The Two Towers
By Mathew Maavak
The skilled journalist doesn’t scrounge for news; he lets events be trusted upon him – Mathew Maavak
Now, if you believe the above statement, you’d believe anything! You should get your lazy rump and dig up some earth-shattering stories. It is trendy nowadays to write “fine” commentaries, pieced from reports filed by war zone writers, who did so after having dodged not a few nasty projectiles. A war is going on out there, an artifice called terror with far-reaching implications. Big Brother has got even bigger through growth hormones not oil presumably, and you won’t quite find the same neighborhood bully in him. This is no time to enjoy a can of Sprite filched from your cousin’s fridge while theorizing whether blondes are unjustly accused of being dumb coz they are more vivacious.
But that tiny park separating Texas’ Two Towers can have that languid effect on a sunny autumn afternoon. In journalism there is one Golden Rule – (there are many actually) - Never miss a chance to state your two cents worth.
So, here goes a compacted commentary.
The first tower is of course the famous one at the University of Texas, Austin. It’s a majestic showcase of ivory. The words “Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free” are inscribed on its façade. This is the Texan way of getting students to think, and they are great for the masses who need that inspiration, at convenient times, in their lives.
You see the man who first said them also warned people to be “wise as serpents and gentle as doves”, a brilliant duality that can make one genuine, spunky, shrewd and compassionate. He knew mass dynamics too well. Right after he was given a grand welcome, arguably the most unusual Jerusalem had ever known, the same crowd was baying for his blood. Power had shifted, and so had allegiance, and the “savior’ was now “traitor”. His last words were a testament to a cruelly forsaken state and the need to forgive mass ignorance. This is a most difficult teaching to follow, as the mass is not like a worthy enemy. A great rival can be respected, grudgingly, but the mass “does not know where the wind comes from and where it goes.” It sways to every diabolical tune, masked by fine words such as “peace”, ‘freedom”, “God” and we have no choice here but to include that fin de millennium bromide called “terrorist plots”. The mass can sing praises of you one day and lynch you the very next.
There is nothing New World about this disorder, and like other ailments, they need vectors. Some of them are normally associated with shadowy by-lanes, but they can scurry about spreading their plagues everywhere. John 8: 32 is their alleged motto; it is emblazoned at Langley, more as a mockery than an irony. They can double up as the Pied Piper too, synchronizing the mindless gyrations of the masses with any euphonious sound they’d like to hear. The Piper is not only a skilled flautist, but he plays jazz, pop, patriotic anthems, certain hymns and can entrance Janet Jackson to expose her boob, keeping the crowd distracted, along the road to destruction. If they step out of line, or suddenly receive “understanding”, send them a subtle reminder that they are just “three meals away from anarchy!” That’s how certain popular figures end up getting lynched.
Rats! Again, we come to the Stucke mindset. Hardly anyone dared call Michael “Whacko Jacko” back in 1983. He was the “King of Pop” then, now that reign is described as being “self-proclaimed”, after his stars fell, and his cash reserves dipped.
If the “truth” sets you free, so does “work”.
Arbeit Macht Frei must have been on the mind of Charles Whitman on Aug 1 1996 when he killed 14 people from the lofty observation deck of this tower, wounding many more. I don’t know what was on his mind as nobody can say for sure in these matters. Maybe he saw through this cynical farce and exploded. Maybe he was insane. Or maybe the insane are the countless hordes who enjoy life’s mockery. Yet, I doubt he could have achieved this feat armed with a machete. Even way back to that famous WWII send off in 1943, this place has been crawling with ROTC students, trained, presumably, in forms of unarmed combat. In this place, Whitman would at most stabbed three or four with a dagger before being overpowered.
Still you can’t argue that guns don’t kill people. Hijackers armed with box cutters can hack their way into cockpits, and cause a global ripple, with no cowboys around to disarm them. We are talking about box cutters here no matter what cellphone calls were made from any plane. From what position, what view? There is a general consensus among those I know, that Americans, both men and women, are among the toughest breeds. It’s not that easy to take them on. This Sept 11 issue will not go away unless it takes its skeptics down with it.
No commentary of mine is complete without two figures – Bush and Hitler. Little Wolfie knew the masses well too. He saw them as “feminine”, just ripe for rape and subjugation. They will follow orders when inspired and manipulated. They will still follow orders when power is on your side. Let no thought of theirs soar above the monophony of jackboots. The truth indeed sets people free. Burn the books, distort the news and twist all reports.
We now proceed to the other tower. This one is the Texas State Capitol, almost a stone’s throw away. It’s a giant replica of the one in Washington DC and is in fact taller. Like anything else, they like ‘em big in Texas. Governor George W. Bush was plucked out from here, where he really belonged, to the White House, scoring many a first in US history along the way. How dare you say “only in Texas!” I was quite apprehensive about approaching this building for obvious reasons, but what journalist chickens away from blocks of granite when his counterparts are facing hellfire in Baghdad?
This is macho land, boy. Git goin’ ! Sure! Wearing sandals, armed with a medium range camera, clutching a torn shoe bag instead of my thorn knapsack, clad in cargo pants, the hair tousled and the sweat profuse. I think I made a great impression. The walkie-talkies were out as I approached the building and the word “shoe bag” crackled clear enough. But the security personnel were smiling and were directing me to the main entrance, assuring that I needed no special pass. If I was looking for an inscribed State motto in Latin, I must have missed them out of other concerns.
Upon entering the building, I immediately proffered my shoe bag for inspection. The lady officer was slightly miffed. I was distracting her SMS-ing. I persisted. “I said you are ok!” She was nodding her cowboy-hatted head to drive home the point.
Now, when you are always looked at like a suspected terrorist, and start believing that it could be true – didn’t I use ungracious words against Bush? – such assurances are highly disconcerting. You feel like a jailbird who is given permission to fly but refuses to believe you are innocent, or got a pardon.
It took me a moment to recover. The officer kept working on her cellphone. She was chewing gum. Her gun was just an appendage. She put me at ease and the mood inside was generally relaxed. Officers were helpful with info and direction, and the whole place was busy. I was told not to venture beyond the fourth floor as it was out of bounds for visitors. Otherwise, I could loiter anywhere and take any picture. There was a delegation of minority students, and their elders in colorful ethnic attire in the main foyer, where the governor was expected to make a speech at noon.
I kept wandering around, passing by representatives who were making headlines – there was a delineation exercise, not Iraq or US soldiers, on everyone’s minds – and I took notice of the name plaques on the rows of office doors. Just as I expected. This is not the seat of power. Literally only representatives come here. There were too many minority names here. The real leaders are groomed at the University of Texas. I poked around until I walked into a gallery of fascinating flags on one of the upper floors.
“Hi, can I help you?”
A fluff of blonde had wafted by. She was well-heeled, elegant and had that élan. I swear my theory must be right! A century back, you’ll find such a dainty creature tugging at cattle udders and when bored, she’d probably saddle up a horse to shoot an Injun or two. Forgive me; I was in Austin for too long. Dead GIs command neither much headlines nor priority here. Besides, this was reconnaissance, not interest in my handsome features.
“I am foreign journalist. I was just looking around.”
“Looking for anyone in particular?”
Encouragement? “Maybe, it’s you. Are you a rep?”
If there was a flutter from those gilded eyelashes, I must have forgotten it. She introduced herself as an administrative staff, and recounted a bit of Texan history, this building and the significance of those old Texan flags, none of which I can remember except for the Johanna Troutman Flag. Fraulein Troutman’s design was simple – it had a white background, a lone star with the words “Liberty or Death” scrawled beneath it. The explanation went on, my mind was elsewhere. An idea was brewing, as always. I took a picture of the flag as the lady left.
The brew was now complete, my camera was jammed but the dollar signs remained right in front of my eyes. The capitalist heartland was choking my ideals. One doesn’t need a demagogue to change a “principled stand.”
Who the hell do you think you are? Still at your sociological garbage, trying to make a better world? Don’t you know this is a free and great nation? There are “terrorists” out there who hate “our freedom”. Saddam has WMDs…he can launch them in “45 minutes”… “Security is the essential roadblock to achieving the road map to peace.”… “The problem with the French is that they don't have a word for entrepreneur.”
If you still lack understanding, listen Matt- “I know the human being and fish can coexist peacefully.”
They were echoes of something familiar. Of great and rousing speeches, words of wisdom closer to home than Nuremberg. They can turn you instantly into a yellow journalist, and woo you over to the dark side.
I wanted a picture of Blondie besides the flag. A gun and cowboy hat can be borrowed downstairs. Here, my imagination started to run riot; my exasperation growing over my inability to fix the camera; my mental state suspect. Heads turned in my direction. My fantasy stretched further. She should have a sexy and menacing pose in a cowgirl negligee –you know the ones with frills or strings? Knee-high booths with gleaming spurs are in order. The eyes and lips should both entice and challenge and the gun must be pointed up, besides Troutman’s flag.
I could see her in the Sun, News of the World, The Mirror… here I ran out of options but that’s what news syndication is for. I could see money in my bank account. A torrent of possible kickers rushed through my mind for a nice caption story. Here are some samples:
I LOVE BUSH: Wendy Bauernhof affirms her faith in the President…
THIS IS TEXAS: Pride of Austin Wendy Bauernhof embodies the Texan spirit….
KILL ‘EM GRUNTS!: Austin beauty Wendy Bauernhof has this message for our GIs in Iraq…
FREIHEIT ODER TOD: Fraulein Wendy Bauernhof wünscht Amerikanische Soldaten…
Mercifully, the camera remained jammed and I left, livid with rage. And yes, judging by the quality of those kickers, it ain’t surprising that I left a tabloid after 16 months.
The security in the building was equal to the feat of five Texan policemen who got disciplined last year for preferring fishing to guarding the Decker Creek Power Plant on Lake Walter E. Long. (AP, Nov 7, 2003). I thought that was unfair. They were catching real fish while kooks were “netting” Osama bin Laden.
Any “terrorist” could have blown up this building, a most logical or symbolic choice as “Killjoy Dubya was here!” There were kids in the foyer, all decked up. Maybe the fact that they looked Mexican made the difference. After all, they don’t spook non-whites in this land…
I came out of the dark side and the grandeur of this building was seen in a different context. Amazingly, my camera was in fine kilter to click away. I didn’t notice that the shutter was open earlier. Even now, the edifice commanded awe, but when its “cornerstone was leveled” in 1888; the effect would have been utterly dramatic. Like the cathedrals of yore, its sheer size and elegance would have had humbled the common folk. It would remind them of the presence of a great temporal power. There are lots of temporal powers out there but lets check out one of them.
Walk down to the Bob Bullock Texas State History Musuem and you’ll find another cornerstone. Right between those two towers, you will find the veiled presence of the Lords of this World. They are the cornerstones of this nation. Most of the founding fathers belonged to this grouping. They claim to know “antient secrets and charges” and to have developed human systems and science. The Royal Society of London was their handiwork and it can amaze a casual observer how sworn enemies on either side of Cromwell’s war can link up to form this distinguished body. Its members can thunder away at superstition during a lecture, praise the almighty in public, meet up later with trademark handshakes and listen to some crackpot oratory on how some ancient secrets charged at them from the dawn of civilization. The rituals are elaborate, and personally, laughable. Notice the masses can laugh at “conspiracy theorists” (read those not accomplished yet) but not this lot. Only the elite make it here and they are found everywhere.
How else do you explain the recent shambolic presidential campaigns run by the Democrat candidates? Is the Founding Fathers’ legacy still alive? Any astute candidate would have hammered away at the Valerie Plame fiasco. How many CIA agents ended up dead, if any, and who leaked it out? What operations were compromised? Surely there won’t be anonymous stars – for fallen heroes - not far from that inscription in Langley?
The surprise here is that Sen John Kerry’s advisor happens to be Joe Wilson – Plame’s husband! A bit tricky for the other candidates, who can’t personally claim moral fury, but there was no stopping them from persisting with this line of enquiry. And there were enough holes in the official Sept 11 version alone to ram Big Bertha’s through. It is one thing to accuse the president of cowardice – it makes him more human - but treason is something else. And he is not the first one. They get away with it each time.
There is no difference between the two parties. These questions won’t pop up, not with the vigor they deserve anyway. Before your mind wanders off to the Skull and Bones Society, remind yourself that it is a fantasy meant for rich kids who consistently make Grade C. Only vulgar cunning and wealth needed here. They would be scoffed at by the Egyptian deity Thoth “who was said to have succeeded in understanding the mysteries of the heavens (and to have) revealed them by inscribing them in sacred books which he then hid here on earth, intending that they should be searched for by future generations but found only by the fully worthy…” [1] Think Bush fits this bill?
Man and fish can co-exist peacefully, unless you are a Texan cop!
The craftsmen’s work is not complete, and expect more surprises and quick fix solutions to our problems, only if you understand there are the “fully worthy”, “less worthy” and the “worthless” – a tiered system that worked well before. It oils the human machinery efficiently, provided there is no dissent. Our democracies are ailing, its rottenness exemplified by mass voter indifference. Since problems persist, elitist nostrums are already in the offing, the Patriot Act and the rape of civil liberties being just the precursors. There will be more to follow as with every screw up, our brethren will come up with a better solution, right on the brink. Do the masses care? They are “less worthy” to understand, and ‘feminine” enough to be subdued.
Obstacles await our craftsmen. There is another system or paradigm that impedes its march. Under this system, the word Racca (worthless one or fool) is forbidden, for there is no one worthy. All have “fallen short”. Look deeper and the gulf gets wider. Contrary to popular belief, this system believes in individualism, not an amorphous mass, where each one is answerable only to his creator – a message distorted to the point of sounding ominous, providing licenses for bogus Crusades. The truth indeed sets you free; a little by little and it gets you thinking as an individual. Even in your most imperfect state, it yanks you out of the herd into a narrow, lonely and meandering path, one that cannot be predicted by stellar charts. Pain leads to wisdom. It teaches one to beat the odds. No quick fix solutions here.
The question is, which system do the masses prefer? One that respects it or the one that forges it into many dispensable cogs, fit to be thrown away after wear and tear? Like that incident in Jerusalem long back, we can join the stampede or expect to be nailed! You know, in tandem with our planet’s astronomical cycle, there are “antient” forces goading us to yet another full circle. Now, I think I know what those missing Latin words were on the State capitol, opposite UTA’s John 8:32. It’s a challenge. It’s hollow. It’s High Noon.
It should read: EXCREMENTUM TAURI! An apt description of itself!
Part Six: A Pervert’s Paradise!
Sunday, Feb 22, 2004 Copyright © 2003 Mathew Maavak
Reference:
[1] Fingerprints of the Gods - Graham Hancock
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