Sixty years ago this summertime, on August 7, 1961, President John Kennedy signed the bill producing The Cape Cod National Seashore in Massachusetts. It consists of forty miles of spotless sandy beach, marshes, ponds, and upland along the Atlantic Ocean, with some portions stretching across the land to Cape Cod Bay in the west.
Henry Thoreau strolled this wild Outer Atlantic Beach in 1849. He said you can stand there and keep an eye out to sea and “put all America behind” you.
I am trying to do that as I stand taking a look at the waves breaking on a foggy early morning coast. I am alone except for the numerous seals moaning on a sand bar and the gulls fishing in the tidal inlet at the far southern end of Coast Guard Light Beach. A few laughing gulls swoop by as if to mock me with their laugh-like calls.
It is extremely difficult to put the United States of America behind you when the fog of an endless propaganda war deforms your mind and attempts to squash your spirit even when you avert as far as the eye can see.
Throughout the ocean to the northeast, Mathew Arnold, on a far far-off shore in England, wrote his popular poem “Dover Beach”at about the same time that Thoreau was walking where I stand.
Two really different guys standing in various worlds, not simply one at a window and the other in the blowing wind.
The previous was an academically connected school inspector whose faith, unclear as it was, was falling away as he explained in “Dover Beach”: the rough ebb and flow of the breaking waves of faith that was being changed by the unfortunate withdrawing roar of melancholic human suffering, lacking love, light, pleasure, certitude, or aid for discomfort.
It was the balanced noise of world-weariness and declining faith in the Old World.
The latter, a child of the New World, extreme critic though he was of the resigned lives of peaceful desperation many people live, was still a guy of deep if unorthodox faith in the divine, informing us that the majority of people are identified not to live by faith if they can assist it, as if anybody could live without faith in something, whether that something be God, skepticism, atheism, or the then-emerging new god of science.
He thought about people’s continuous distrustful stress and anxiety an incurable illness and he would no question consider the existing religion of science a topic for his withering scorn and underappreciated humor.
Attempt imagining the federal government informing Thoreau that he needed to be vaccinated and he needed a document to take a trip by stagecoach from his house in Concord to the Cape.
The young rebel Thoreau (he remained in his early thirties like Arnold) still held to the conviction that if adequate individuals gave severe attention to the transcendent nature of their natural surroundings and lived by its magnificent revelations, a brand-new world was possible. But likewise only if they streamlined their lives and lived by concepts that excluded the mad pursuit of cash, slavery, and the worship of false gods.
This was eleven years prior to the American Civil War, which Thoreau didn’t make it through. He died on May 6, 1862. His final words were: “Now comes good cruising.”
Arnold passed away at age sixty-six of a cardiovascular disease while going to capture a train.
Old and brand-new symbols of power marked their final journeys: the iron horse and wind-filled sails.
Where Arnold saw a horrible impression in the sea, Thoreau saw wonder and possibility, however not lacking possible doom. Although often cast as a wild dreamer, Thoreau had his feet planted solidly in plain truth.
“I sat down on the limitless level and took pleasure in the privacy, consumed it in, the medication for which I had pined,” wrote Thoreau, so I followed his lead and rested on a stretch of sand with no human in sight and looked at the glimmer of a fading moon till I lost my senses.
For a few minutes I was gone.
But nature and solitude do not always peaceful the mind, and when I returned from my cataleptic state the wind was blowing from the west and the U.S.A. snuck up behind my back. America may be tough to discover, but it’s also difficult to lose.
The wind blew my mind’s eye directly across the fictional northern latitude line to Cannes, France and its Film Festival where Oliver Stone’s new documentary, “JFK Revisited: Through the Looking-Glass,”composed by James DiEugenio, has actually simply premiered.
It is hard here on the sands of the Cape not to consider JFK, especially because he conserved these sands for posterity, a little bit of the USA that stays if you ever go looking for it. He saved this land whose wicked CIA forces slayed him. And the ironic thing about Stone’s documentary is that he might find no US backers for his movie and had to go to Arnold’s Old-World England to get the cash to inform this inherently American story, which still does not have a distributor in the United States.
Thirty years back, his film JFK was undermined by the CIA-controlled media as an imaginary impression, and now the truth is still verboten here. But Stone will win out. For his brand-new work tells the same story however informs it straight with facts, the same truths, and more, that supported JFK in 1991.
And the realities inform an overwhelming tale of reality, not the rubbish still proffered by disinformation specialists that JFK was a war-monger, a phony, and a cold warrior to the end. Those allegations are either lies or lack of knowledge, as if the CIA would wish to assassinate him if they were true.
JFK was murdered because he was trying to end the Cold War, eliminate nuclear weapons through negotiations with the Soviet Union, withdraw American military advisers from Vietnam, rein in the CIA, and minimize the power of the military-industrial complex.
This is why he was killed.
These are amongst what Stone calls “conspiracy truths,” and even as I keep an eye out at the wild Atlantic and try “to put America behind” me for a short respite, the wind fills my mind with their modern importance.
Stone is out front where you can see and hear him, while the CIA always runs behind our backs.
As I go back to myself and my consideration of the ocean, a lone fisherman techniques and passes me with a nod and a rod. I quickly see him vanish around the hair where the inlet flows like a strong river deep into the marshes. Memory tells me Thoreau was ideal to say that:
many guys go fishing all their lives without knowing that it is not fish that they want.”
Thoreau knew he was constantly fanatically fishing for evasive fact and required no bait, just his eyes and ears and the deep state he entered when he cast his pencil throughout the vastness of an empty page.
Oliver Stone, too, has invested his life going after the lightof truth to expose the crimes of another deep state, the despicable men who conspired to perform JFK, the male who many a day watched out upon these waters and saw a vision of a new country he intended to give reality even at the risk of his life. A country devoted to peace and domestic harmony.
It is so gorgeous where I sit. The sun is breaking through the fog and blue patches stipple the heavens. Call it dreamy.
Here the Nauset Indians fished these waters long prior to Thoreau. Fishing for them resembled the clam shells that litter the beach. It was bifold, supplying nourishment for body and soul, and their connection to the Cape eco-system was sacred. (I inquire for forgiveness for utilizing the word eco-system.)
This was long prior to the profane hesitation and faith in science of Arnold’s mind and times seeped in to poison land, water, and consciousness, not to point out human and animal bodies.
As I recall, “Dover Beach” was composed a few years after the very first normally accepted laboratory synthesis of a naturally happening natural substance from inorganic products. Just the other day I saw numerous beachgoers spraying themselves with containers of chemicals that are the offspring of that original artificial development that is called urea however which I call piss.
I don’t know what the Nausets called it, but I make sure they did what I did as I got up and pissed into the wind and water, hoping it wouldn’t return to get me. It was a relief, although my mind kept reeling backwards traditionally.
The white intruders– they like to be called explorers– led by Captain Thomas Hunt, arrived on the Cape in 1614 and recorded 7 Nausets together with twenty from the Pawtucket people and offered them into slavery. There is so much US history that is difficult to stomach. Considering the slaughter of native individuals from California to the New york city island can only make an US American deeply ashamed.
When Woody Guthrie composed and sang “This Land Is Your Land,” I hope he had a double entendre in mind, for undoubtedly the coast I sit upon is soaked with the blood and tears of lots of an innocent soul whose land was stolen from them.
It is no exaggeration to state that from the expanding sandbar the seals’ groans seem like restless ghosts. The wind brings their ancient calls like a Greek chorus above the crashing waves. I feel as though I am attending a sacred rite that is both a funeral, a celebration, and a call to withstand.
The music haunts me. My mind’s eye recedes with the receding tide. More sand bars become the sun pierces the fog veiling the water and my mind.
Behind me throughout the narrow strip of land and Cape Cod Bay lies the city of Boston. It was constructed to its existing renown on the money made by its well-known blue blood households through the opium trade that eliminated numerous Chinese in the 19th century. They were money-obsessed, savage killers. I don’t believe they alerted the Chinese that they were being sold a drug pandemic.
You have heard their “illustrious” names: Forbes, Cabot, Cushing, Weld, Delano(the grandpa of Franklin Delano Roosevelt) and Perkins.
These drug dealers laundered their huge drug revenues by giving to Harvard, establishing Massachusetts General Healthcare facility, and producing Boston’s renown track record for culture and education.
First the native Americans and after that the Chinese and Vietnamese and Afghanis, et al.– it makes no difference whose blood was shed to produce a sophisticated city upon a hill, a beacon of human altruism– and to keep it going. The beat goes on. It is a war of drugs, foreign and domestic. Follow the trail.
These “remarkable” households were also important in the founding of the CIA whose arms extend their banking interests in black operations worldwide. These are the criminals they like to call the Agency whose existence is sustained through drugs and blood. Agents of death.
It is dreadful to think such ideas on this gorgeous beach, however my forgettery appears to fail me when the wind is blowing from behind.
And to think the disinformation experts doing the CIA’s bidding have for years tried to denigrate those Irish upstarts, the Kennedys, by incorrectly declaring Joseph Kennedy made his fortune in the prohibited liquor organization and in association with the Mob. The CIA’s war on the Kennedys, and their murder of their leading males, is a multi-faceted operation, as Oliver Stone will reveal you.
Here on the beach the light now seems to be chasing me. I look to my left and see a figure walking my way. It is time for me to leave. I turn and start walking north, back to civilization.
As the figure gets nearer, I see it’s a woman. I gasp at the mask she is wearing. No doubt she has taken the drug the authorities have actually informed her was needed to inject if she wanted to be safe and sign up with the crowd. The drug trade is where the money is. It works on lies, but it brings power and magnificence and will anesthetize your fears until it is far too late. It’s not a brand-new story, and it brings death.
We pass and she averts.
I hear the laughing gulls and rely on see the seals standing on the waves howling in delight as they clap their flippers in applause. I more than happy to laugh along.
In the range I see a boat heading for land.
The wind off the water blows this Dylan tune into my ears: