by James True
THE ELITE OCCUPIES a chessboard where every family is a color. The Orange Baron aligns with a Blue Knight while the Black Queen colludes with a Red Bishop. There are Gray Rooks gambling in the background. Kings are trading each other their pawns. Trump saw a darkness sweep through his backyard when Rockefeller tainted his island on 9/11. Trump only spoke of the tower’s detonations once on camera. He gathered himself and thought about his options. He plays his pieces as best as any man. He saw an opportunity to move from Baron to Duke and alter the course of history. Hating the Black Queen gets him nothing but darkness. Serving her gets him close to her throat. This is Trump’s art of the deal, and his entire epigenetic tree is on the board. The stakes and snakes could not be higher. There are good elite. They mostly work in silence. They do not interfere with a man’s desire to mutilate his own power. They look forward to a new man who rises to his occasion. They are waiting for us to cross the limits of our self-imposed exile. They need your spirit to go wild again. They need you to bring awareness into your power. This is the true meaning of supremacy. You are God of your body living inside the body of God.
Back in the garden, there would be no shame. Nakedness dissolves like jigsaw pieces in a finished puzzle. A wild painted horse is grazing on the banks of a fast river. Sagan has skinned a mulberry tree and twisted and weaved the bark into a taut rope. He bites it inside his jaw to test its strength. He tastes the tangy bitter glue of seeping juice as it washes around in his gums. Sagan holds the high ground and pounces like a jaguar. He wraps his arms around the stallion’s neck pushing them both into the current. The horse keeps its head high above the water. Sagan slips his rein between its teeth with ease. Before the horse can round himself, Sagan is steering him deeper into the drink. Waist-deep on his captor’s back, Sagan guides his mount to shore on the other side. Sagan broke his horse with trauma and training. The horse yielded its trust under the terror of drowning.
The spirit of man is a rising serpent. The philosopher’s stone is posture and practice. We are broken by the mutilation of body, mind, and spirit. We call them all dirty. We mince our children into mathematical dimensions and smear them into an endless batter of space and time. Spinning ten-times the speed of sound, we buy today’s top story of impending nuclear disaster. Political lies are a type of training through trauma. False flags are the drills of repetition. It becomes so difficult to sort through them all we switch on the autopilot. We are pushed into the river with trauma and bridled with psychological training. The stainless bit in our mouth changes the very taste of freedom. We’d rather numb our tongues then drown in the river.
The story of the apple in the Garden of Eden breaks a man like a wild horse. God would never forbid his child of fruit. We are worthy of every splendor. We fear our power rising inside and project it onto a forbidden bush. There is no secret soap. Our purity is rampant, and we are plucked perfectly from the tree. Truth is a vibration felt in our seed. Books and crosses are corruptible relics. God’s word can only be heard in the tender silence. The echoes of trauma bounce through us like a canyon. Our ears are perfect. It’s the bouncing sound of old pain that prevents us from listening.
In the city of Astana, there’s a serpent inside a phoenix. The Thunderbird has launched from the banks of the Ishim River across from the capital. The phoenix and the serpent are the vessel and key. The land of Greater Israel is a broken horse coming out of the river with Trump on its back. Trump will fulfill his promise to all of his allegiances. Iran and Saudi will soon bow to a new region. The definition of peace will be a cessation from decades of violence. Israel will hold the reins of the region. This horse is Trump’s gift to his ally. Jared Kushner is the groomed heir of Netanyahu. Ivanka is the groomed heir of Donald Trump. The elite has its own chessboard and system of leverage. Their lives are steered by long rudders that stretch back to the hands of their predecessors. Bigger vessels have a different kind of freedom and are less nimble in the harbor. Trump’s sails are stitched from a million fingers who expect something in return. He could never catch this much speed without their help.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Emancipation of Currency
A POD OF silver humpbacks surfaced to spray their morning victory into the virgin sunrise. The surf spills its secrets in tiny bubbles rolling off the salty tongue of crashing waves. The sun rises over a gold coast as it opens its eyes to the light. The air is cold and thick as fresh rays of orange and emerald shine through the tall teal troughs of choppy water. Over a hump of dunes, a sea snake is brought to shore by a golden eagle. The raptor rips cartilage from an empty eye socket into tiny strips for feeding. The eel’s vision is plucked and placed into the crop of her hungry newborn; a young phoenix of red and gold will rise from a dead serpent of gray and green. This is nature’s resurrection in the golden dawn.
On New Year’s Day, 1835, President Andrew Jackson did something extraordinary. He paid off the national debt. For the first time in our nation’s history, the federal government had balanced its budget and cleared its creditors. To thank him for his efforts, an unemployed house painter from England met the President on the steps of the Capital and pulled out a pistol. He shot directly at Jackson’s chest, but the weapon misfired. The gunman produced and fired a second pistol, and it also failed. Davy Crockett helped others to subdue the would-be killer, and for the first time in our nation’s history, someone had tried to assassinate the President.
One score and four years later, President Abraham Lincoln wanted to fund the Civil War from his war chest. He issued $450 million greenbacks, and for the first time in our nation’s history, America had its own currency to spend with no interest. Lincoln said the privilege of creating and issuing money is the government’s greatest creative opportunity. Lincoln said, “Money will cease to be the master and become the servant of humanity.” Newspaper editorials from England openly called for the destruction of any nation that “dangled the promising allure of a debt-free government.” England backed the South to end the greenback and Lincoln became the first President to be assassinated.
On June 4th, 1963, John F Kennedy signed Executive Order #11110 authorizing the Secretary of Treasury to issue silver banknotes. Kennedy’s order temporarily transferred the power of the purse from the Federal Reserve to the Department of Treasury. Five months later, President Kennedy was shot in Dallas, Texas and his investigation was covered up. The killers went free and continued to infiltrate our government. They drank neat scotch and winked at each other over a toast to victory. America was taken over by a cabal of psychopathic killers and media that sold the tale of a magic bullet.
From clean-backs to greenbacks, to silverbacks – America has struggled against the slavery of a central bank. A cabal who owns the printing press is a cabal that needs no money. They trade in commodities of blood or gold, not painted sheets of paper. We will never defeat evil using their currency. We will never be free-living under an endless yoke of debt. The Ritual of the Phoenix is a resurrection of a country. The red wave is a resurrection of the phoenix from the serpent. Nationalism is a living resurrection of confidence in government. Ending the Fed is a resurrection of our national bank. We can end the Federal Reserve with a new kind of money backed by gold and resting on a national blockchain. Justice is a golden light that shines from the Washington monument onto the face of the Lincoln Memorial. Lincoln has been waiting for our emancipation for over one hundred and fifty years.
I bought silver on the insistence of a friend who told me, “paper is the money of the poor.” I keep one of the coins next to my desk. On one side is a buffalo; the other is a Seminole Indian. The coin weighs 1 ounce and is made from 0.999% proof silver. Its value is inherent from the material. The writing on the coin is meaningless. The coin is heavy in my hand because it’s real. I can close my eyes and feel the truth of it. I can melt it with fire, and its value remains. Dollars and quarters are a facade. They are the borrowed property of the Federal Reserve – a non-governmental organization charging us
interest to play monopoly. Smart people in silk ties insist this is normal. They insist there is no inflation. Before 1965, a dime of silver bought a full tank of gas. That same amount of silver buys a gallon of gas today. If we have no inflation, why does it take twenty times the Federal Reserve coins to buy a gallon? Our pockets are robbed while we sleep. Our children lose inheritance like castles on the beach. We can no longer afford to be a nation of people enslaved to a private institution. They have leached far too long off the fruit of our labor. Let us be brave as we forge ahead out of the darkness with a new currency that’s as accountable and everlasting as gold and silver.
CHAPTER FORTY
Yoki and the Children of Rome
YOKI WORE A headdress of stag antlers wrapped in fringed fox skin that covered her eyes so she could see. She was seeing with her ears now as she wiggled her toes and heels deeper in the thick gray mud. White chalk covered her entire body, face, and neck like war paint. Dried black walnut powder stuck to her chin and lips and filled her head with the dank aroma of Samhain. She placed yarrow seeds in her gums that seeped a slow bitter taste that mixed with her saliva. She was a pagan light mother, and her antlers vibrated the coming danger. She felt an army of 72 men on 36 horses. The clomping of each horse hoof from eighteen miles away rang like a bell through her body. Her antlers were a kind of radar dish she could feel in her skull. She bent her hips and wrists to pick up the intricacies of their signal. She turned and bobbed her head like an owl listening in three-dimensions.
Yoki was not nervous; fear was a new spice from a foreign land. Death no longer chased her. It preferred her among the living. Yoki promised death lots of trouble if he took her before she was ready. Yoki pushed the headdress up above her hairline so she could see again. She unglued her feet from the mud and climbed the ridge top to run west. She must secure the ancestor mound before they got here.
Constantine’s war party had pushed north past Hadrian’s Wall. He was fresh from Rome to help his father’s campaign in Britannia. The ancient pagan tribes that infested the forest presented a challenge to traditional extermination. If only the climate were dry, he could smoke them out with fire. Their strongholds were getting more elaborate the further north he pushed. Their weapons were rarely forged and mostly consisted of slings, flints, and sharpened antlers. They were easy to kill with a sword, but the forest made it difficult to find them. He needed a way to control them. They were wild and unbroken. They spoke to God with their imagination. They were grown children without leashes living in his forest for free. For Rome, it was a taxable territory. For Constantine and his father, it was chaos with teeth.
Yoki arrived at the mound and gathered her dress around the thighs and plopped her bare knees in the soft dirt. The doorway to the mound resembled an upside down keyhole. She squeezed herself into the bottom and crawled several yards towards the center before she could stand up again. This was the turtle mound, and the light of the equinox would penetrate the sacred chamber in the morning. In the center, four clean stones reach up to the vaulted mud and timber ceiling. They collected light from the entrance that reflected into four niches cut into the stone-stacked interior walls.
Skulls and bones surround the rounded den. They have been meticulously cleaned and arranged by family tribe and age. Yoki places her headdress next to her Mother’s bones. She puts her soft lips on her grandmother’s skull and tells her about the visitors. She is humming the message as all the bones in her family begin to vibrate from resonance. Yoki’s family shares a common tone; like the same key on a piano. Each generation is a different octave. She is listening to her ancestors for advice. She promises to return before the ceremony. Once outside she covers the entrance with rocks and smears creek mud and sod in the cracks. She gathers thick blankets of fresh moss, and the entrance disappears into the hillside. Yoki is armed with a longbow and quiver. She wraps sharpened antlers with leather and fastens them to her ankles like a pair of thorny spurs. Her kneecaps are wrapped in long straps of leather, and she tucks river stones into a hip pouch for bullets. She is heading northeast to return to main camp.
Constantine was up against a decentralized tribe of pagans who followed their intuition instead of an emperor. Constantine understood the heathen’s power could only be controlled by psychology. Pagan gods are manifestations of a man’s spirit. They are raw intuition running naked in the forest. Children are natural pagans. Adults have been broken like horses. Imagination is the direct channel to our divine creator. Constantine’s vision of a cross revealed in the clouds was a consult with his intuition. After all, he had a job to do. He needed pagans under his boot. Twenty years later, in 325, Constantine would convene 318 Bishops at the First Council of Nicaea to adopt the Nicene Creed. This centralized and defined a consensus of belief. The creed removes all elements of a personal and fluid imagination from the religious experience. It sets a central pyramid of focus to a single God. It defines it in black-and-white; right and wrong. There is one God. There is one Lord. There is one holy church. There is one baptism. This creed delegated belief to an external central source and established a bureaucracy that removed the creative and living divine relationship. The council of Nicaea was a senate body assembled to subdue the pagan imagination and curtail the Jewish cult.
The very same Constantine would later order the death of his second wife Fausta and his son Crispus who died at the hands of her false allegations. Constantine would spend the rest of his life cementing Saint Peter as the divine prophet of God by building the Basilica surrounding his tomb. The church adorned a mortal’s grave with lavish riches and claimed him a member of a spiritual elite; everyone else is pushed further down the pyramid and away from God. Constantine removed our history and connection to the earth. He changed our entire calendar. We are still under the vision of a grand Roman Catholic Church ruled by a cabal of black Cardinals.
Satanism is not paganism. Paganism is the natural connection to our bodies and the earth. Jesus was more pagan than Jewish. According to the Gospels of Mary and Thomas, Jesus found the Cross, the Christ, inside himself. He used his divine intuition. The church and the state were institutions that sought to control and curtail man. The church convinced us we are broken. It slipped a golden yoke across our shoulders and told us our power came from staying meek. We are so much more than meek. We are crouching giants. Shame is a tool of manipulation. A life debt is a form of slavery. Constantine could not control a million wild thoughts in the forest. Every pagan held the truth that man is the living soil. God’s infinite seed is your body’s intuition. We are God’s moving definition written in flesh and bone.
Yoki would not miss her sunrise ceremony to the ancestors. It was midnight now, and Constantine’s war party was still camped below the tree she had climbed to hide. She had been laying up here in the branches unnoticed since midday. She watched the Roman heathens build their sloppy fires. Their skin leaked the aroma of beer and meat. They were oblivious blind men with steel skin and spears. They carried giant crossbows pulled on a sled. Yoki had twelve arrows in her quiver. She made four more from the branches she could reach. One tent had been pitched between her tree and the mound; a dozen more were scattered around the meadow. Tomorrow’s dawn would be her only chance to call the mound with her song. She was only four-years-old the last time the stars aligned. She might not be alive for the next passing. She remembered her mother’s song reverberating up through the roots as she lay flat on her belly in the grass listening above her.
Constantine sat at a table inside his tent conjuring his options. Subduing the heathens had been exhausting. He thought back to the cults in the streets of Rome. The Jews circumcised each other and sealed it with their lips. They posed the most danger to political stability. They were the last to break under interrogation. He understood the power of a tribe bound by fear and trauma. It reminded him of these pagans infesting his father’s Britannia. Their resolve was as thick as root. They had no central leader to corrupt or install. Constantine’s men were
controlled by coin and violence. Each soldier gave a public sacrifice to a common fire. Desertion by one meant every tenth man was put to death. They were bound by a code of violence. Their obedience was rewarded with land, honor, and plunder. Morale was at an all-time low here. His centurion had complained about the spoils, “Their only valuables are pelts. Their tools are bone. They grow fungus in their hair on purpose.” Constantine knew the pagans would need culture before they could be conquered. These animals knew nothing of sin or salvation. They were relentlessly content in their skin which made them a formidable opponent.
We are children of Rome. We are ancient grandchildren following those same traditions. We pretend to be civilized by adorning ourselves in the robes of initiation. We still mutilate our boys for allegiance. Our leaders parade themselves in fancy motorized chariots. We the people survive by clumping ourselves together in secret. Religion in Rome was as precise as a baker. Do ut des, “I give that you might give.” Each God had a particular recipe and prescription. The religious ritual drove the entire city’s commerce. We are the scattered tribes of Rome clumped now as Christians, Jews, and Muslims. The pain of self-persecution binds each tribe. We are trauma alters of an ancient civilization. We still live by their calendar. We forgot ourselves as we cast our wild selves into the fire of obedience.
Night fell, and the stars came out as Yoki greeted the Milky Way from her tree. The soldiers were still camped all around the ancestor mound. She only had a few more hours to get in position. She climbed down the tree like a squirrel as the pads of her feet touched dirt without a sound. She darted away from the mound entrance to check the incoming sunlight’s vector. One of the tents would be blocking the way. She ran northwest to fetch a store of roots for a potion. It felt good to stretch her legs and lungs in the night air. She returned to the mound and tore the bottom of the moss blanket covering the entrance. She placed the moss on a flat stone and rolled it between her palms like flatbread. She split valerian root lengthwise with a bone dagger and mixed the juice with a tincture paste of red poppy. She gathered the oil in a pocket of stone and soaked moss in her tranquilizing potion.