Spring has arrived. We’ve had rain, now the sun shines, the air warms and plant life explodes. Hormones flow, mating cries abound: cocks and cats and dogs and bulls and stallions joust for dominance, the chance to plant their seed instead of the rest.
After some six months of indecision, I am back to work, right or wrong. Life goes on, despite us.
I open a link to an article about my dear friend Chuck Bowden, only to discover a picture of him, staring at the fields from the front porch of my house.
Lord, I miss the man. His courage, intelligence, conviction.
Another comes to mind. Michael Ruppert. Similar in many ways, yet different. Also gone.
Both were cock-sure. Dismissive. Bordering on arrogant, yet keenly aware of the victims in this world.
Had to be, to stand and deliver the messages they had, for any self doubt would have left them paralyzed and ineffectual like the rest of us.
They never met, but they would have disagreed. Perhaps violently.
Chuck once proclaimed, “but I’m no truther,” when I proferred some 9-11 conspiracy he didn’t like.
Michael Ruppert wrote the book on 9-11 conspiracy. It was his life’s greatest work.
I once told Ruppert, “I don’t know what happened on that day…” only to be cut off mid-sentence with, “Well, I do. I know exactly what the fuck happened and who was responsible...”
Both wrestled and fought and dug and scratched and kicked and clawed and bled for truth. They lived for truth and would cut you down in a New York second when your argument failed the litmus test.
I wonder if they’ve met on the other side.
Do they now see what was hidden? Do they now know the truth? Are they now friends?
Meanwhile, I’m stuck in this dark, murky place without my mentors, feeling directionless.
One thing I can say. I am so tired of bull shit politicians, lying ass preachers, false prophets, coddled intellectual wimps, and these goddamned modern day aberrations known as journalists.
Give me Chuck Bowden. Michael Ruppert. Warts and all. I want fire and ice.
If you can’t tell the truth to the best of your ability, shut the fuck up and go home.
Those that can sing, sing! Those that can write, write! Those that are warriors, sharpen your swords and clean your rifles! Gird you loins!
It’s getting late in the game and there’s no more time for fucking bull shit.