The Covert Op Called Democracy: Perverse Poetry and Sentimental Music
By Jon Rappoport
Democracy is rule by “everybody.” Rule by the mob.
But these are fictions. There is no such thing as rule by everybody or by “the voice of every citizen.”
Politicians and their cronies, of course, know this. So one of their jobs is to present illusions of “togetherness.” These illusions are crafted. They are long-term covert ops.
PR people and propagandists and educators and media pundits are deployed for the purpose of painting pictures of “free democracy,” whatever that means. (Note: it doesn’t refer to the Bill of Rights, because that was part of designing a constitutional Republic.)
In a democracy, organizations of citizens are put together. These groups then reach out to government with their agendas. Each group becomes a faux individual seeking…what? Key symbols and phrases are deployed to answer that question—and one of the most potent is JUSTICE.
Groups are going to government to find justice.
This action becomes part of the mythology of what democracy is.
Hundreds, thousands of groups in the democracy seek justice, which simply means: favorable treatment. I’m talking about every kind of favor, from government-funded gender-changing surgery all the way to massive corporate tax breaks…and everything in between.
If you add up all the long-term effects and outcomes of this seeking, you discover that much of what the groups win for themselves doesn’t last. It deteriorates over time. Planned obsolescence is built into the system.
The quality of individual, free, independent, responsible, ethical life, for example, certainly doesn’t improve. Instead, we get politically correct life, in which people are expected to talk and act in ways that reflect “care, concern, mutual admiration, acceptance, passivity.”
This charade is promoted as progress. It’s really a program. It’s a script. It’s a stage play. It’s called democracy.
It supports small, medium, large, and jumbo crimes. Paid for by taxes.
What’s actually happening in democracy is consolidation of power at the top. The top includes both corporations and governments. But what’s out front is share and care. That’s the flag rippling with all its stars to obscure the true operation.
If a constitutional republic, with severely limited government, can exist at all, it requires eyeballs looking at each other close up. It requires small populations, educated and dynamically charged with living ideals, not dead ones.
The covert op called democracy, on the other hand, requires groups seeking so-called justice to be pitted against each other to fight over a limited pie.
Here is a cameo. In the early 1980s, I interviewed a dean of students at UCLA about the mood and attitude on campus, in the wake of the Vietnam war.
He told me that, during the late 60s and early 70s, students were united in their protests against the war, but once the forced military draft was called off, the students broke up into groups seeking justice (money) from the University.
The competition among groups, he said, was quite nasty and vicious. It involved character attacks, wild accusations, and threats.
This might seem like a vindication of the unity that had prevailed during Vietnam, but it doesn’t take a genius to see that the military industrial complex made out quite well during that war; and various wars and police actions since Vietnam—Iraq and Afghanistan the most extensive—have continued to line the pockets of military-industrial mongers.
Here is the elite psyop formula:
endlessly promote democracy;
create and empower groups that will seek justice from government;
grant some groups favors, reject others;
set these groups against each other;
in the ensuing conflict, pretend to appeal for unity;
grab more and more power at the top.
By osmosis, the individual learns what works in a democracy. He must have a cause, and that cause must reflect an unjust and disadvantaged status. He needs to seek redress and help from government. He needs to chisel and cheat and game the system.
He also needs to vote. He needs to vote for the side most likely to give him favors and breaks and loopholes and $$.
Many individuals will conclude that, in this hustle, the superior choice is to work for the government. A few years ago, I compiled a very rough tally of numbers of Americans who work for some form of the State. The total was 1 out of every 9 people.
In a small nation, that might be shocking. In a large country like America, it’s disastrous.
During a recent radio interview out of Norway, I was told that nearly 50% of Norwegians work for the government. We’re not there yet, but we’re moving in that direction.
The concept of democracy, once you peel back the layers on the covert op, is a scam. But the even greater problem comes when overwhelmingly numbers of people organize their own minds to match that scam.
They assemble and coordinate their own mental processes for the job of living and winning inside a massive crime-bubble.
Obama, like every president, operates as a PR front man for the op called democracy. The difference is, he’s made the PR into a religion. He’s taken it to a new level.
It may seem strange, but a person living out of an Obama-welfare cell phone, and a Wall Street investment banker dealing from an office high in Manhattan, are both working from the same basic mental playbook.
Their situations are vastly different, but they’re making moves inside the crime-bubble.
And if, by some miracle, they could sit down and talk long enough and honestly enough, they would see, emerging out of the fog, familiar game plans.
Yes, Virginia, there is true injustice in this country. It comes from the power grab at the top, and it leaks down to every person. But you won’t find that injustice revealed in the ubiquitous PR-op. There you’ll only find lies and groups toiling to push the rock to the top of the hill, while fighting a war of attrition against each other.
There you’ll only find the great hustle, the con, short and long, and layers of operators telling us “we’re all in this together” to remedy wrongs.
One of the keys to breaking out of mass mind control is being able to see and make the distinction between the real thing and a fake copy.
To survive and meet scheduled payoffs and bribes and deliver calculated favors and demean the independent individual, a democracy must fly the highest flags of ideals. The songs must be sung by pros. Every drop of sympathy must be wrung out of that rag-flag. Every soap opera story must be elevated to tragic heights.
And every mind must confuse this with the real thing.
Which takes us to education of the young, and the preparatory mind-control programs for living as an adult in a democracy.
I won’t bother to run down the various teaching tools for this job. I’ll simply remind you of how willing and open the young mind is.
When I was 12 or 13, my parents took (dragged) me to a lecture. The speaker was Minnesota Senator Hubert Humphrey. I dreaded the all-too-predictable pain I was in for. I would rather have been eating a casserole of spinach, broccoli, liver, and cockroaches.
On this night, in a jammed hall with a few hundred people, I listened to the Senator for two hours. He spoke about progress and humanity and hope and share and care.
I was riveted. Nailed to my chair. In a contest, that version of Humphrey would put Obama away cold and turn him upside down.
I saw visions of a new world. I saw humanity rise as one and conquer all obstacles. I saw liberalism and all it stood for as a god on Earth.
Those were the days when the Humph was at the absolute top of his game. He was on fire. He ascended one mountain range after another. He stood on a troubled sea and opened up the sky.
It took me a decade to realize I’d been conned by a master.
The op works. It taps into oceanic impulses in every mind and diverts them along channels that turn poetry into fake religion. It freezes poetry and sculpts it into idols and symbols of a labyrinth that eventually dumps you out into an alley at midnight with empty pockets.
You’re chewing on a dream of stale bread and figuring out how to get home.
People say that in a modern society, poetry no longer has meaning or force. This is one of the titanic jokes of the age. Poetry always strikes the deepest chords. It always parts the sea of the mind.
The only issue is, to what ends is it put? Does it rest there on the page and on the tongue and ear with its own fierce beauty, to be absorbed and re-imagined by the reader and the listener? Or is it run along channels where wardens of the State patrol, catching souls in their nets?
This is an MKULTRA rarely spoken of. It has stood the test of time.
It feeds on rubes and yokels and sleepwalkers and the desperate, from freezing caves in prehistoric Asia, down to the deserts of ancient Egypt, over to dank cathedral vaults of Europe, across to the streamlined consumer paradise of America.
It winds up as: Democracy. Progress. Enlightenment. Equality. Sharing.
Neon signs in the bought and paid for sky.
The great civil rights movement of the 1950s and 60s, the marches, the rallies, the protests, the suffering, the pain, the violence, the legislation—all based on a simple premise: equal protection and opportunity under the law.
Groups sought redress and justice from the government.
The movement celebrated victories. And then it was taken and twisted down other train tracks and turned into a slow-motion crash the likes of which we’re seeing splattered across television screens and the pages of newspapers around the world today.
How did that happen? How did the civil rights movement come to Trayvon Martin-George Zimmerman?
Through careful planning. Through manipulation of people and ideas, to transform honor into great misery.
The Statist machine gives, and the machine takes away. True justice is never its goal.
It preys on the worst human instincts and praises them as legitimate. It sets the agenda for democracy and gives the mob the drug of hope based on, yes,poetics.
Understanding the frequencies along which that hope is broadcast to the populace, and how the populace sponges up those transmissions, is a step out of the maze.
When you hear the particular strains of music that convey widely held sentiments, and you know the music is made for tin ears, because your ears aren’t tin, you’re regaining a species of true hope most people can’t understand.
You get a piece of the immortal joke that has traveled through eons and dipped into countless places, ever since the universe was dreamed up as a holographic blueprint on somebody’s notepad.