chanted,
‘Wait and see!’
He looked so proud.
‘Thanks, thanks,’ Icke nodded, ‘I like it, but the time for waiting to see is over, it’s time to actually see! We’re not there yet, not yet. But we’re on the road now, the pedal is down!’
Everyone went to erupt into a massive cheer but then they looked at David and instead just smiled, exchanged glances, looked sage.
‘Anyway, I don’t mean to be rude but I have to go,’ David looked at his watch, ‘got a radio interview soon I need to wake up for.’ He nodded and smiled until he was sure everyone understood, it didn’t take long and he gently edged the door shut.
‘How sweet, bit misguided,’ thought Mr Ick, as Credo Mutwa once called him, Dave Icke by human name, us telling ourselves some answers to those now tuning into pure infinite consciousness. He blinked in the afternoon sun, and moon-walked back down the hall.