UPDATE:  While I'm no longer adding to this site or blogging OR publishing press releases anywhere on the internet, I feel it is only fair to place corrections here as I find them. - Susan, Jan. 8, 2012

CORRECTION # 3: Robin Tunney's biological parents: actor Glenn Ford and actress Jill Banner

I was incorrect to have theorized that actress Robin Tunney's secret parents were Liza Minelli and Michael York. At the time, I felt the facial resemblances were technically good (though with no Liza-ness or singing and dancing), and there were the additional clues that her character on The Mentalist was named Lisbon (Liz-Min) and her boss was Virgil Minelli (Liza's dad was Vincente Minelli).

Now I can see that Glenn Ford and Jill Banner are a much better match. They acted together in a 1972 episode of TV (like Tunney), Jill Banner was famed for a horror movie she made as a teen (like Tunney), and while Tunney got her mother's smile shape, her sharp and uneven smile lines are from her father, and HIS father, director John Ford, who acted as a young man in a 1916 film his older brother made, and apparently got the actress Ruth Stonehouse pregnant. Her scenes were then cut from the film (to hide the pregnancy?), but she acted in a film the following year as the character Nancy Glenn. Robin is a phonetic anagram of Banner, and Tunney connects to the nn in Glenn and Banner, and is phonetically present in Stonehouse. Obviously Glenn Ford was named after John Ford and his mother's character, Nancy Glenn. And it was John Ford's uneven smile lines and eyes that have caused internet chatter about Robin Tunney's stunning and yet uneven facial features, unusual in today's stars, who are usually purely bred from attractive and perfectly symmetrical acting bloodlines. Having a great director in her family could mean Robin will direct an episode of The Mentalist one day!

Here's a photo of Robin's mother, Jill Banner:
http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OQmEa5OKyOI/S9ozsLb_BII/AAAAAAAAUmo/6Hy5pTdOrSk/s1600/JillBannerC01.jpg

And here's Glenn Ford, looking vaguely like Robin Tunney:
http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UaLWp72nij4/S_slZDQvVWI/AAAAAAAAMjc/9NLQzZY6eEM/s400/glenn-ford.jpg

Here's a rare young photo of John Ford:
http://www.sensesofcinema.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/image020.jpg

There are many photos of Ruth Stonehouse which show her son Glenn Ford got her distinctive smile and looks. She was said to be very androgynous, so it's interesting the connection to Lisbon, brothers, and being a tough agent (as well as secretly the character of Androgen/Julia secundo).

It was sad to read about Jill Banner's life. She was raised by an Irish family (like Tunney - and Ruth Stonehouse had a Chicago connection, like Tunney).

The question remains, why the seeming references to Liza Minelli? As a decoy? To make Robin and Simon Baker seem unrelated? Or just coincidence? It was bothering me lately that Simon and Robin had almost similar noses, and it was Ardilles' character that got me looking at Liza again.

Jill Banner looks to be the secret child of Linda Darnell:
http://30.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lb5ureyWYS1qabj53o1_500.jpg
and an actor named John Ireland:
http://shadowsandsatin.files.wordpress.com/2012/01/ssireland71.jpg

They acted together in a John Ford film the year Jill was born.

Looking to see who Angie Dickinson's parents are, after thinking all this time they were Richard Dix and Irene Dunne. The weird thing is that an actress in Cimarron was married to Jack Dempsey, the boxer. So I looked up the boxer Amanda Righetti has as her secret grandfather, Max Schmeling, and he looks like Jack Dempsey's twin or older brother, in a side-by-side photo. Freaky!

So if Angie's father was Jack, that makes Simon Baker and Amanda Righetti second cousins. Simon has Jack's chest and his athleticism, apparently.

Looked, and it seems Jack Dempsey may have gotten his wife's co-star, Nancy Dover (aka Judith Barrett), pregnant during Cimarron (1931). Which makes Angie Dickinson's name make sense - During the Richard Dix movie, she was conceived by Jack Dempsey and Nancy Dover, who played "Dix' daughter" (Dickin son).

Ah, I think I've got it...Nancy Dover was born the first year Mary Pickford was making movies with D.W. Griffith. (The D stands for David - and Dover's birth name was Lucille - the other middle name of D. W. was Llewelyn.) Linda Darnell was born the same year Mary Pickford started United Artists with D. W. Griffith and others. David Llewelyn and Linda Darnell are a touch similar as name sets.

And that explains why there's all these dark-haired, somewhat horse-faced women on The Mentalist each week! It's the D. W. Griffith bloodline. And as Robin Tunney and Simon Baker are grandchildren of two daughters of D. W. Griffith and Mary Pickford, they're second cousins, too! So Simon Baker acts each week with two beautiful co-stars who are his second cousins, but not related to each other.

AND this finally explains why Simon's wife, Rebecca Rigg, has such dark, almost Italian looks - from D. W.! And could it? even explain why she looks a bit like Theda Bara, who was Cleopatra to Simon's grandfather's Caesar, Fritz Leiber, Sr.?

...

Wow, corrections indeed. It looks like...Manuel Garcia, a famous Spanish singer, fathered Frederick "Federici" Baker (the basis of Rebecca Rigg and Simon Baker's names!) who fathered Theda Bara, before dying in Australia in 1888, in spectacular fashion. Also Manuel Garcia and Jessie Bond had D.W. Griffith. So it finally all connects, right back to the first hunches I had last year about Simon Baker's bloodline. How could I have ever guessed?

note: Monday, January 16th, 2012

I watched Simon Baker on Live with Kelly this morning, and after a lot of jokes about how dumb Kelly is, she asked him about his experiences with Australian theatre, if he'd acted in the theatre when he was younger. He said no. Of course he said no, has she never read a bio of the man? But the interesting thing is:

In the above corrections, I finally found a line right back from Simon Baker to this very important figure in Australian theatre, Frederick "Federici" Baker. Is that why she was told to ask him? So he could say NO to the idea? (I personally liked the Napoleon and Isadora Duncan bloodline I had him and Robin on. Funny I was wrong on both. You never know how the spirits will guide and teach, and force humility on a daily basis.)

Well, looking back over this set of connections, I realized I should write it out in family tree form. As you may have noticed, I haven't managed to stop writing on this site entirely. But it's like weaning myself off. And I hate to leave mistakes uncorrected.

Manuel Garcia (was sort of an opera doctor, and ditched his wife in Spain to travel Europe with a mistress, probably made lots of kids - Prince's wife Mayte Garcia jumps to mind)

his son, Manuel Patricio Garcia and ?

his son, Frederick "Federici" Baker and ?

his daughter, Theda Bara (her mother was probably someone else in the family)

also, Manuel Patricio Garcia and British actress Jessie Bond, while Jessie was studying at the Royal Academy of Music, may have had as their child

son D. W. Griffith

Jessie has a look which may also be behind Fritz Leiber Sr., the father of Dean Martin and Robert Mitchum, and can still be seen in Deana Martin. Although it's a bit tricky to find, there's evidence Jessie Bond and Durward Lely were in Pirates of Penance together in the spring of 1881, and the play finished nine months before Fritz Leiber Sr was born.

so...Jessie Bond and Durward Lely

their son, Fritz Leiber, Sr., thus because of the same mother, a half-brother to D. W. Griffith, himself a son of Manuel Patricio Garcia

Fritz Leiber, Sr. and Theda Bara

their son, Robert Mitchum

D. W. Griffith and Mary Pickford (Mary and her siblings appear to be the children of D.W. Griffith)

their daughters, Linda Darnell and Nancy Dover

Jack Dempsey and Nancy Dover

their daughter, Angie Dickinson

Linda Darnell and John Ireland

their daughter, Jill Banner

John Ford and Ruth Stonehouse,

their son, Glenn Ford

Jill Banner and Glenn Ford

their daughter, Robin Tunney

Angie Dickinson and Robert Mitchum

their son, Simon Baker

Angie Dickinson and John Vernon

their daughter, Rebecca Rigg

Simon Baker and Rebecca Rigg

their children, Ryan Simpkins and Aryana Engineer

 

CORRECTION # 1: ALL actresses hid many pregnancies in "old Hollywood", but there may have been a widespread switch to test-tube babies once that was possible. So...many of the secret pregnancies I've written about occurring in the past fifty or sixty years may have occurred without the actors' or actress's knowledge. It is rather easy, in an espionage sense, to extract or collect reproductive materials. These can then be combined in a lab, and embryos implanted in surrogates, which is more time-efficient than waiting for a natural pregnancy to occur. And avoids the drama of traumatized actresses. However, the worst-case scenario may still be true, including frequent sixth-month c-sections, faked miscarriages and stillbirths, switched babies, and child actors having sex with their older co-stars and others in the film business, and these acts resulting in children.

CORRECTION #2: Stella Breeze Baker's biological father is actor Scott Bakula.

In all my research into the bloodlines involved with The Mentalist's Simon Baker, I made many errors. It's true that when you find the truth, every piece fits, and I was writing about individual pieces as I found them. I apologize for publishing untrue information while attempting to understand the bloodline involved.

Simon Baker and Rebecca Rigg both attended the natural birth of their daughter Stella. Rebecca was indeed her biological birth mother, but she had gotten pregnant in connection with the American TV movie, Mercy Mission: The Rescue of Flight 771 (TV 1993), possibly unknowingly through "drugged in vitro" or in the normal way, with actor Scott Bakula. The dates, faces, and names all match very precisely. The similarity between the two men's names suggests Scott Bakula was chosen to be Stella's secret father because, along with looking slightly like Simon, her name could match both, arousing less suspicion that Stella's was encoded to match Scott's.

At around the same time, Simon Baker's genetic material caused a pregnancy with his female co-star, Denise Roberts, who played Julie Winters in Australia on the ABC-TV medical drama G.P., whether through sex or secret procedures. This child is Angus T. Jones, of Two and a Half Men. The phonetic similarity between the two birthdates, Stella's on Aug. 8th, and Angus' on Oct. 8th, suggests they were being encoded for future mating, rather than being switched at birth, as I thought. I noticed Stella's resemblance to Naomi Watts, and guessed she was Stella's mother with Noah Taylor, as Naomi is also Stella's godmother, but this was wrong. The resemblance is due to Rebecca's parents being John Vernon and Angie Dickinson, and Naomi's parents being John Vernon and his TV daughter, Tannis J. Montgomery, from TV's Wojeck, making Naomi the half-aunt of Stella.

Simon and Rebecca's other two children, sons Harry and Claude, are both the biological children of actress Nicole Kidman (making them grandsons of Paul Newman). Claude Blue was born in 1998, when Nicole acted in "The Blue Room", and Claude resembles her co-star, Iain Glen. Harry Friday is the biological child of Nicole Kidman and her Moulin Rouge director, Baz Luhrman.

The biological birth child produced by Simon and Rebecca in 1998 is young actress Ryan Simpkins.

The biological birth child produced by Simon and Rebecca in 2001 is possibly Aryana Engineer.

These children may have been switched for the children the couple are raising immediately after birth, as the couple had moved to L.A. by 1998, and are known to have given birth at a hospital in 2001.

A biological child appears to have been produced with the genetic material of Simon and Rebecca in 2004, young actress Ashley Gerasimovich, named after her double grandmother, Angie, and her father, Simon. She appeared with Naomi Watts in Fair Game.











WARNING: DEC. 5, 2011. THIS WEBSITE IS NOW BEING CHANGED DAILY BY PEOPLE WHO WANT TO HIDE OR DISCREDIT WHAT I HAVE REVEALED. THINK FOR YOURSELF AND DO YOUR OWN RESEARCH.

BECAUSE OF WHAT I HAVE WRITTEN HERE, NINE PEOPLE HAVE BEEN KILLED AND MANY MORE VICTIMIZED BY VIOLENT OR FRIGHTENING ATTACKS. DO NOT SPREAD THE TRUTH UNLESS YOU'RE READY TO STAND UP TO KILLERS, TERRORIZERS, AND A VERY CORRUPT SYSTEM THAT SPIES ON EVERYONE AT WILL. I WILL LEAVE THIS INFORMATION AS IT IS, FOR AS LONG AS IT REMAINS!!!


Here are the five basic parts of global fraud:

1. The Secret History – There were some things that happened in human history BEFORE 10,000 BC (12,000 years ago) that a group of people decided to hide from everyone else. It took thousands of years for the group to change how other people, not in their group, thought about the past. Along the way, they created a group to keep the secrets hidden, but also to put signs of the secrets everywhere. The group grew larger, moved to more places, and now runs the world. Their leaders do all sorts of terrible things, but they are good at keeping those bad things secret too!

I didn't know about the Secret History until I was thirty-five, when I started figuring it out for myself by following my intuition and sort of seeing it in my imagination, and studying many subjects on impulse, and reading between the lines. It's taken two full years for me to get the whole picture. It isn't just about conspiracy and greed and evil - it's about the rituals and rules they were following 12,000 years ago - and still seem to be following. Understanding the Secret History makes all their actions make sense. Sort of.

2. Encoding the Secret History – This group has certain ways of putting their secrets into everything all around us (except for nature the way it naturally is - which they'd like to control too). That means there is a code or symbol or metaphor or allegory in all our books, films, tv shows, world events, religions, architecture, and education systems.

It can be hard or easy to find the hidden symbols and understand what they mean. I found it hardest to BELIEVE that all these codes and secrets had always been around me but I didn't notice. It seems sort of stupid to me sometimes, why they put all these hidden things in stuff, and no one sees it. But it must make sense to them. I don't write about the symbols much anymore, because they're sort of disgusting and awful. This was an ancient sex and blood cult. So most of their symbols are about having sex or killing people. To look at what I used to think was a beautiful city, and just see these ugly symbols everywhere, it's awful. But if you want to know, read my earliest articles.

The two main types of encoding are putting in references to what happened before 10,000 BC, and putting in versions of what happened between the family members of Julius Caesar 2000 years ago. So I've tried to write about everything I've learned regarding those two things, so people can find the encoded symbols for themselves.

3. Propaganda, Brainwashing, Prevention, Distraction – The secret keepers learned all about human behavior, and figured out how to make us do most of their work for them. For example, there are lots of stories on tv about whistleblowers really suffering for coming out and telling secrets, the truth about corruption, and telling the public about global fraud. But if thousands of whistleblowers started telling the truth at the same time, nothing bad would happen to them. If all the people doing bad things stopped, and told us about it, the problems would be over. So the world around us is filled with things accomplishing four steps to make sure their bad things don't stop:

PROPAGANDA -  the lies they tell or selected facts they holler at us all day and night

BRAINWASHING - our own choice to make those lies and selected facts a part of our thinking process

PREVENTION - the way these patterns of thinking stop us from doing certain things like protect or defend ourselves against this group

and DISTRACTION - that we allow their colorful bells and whistles to lead us away from thinking about it all...

4. Breeding – The key to this group's success is the way they heartlessly force their members to live very unnatural lives. Most of my recent articles are about what I've been discovering about their "royal breeding" methods. Just keep an open mind that it may be true, as horrifying as it sounds. I've written a lot about the way this group's isolation for thousands of years affected how they think and feel. It gets into the science of adaptation and breeding, but don't be fooled by their talk of evolution - they're just encoding that they changed their skin color through breeding. It's all about breeding. And now, after all these thousands of years of their plans unfolding, most or at least many people on the Earth are a result of their breeding programs (just old-fashioned mixed-race babies, nothing science fiction about it). It would be great if they were stopped or erased or something, and humans could just live their natural lives, like our instincts and our feelings guide us to.

5. Conspiracy, Corporations, and Corruption – This was the stuff that I HAD heard about before I was 35. I thought of myself as well-educated, but because I wasn't from an insider family, I was just a dummy in this group's view. They let us learn just enough truth to scare us and make us feel sad and helpless. They try to poison us just enough so that we can work and pay taxes, but don't have the energy left over to fight against them. They invent money systems to keep track of our "slavery debt", and they make lotteries and tell stories of "hitting it big" to keep us hopeful life might get better. But really it's only the insider families who get to be rich. They are the ones who can afford the good food, the right medicine, the health remedies. But from what I've seen of what this group does to its own, I'm starting to think poor, innocent, ignorant bliss is the place to be.

Susan Maureen Brandt
October 22, 2011





The Unripened World, revisited: a film review

[note: The following is exactly as I first wrote it, the morning after seeing the film, with no going back to read even a word of it, let alone to check the paragraphs for structure or flow, or to correct  mistakes or re-write or edit or even ponder its worth. It was Jean Cocteau, I think, who said a writer shouldn't edit one word, so here you go, Cocteau. Painting the poem like a true prophet should.]

[note from an hour later: After reading it, I decided to correct the dozen bizarre errors in which I typed a completely different word than I was intending to. Not so much editing as returning it to the original thought, and making it a touch easier to read! - SMB]

Before I knew about the Atlantean Brotherhood's control of the film industry, one of my favorite things was to see a great movie about which I knew nothing. Hadn't seen a commercial, hadn't read an article on the budget overruns or buzz, hadn't watched the whole thing reduced to a three-minute synopsis while munching popcorn before another movie I'd probably heard too much about.

Another thing I liked, well, one of my favorite movies of all, actually, was The Thin Red Line. Not the parts about war, ha ha, but every second of everything non-war. I loved ALL the blades of grass, adored Jim Caviezal in his heartbreakingly tender moments with South Pacific islanders, and collecting pebbles on beaches is a passion of mine, so to find there was an entire culture centered around it was startlingly beautiful.

Most of all I loved, as it became impressioned into my mind, the remembrance scenes of the soldier as he let winsome images of home return to him. The cherry print dress, the afternoon in the warm breezy bedroom, a girl swinging on a swing with blue sky and clouds like a safety net to catch her if she should take flight and fall into it –

I realize this probably doesn't describe the actual scenes in the film, but they grew and changed in my mind, and I paid it homage when I wrote my novel Green Sky, putting the main character, Violet Hayes, in a vintage cherry-print dress from a thrift store as she set out on the bus to the dying city of Slowfield.

Well, the past year has been one of the bleakest of my life. I finally, gradually, inched my way mentally toward accepting this crazy notion of Native Americans on Atlantis giving way to all the Mediterranean-based cultures and the takeover of the world by reptile-symboled, blood-drenched, Aspergers-limited, inbred royals, as real.

And film after film has showed me, over the past year, that it is nothing more than the tale of Atlantis-cum-Mediterranean-cum-Kings of Britain with some gossipy details of Caesar family incest encoded in to say 'thanks' for the fake religion of Christianity keeping their tax base safe and sound.

All together, I've never wanted more to get out of my life and, frankly, off this planet. Having just moved house and unfortunately finding I'm still the one living as me, despite better paint on the wall and a bigger rose garden, has had me feeling truly dour of late. But, but, yesterday something interesting happened. I decided to make it all better, even though I still felt like crap. (In a comical bit of tragedy, the iron pills I depend on to keep my anemia at bay are hidden somewhere in a box, somewhere in one of several piles of boxes, and the longer I go without finding them, the weaker I'm getting to even be able to, or want to, look.)

And after transforming the entrance hall from a rubbish depot to an actual, functional, attractive entrance, I finally said yes to my small daughter's pleas to ride her bike to the park we now live five-minutes' walk from, for the first time. The weather, I remembered as I stepped outside and began to cinch on her bike helmet, has turned freakishly warm this week, after not much of summer but rather a long rainy cool spring that lasted for months and created a stunning aphid infestation in this valley which usually bakes itself into August by mid-June.

So, with a feeling that maybe we hadn't missed a whole summer to moving five small households (3 cabins, a crawlspace, and a condo) into one larger one, because here was a glorious afternoon in July inexplicably in mid-September, we set out to the park, her wobbling and weaving on her little two-wheeler, and me creaking and groaning along, because two months of either carrying heavy boxes, scrubbing things clean, or sitting at a desk feeling tense while writing self-imposed save-the-world hack articles, is killer on the back. I've lost weight, a full ten pounds from the move after shedding ten since winter, so I'm lighter on my feet, but sore feet and tired legs and an aching back and a dreary mind make a five-minute walk in the latest pair of badly-fitting thrift-store shoes kind of torturous. Plus watching for my little girl to be watching for driveways and dogs and such as she peddled furiously along on her first great bike adventure.

The heat was so thickly spectacular that when we arrived at the park and a lone man was flying a remote-control helicopter, we smiled and giggled but walked past to get to the shade on the far side of the playground. I sat on the grass and let its green leaves cool my legs. She rested her red-hot face on my arm, saying it felt cool. After we'd shaded ourselves back to regular warm, she ran off to begin playing, and I laid on my back on the grass to look at the sky.

Just nearby was a saskatoon berry tree, which looks like an enormous bouquet of leafy twigs a giant has picked for his mother. The sky was spectacularly huge and clear blue behind it, expansive really because beside the park is a large fenced field used as a dog park, and the neighborhood is set on a gently sloping hillside. I began to feel a bit happy, remembering years ago when taking photographs and writing poems was everything to me, and I would have swooned over this curious array - the berry tree to one side, arcing gracefully into the sky, and on the other side, the paint-faded playground equipment reaching up with its bars and geometry like whimsical castle turrets. And far in the background, just a nostalgic blur because I'd removed my glasses to take in the whole of the doming sky, a little girl swinging higher and higher on a large swingset, with a worn volcano, blue with trees, far off in the distance beyond her.

I thought of the article I'd just published on Maurice Barrymore, how he had children with his own daughters, had seventeen or so illegitimate children, how someone in the Brotherhood was arranging for some of those to have children with each other, how the whole thing feels like an accomplishment to have decoded and put before the public, and yet feels terrible to even think about. Movie stars, as nothing but overdramatic experiments in breeding a new sub-species. When films used to be my love, the height of beauty, the touch of light and fingertips to eyes wide open in the dark –

I looked back to the tree, to the faded castle, to the swing. Maybe, just maybe, was I done? I began to feel distinctly that I was, that because I have no money, because I have now given a look at each of my possessions, and carried them all by hand from there to here, because a simple family tree of parents and children with an explanation of Atlantis and the Caesar family laying beside it, explaining much of the modern world to anyone caring to think about it for an hour or twenty, because those words lie on the blinking light of ones and zeros, maybe I can do something different now, something I want, revisit one of my dreams, the novels with photographs, the poems that have become songs, the illustration with innocent water-colors making children's books to swoon both parents and their small children as they learn about and continually reconsider their new life on an overwhelming but pretty planet –

When we returned home, my teenage son said something odd, that my mother had gone looking for us to see if I wanted her to buy me a ticket to go see the Brad Pitt movie tonight at eight. It was just an odd thing, and it took a bit of asking to feel I could make sense of it. The move hasn't exactly been good for my relationship with my mother. And I didn't even know there was a Brad Pitt movie, and why at eight on a Monday?

But that was how I ended up dressed and washed and feeling strangely renewed as I strolled along an evening street in a small town to see, at the old theatre on main street where the Film Society shows the artsy or foreign films that wouldn't make it to a two-theatre town otherwise, an unknown film.

I was a few minutes late, because my mother had gone to see the earlier showing, then drove home, handed me the car keys and asked when the kids' bedtimes were, and counted out the exact amount of money needed to buy a ticket, then added a few coins more, and then told me something I've never heard her say about a film she saw at the theatre - "I didn't like it."

The movie was, if you haven't already guessed because your life has veered you to it also, The Tree of Life, with Brad Pitt and Sean Penn. And what could be better than, after spending two years bleakly finding that all globally-promoted art projects MUST contain references to Atlantis-cum-Mediterranean-cum-British Kings and the endless incestuous tanglings of the family of Julius Caesar, to find myself sitting in a vintage movie theatre feasting my eyes on a Terrence Mallick film I didn't know had been made because I read few magazines anymore and watch little tv, though once I knew everything about every movie and movie star and film director and sumptuous film by a rare and beloved director, but there it was. All the whispers and blades of grass and glances of bare knees and strange haunted motions of despair and joy that I'd loved in The Thin Red Line. Why, I believe I may have even squeezed my eyes shut and made a little wish, Please, one day, have Terrence Mallick make a film of just the nice parts. And in remembering the pleasant scenery before a child's death, well, he did it.

And, in the parts between, the story of Atlantis, of the dinosaur-symbol-loving Atlanteans heading out to the forests of Europe, where the native blond giants stepped on their head for a moment, but then let them go, and how Atlantis blew up from volcanoes and fogged up the sky with smoke, and how a big tidal wave crashed into the pillars of Hercules, making them that and making the Mediterranean a sea –

Wow. Terrence Mallick, you know you could have actually just made the movie about Atlantis and the fake death of a nineteen-year-old Lucius Caesar after he blew it pretending he was Yesho, the Jewish prophet, trying to convince the jews to pay taxes to his dad, Julius Caesar, and how he ended up in the position of developing Christianity while hiding out in Britain because, yes, Atlantis exploded in volcanoes and made the Mediterranean sea.

Hmm. What would have happened if you had just come out and said it, this is true. This is what some of us, the record keepers, know to have actually happened? What would have occurred? People would scratch their heads? I mean, the thing that is most horrendously underestimated is how little we actually bought of all your experts and fake theories. I remember that if something didn't make sense to me, I ignored it. And there was a lot to ignore. Crazy useless details on the evening news, economics, computers, you're just a bunch of self-absorbed nerds who think their clever inventions have fooled the public. Who you fool are children, and only because their brains are ripe to accept what higher authorities say. And then to teenagers you feed the candy of your rebellious art forms, so they waste the years when they should be questioning you paying for more of your sweet poison. And then as adults, frankly, we're too lazy and mentally set to care. You keep us busy with the whole money thing, and fear of disease, and chocolate and cigarettes and coffee and alcohol mild addiction pleasure.

But we ignore you as much as we can.

You have to work REALLY hard inventing great tragedies to get us to pay even a little attention, and that's because we think the people who run the world are stupid. There's no other word for it. They have no sense. Ask anyone who cleans up messes or serves people food for a living. They'll tell you that none of it makes sense. But who cares, ya gotta work.

So I don't even think there's such a house of cards to knock down. There's a lot of people who would give it two minutes, then say, Doesn't surprise me. Always knew it was a bunch of nut-heads running the show.

I know you really want Christianity and Lucius' loving of his mother to really have come to something. And true, I wouldn't have figured it all out if I didn't have a zillion of your books and shows to help me along the way as I was dragged to it kicking and screaming (because I was so bored and tired of life already) by a funny sort of soul who wanted me to figure it out so basically rubbed my face in it for years until I finally looked –

So I'm just saying, why not next time, if there is a next time, say, Here's the true history of the world. There were five original races on five continents. South American, North American, African, European, and Asian. Then a few North Americans traveled out into the Atlantic, smacked into what was basically a very long Hawaii, and got so overfed and inbred there that when the climate changed and it got too hot, they were like wah, wah, we want paradise back. So they started sneaking around Europe, hiding in caves, wondering how they could take over a lovely continent from a lovely race of gorgeous blond tall people with healthy families and modest but groovy communities. And when Atlantis exploded at the end of the ice age, they were really desperate to get a new paradise, because all they'd done so far was manage to mount a few European giant women and produce a few living mixed babies, despite their inbreeding-deformed blood type.

And then the waves and rising ocean smashed a hole into the rim of the Mediterranean lowlands, and voila, a sea, a cleared-out coastline, and thousands of years to really get serious about giving the ugly Atlantean mug a makeover. And the best result of all were the blond, blue-eyed, big-nosed, absolutely ruthless Caesar family ruling Rome, the closest the Atlantean Brotherhood dared get to Western Europe with anything less than a Mongol Horde. And the Caesars actually got to work and failed at updating Judaism as the tool to peaceful world domination, but succeeded, through the sheer character and drug- and sex-addictions of Lucius and Julia Caesar, at making not only a brand of religion that can passify cannibal head-hunter congregations to sleep, but can keep the trains running on time.

I mean, in a sense, it was truly beautiful to see such a good reminder that Lucius and Gaius Caesar and their stepfather-uncle Mark Anthony were all, after all, just people. And I'm glad the movie didn't actually show us them all having sex with each other, or the kinds of games Caesar children really played, which I'm guessing were a bit more horrendous that blowing up a frog with a firecracker. I mean, Julius Caesar likely taught them sexual technique at their pre-school class. And Mark Anthony would have not even hesitated to rape, not simply subdue, Julia at the dinner table. But, well, a fifties neighborhood of cool striped t-shirts and Charlie Brown buzzcuts and just some tension over the difficulty of actually teaching children manners which is actually very difficult and does take zillions of reminders but does actually work, especially if combined with lots of fun attention and being silly with your kids and letting them know you get so angry because you get so scared at the thought of adding more bad people to the earth –

And I was glad that they're working so hard these days to update Christianity itself. Heck, why not just drop the whole thing and let people learn the truth of the soul for themselves. Of course, the strangest truth is that it's our own souls who want the planet in such a lying, crying mess. So we learn. So we pay attention to the boring stuff, instead of just stuffing our faces with berries and nuts and finding neat stuff, well, neat. Then sleeping. And forgetting. And wondering if we could just throw ourselves off the nearest cliff and get out of dealing with daily chores and irritating things like parasites and cold.

There was the most fantastic breeze that picked up at the park, yesterday as I lay on the grass beneath the saskatoon tree. It came so quietly that I didn't notice until it had already cooled and soothed me into bliss. Oh, I suddenly thought, the bliss of a cooling breeze! My favorite thing in all the world –

When I left the theater out the back door, there was a full moon shining right in my face. It always is, it seems, when I see a truly important film. Important for what it teaches me, shows me, or tries to hide from me but I see anyway. The important thing in Tree of Life wasn't the absolute proof it gives that Jesus/Lucius began his life as the younger blond child in a family that included his older brother/secret father Gaius, with his own dark hair and wider eyes and cheekbones and noticeably fewer talents but greater capacity for brutality, and Mark Antony the strongarm general playing Dad when he wasn't traveling the world (nice touch, I didn't think of that when I was watching the film), and Julia in her Mary Magdalene disguise of pale skin and reddish long wavy hair. No, it wasn't anything of the confirmation that can give one, if they're ready for it, that all my theories are basically right about the Caesar family being at the heart of Christianity and everyone in positions of power in the entertainment business knowing it. No, the important thing about this movie is that it exists.

Yes, it exists.

In the physical world that is Earth, there are prints of this film flickering in theatres at various moments around the globe. What is it saying? What do we see? It doesn't matter. They made their symbols (including their secret favorite, the phallus of the wild boar, twirling around in all that lava-lamp goo facading as bacteria and planets) out of things of the earth. They made their house of cards out of the archetypes of all life. That's why they are so undetectable to people with something better to do. Because they've built their castles out of twiggy leaves, and found such a cleverly realistic way to build them, to have someone else build them for them, that in fact they have just sat around deluding themselves into believing the earth has grown them trees because they wished for castles.

They can play with light and shadows all they want. They can concoct ways for close cousins and half-siblings to be parted at birth then fall into something that looks like romance at the age of 24, they can even, yes, have family members produce viable infants with each other who yes, carry the traits and diseases of their parents, grandparents, and so on. This works. I admit it. But there is that principle they teach you in school, rather ridiculous and anti-common sense, I always thought, that if you simply apply effort but it does nothing, it isn't considered work. You can exhaust yourself, even kill yourself trying, but if the landscape doesn't shift, if you don't change a thing other than weakening yourself, it doesn't count, technically, as having done anything. (The flaw in the theory is that your muscles are in fact moving and you are, in a reverse effect, shifting yourself.)

But just like they also teach you in science class, there is nothing in the world that didn't come from the basic elements on the chart. In a sense, the Brotherhood, for all their walls put up and kingdoms torn down, their love of moving to a new kingdom with new clothes and a new name and a closer dream of paradise, have done nothing. They've played with twigs and stones. They've prevented a lot of nature from running its course, from people simply knowing what is natural to know, how to be healthy, how to defend family territory from invaders, how to accept death and rot and parasites returning us to dirt. They've been destructive and imaginative, certainly, but have they actually been creative? Has anything come to exist on the earth that wasn't there before the Atlantean Brotherhood vowed to make a different world of the one they were stuck living in?

I don't see it. I see a lot of rocks, whether they be in gleaming crystal form or crumbling concrete, I see plants hewn into business suits, I see a lot of illusion and the play of light as a distracting device that pauses people in their natural route of maturity between birth and eventual death. But I don't see the added value.

And that's why I think it's great this movie exists. Because it, and Terrence Mallick, argue for the beauty in nature. They plead against the insanity of telling children to not interrupt pompous speeches claiming to know. They show that nothing, even the great ark and the preservation of a screwed-up gathering of self-proclaimed nobles, is anything when set next to the irritation a small child feels at the arrival of a noisy and demanding baby.

Life is far more than some encoded Atlantean gimmick. I truly think it would be enough entertainment and philosophical stimulation to just let us live. But the real trick is that the Atlantean Brotherhood are the pawns supreme. Our own souls don't want us fully absorbed with mastering food gathering and watering hole etiquette (I mean real watering holes, the kind animals drink a fill of water from first thing in the morning before heading back into the forest to gradually begin spending the entire day eating salad – try it, you'll never have felt healthier in a more natural way). Our own souls want us to be shaken awake, disturbed from our physical slumber, our own souls want our physical life not to be a physical life, but instead a physical encasement for a series of metaphysical wonderings. The soul wants to think, to feel, not to eat and drink. It sounds trite, but my point is that the hapless Atlantean Brotherhood, so full of illusions of their own grandeur and grand architecture and hushless secrecy, are merely the way the world is made aggravating enough to be thought-provoking.

We do not spend our days leaping and running and feeling truly satisfied with the discovery of nut-bush bounties. We are not meant to, now. It would indeed be so much better for our physical health if we were, but what is physical health when the body is a temporary tool for traveling among a different, temporary, physical reality? The car can get rusty and still drive, and if one is to drive through the most interesting of places with an eye truly on what is happening around them, the car will not only get wet and muddy and rusty and dinted, but it may crash and we may find ourselves walking the last mile. If we were to break our legs in the crash and have to crawl bleeding through the mud, my how clear a thought of truth would ring!

And so the Brotherhood, with their endless belief in the importance of volcanoes and mother-son intimacy, stands ready with their clubs.

They may believe they are violent to conquer, but I believe they have been enslaved to give us enlightenment.

Their blabbey little motor-mouths have made sure we would figure it out, eventually.

Hang them or hand them a prize, I don't care.

Just give me more films with less of them and more of real life, more grass, more trees, more endless ancient unwritten-upon sky –





















 

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