lördag 21 april 2012

Changes Ahead


I'm an avid student of esoteric stuff, as you already know - see for example this post on conspiracies. And now the shit gets heavier, now we're about to see the greatest conspiracy of all time go down. If a certain Steve Beckow is to be believed.

He is a writer and a radio show host. He's very heavy in on the 2012 stuff, primarily that this year is said to bring ascension, an uplift from our current 3rd density to 4th and 5th. 3d is normal reality, 4d means moving with planet Earth to a lighter energy. Going into the astral body. Earth ascends and so do we.

This link leads to Beckow's start page. There are some further links on his site. The current top post (as of late April, 2012) is about Pleiadean visitings. But there's political stuff too, about conspiracies. Illuminati rule: this is to go down now says Beckow. It's about freeing man from the current banker, nihilist, materialist regime. Mass arrests or just one at the time? I dunno but something's brewing. And it's all done with Higher Realms helping us.

All this might sound far out. And it is. Anyhow, for information purposes you might find it interesting. Some more links on current esoterics, 2012-related:

. American Kabuki. Readable blog by an American residing in Japan. Ascension, arrests etc: here.

. American Free Press. Slightly hippyish but genuine, has some concrete stuff on bankers resignations, grass root revolution, channelings etc: here.

So, dear reader. News about the arrests, changes and new births haven't permeated into Main Stream Media yet. But I figure it will. 2012 will be a year of rumours and here I add my part to the rumour mill. Share and enjoy.

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söndag 5 juni 2011

A Battle For Realities


You can't shut yourself off from society these days. Everything is political. Or let's say: everything today is esoterical, both personal moral and official politics. That could mean: You have to have an ONTOLOGY on which to base A MORAL, and the ontology of today is widely debated. What is real? Some say that the USA, fighting imperialistic wars for our freedom is what's real. I highly contest that. So what's real? I'm real, art is real, what I feel and intuitively envision is real. The everyday world isn't as real as that. It's got a lower degree of reality. The Universe is Mind. But the NWO don't like spiritual world views like that. They want everybody to be afraid, bent on saving their material beings. -- Here's a take on some of these subjects.
Dawn of Man
We're engaged in a Battle for Realities. The topics of 2011 is all about a description of the world. So what's real? How did the history of Man begin? -- A way of putting it is this:

In olden times Earth was visited by aliens. Just let's say it did. Read Zecharia Sitchin, read Genesis 6:4. - And so, did these alien geezers create the human race? I for one don't think so but they propbably had a hand in raising us to a higher level, educating us. So let's say that in Sumerian times we had humans around which then were raised in their development by one of these godlike aliens. We can call him Ea. He's not central to this article but I like to have one or other fathomable character in the narrative, otherwise it gets kind of abstract and vague. So this Ea, what did he want? He wanted to enlighten primitive man by telling them that each individual essentially was a spirit inhabiting the material body. After the physical death the spirit lives on, pauses in heaven for debrief and is reincarnated on Earth.

Then what? This fine god Ea got ousted by some of his fellow beings. These started to enslave man. There was this, as David Icke calls then, "Brotherhood of the Snake" who started to manipulate the masses with religion, fear and hatred. There were elements of truth in their techings but the overall message was one to ensure enslavement and obedience to the Brotherhood. In time this Brotherhood split and the factions started to fight each other in the names of different creeds and religions. So by this we see that everything isn't peaceful in the Black World; in the realm of secret societies there are conspiracies and infighting as well. Religious Wars
As for the religions they partly helped people live better lives, partly enslaved people. In the latter case it was due to stereotyping and simplifying the message, making people feel guilty for themselves and hatred towards "infidels". Wars were fought over religious issues. At the same time the power of the Brotherhood grew and consolidated itself into Freemasons, Rosicrucians, Knight Templars and so on. Their teachings on spirituality, like that the Universe is Mind and that microcosm man mirrors the macrocosmic universe were true in themselves. The creed of the secret societies is twisted and weird but it's also got some strands of truth.

So we can say: both religion and secret societies have their pros and cons. As for pros the teachings of the Bible e g helps men to be pious, to save spiritual energy by abiding on a higher power. And some secret societies taught esoteric doctrines bent on developing man as a spiritual being. As for the cons we had organized religion with its herd mentality and secret societies worshipping false deities, tending to weird and dark practisies. Spiritual Powers

The secret clubs got some things right in their spiritual quests. But mostly they seem to have worshipped false deities. And all the time they acquired wealth which they had to invest and thus grew their financial power. Parallell to that the high echelon leaders of the societies were men of the state and did what such people do, i e play "the great game" of world politics. Thus, without necessarily being evil on all levels, the secret societies became political machines, bent on preserving and increasing their spiritual, political and economic power.

"Spiritual power" should here be interpreted as propaganda, religious dogmas of obedience and fear. There might still today be some, say, Freemason or Rosicrucian who divests his time to studies of gnostic manuscripts, syncretism and esoteric practices, and I say: good. I have esoteric leanings myself. But there is no need for a secret society for these things anymore. In the 17th century texts like The Gospel of Thomas, the Upanishads and the Apocryphs were rare and sometimes suspect books, forbidden to own and read. Such is not the case anymore. There are no spiritual secrets around anymore. Everything, but everything is published either on the net or in paper form, even the jelously garded ritualts of the societies themselves. And True Christianity has itself ceased the need for secret societies with initiations and all that stuff. By receiving the Lord Jesus Christ as our saviour we are all initiated into the Secret of Eternal Life and Redemption. This according to Rudolf Steiner. Make a Metaphysical Stand
So I don't give much for secret societies, not even the spiritual side of them. They might have been progressive force in the time of an almighty church and the religious ortodoxy of olden times. But the church is today only an institution among many. Ironically organized religion today seems to be involved in many secret societies by way of its leaders. So there goes religion too. We have to be privately practising adepts. That's at least what I've been doing all my spiritual life. Since birth I've belonged to the Swedish State Church, true, and I intend to stay there even though it's a bit outmoded to have this old school religion. But since those who leave the State Church are mostly snug atheists, intent on saving 1000 SKR per year by not paying church tax, I'd rather stay among the faithful.

So how shall I end this? Well, esoterics is the way. You have to have a metaphysical creed. Even if you think you don't have you do. E.g, by adhering to MSM:s stories of how paper money is the best thing around (and precious metals are in a speculation bubble), stories of how the USA fights for freedom and democracy and hints that injection with a microchip to open doors and pay supermarket tickets is a convenient technique, well then you adhere to "a certain creed". You BELIEVE what the MSM and the politicians say. Then, if you're a radical and sceptic you don't believe these things. Then again, if you totally reject this world as real then you have another world view, one that - and here's my point - can be controversial in itself. David Icke for one plays a bit along these lines: NWO want's us to be materialistic, to say that the everyday world is all that counts. To believe in a transcendental reality is atavistic and dangerous, because then we can't be ruled by fear.

I for one have no problem in uniting my radical world view, my critique of MSM:s narratives with an esoteric outlook. The Universe is Mind. To believe that the everyday reality is the only reality is to enslave yourself, making yourself into an easily led critter of the NWO. I've unplugged my TV in favour of spiritual books and meditation. I'm me, I'm free - as free as you can get in this world.
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söndag 29 maj 2011

Top 5 Conspiracy Strategies


There are trends in the "fortean world" too, in the realm of mysteries and occult stuff. In the 19th centrury it was spiritism, then came the Atlantis craze, then we had UFO:s and now we have conspiracies. Verily: conspiracies nowadays seem to be the mainstay of occult lore, of the "weird stuff"-department. So what have I to add to this quagmire, to the wealth of information and desinformation that abounds on the internet? Well, I have this Top 5-list of some rules to remember if you're entering the conspiracy business by yourself. Enjoy.


1. "Action - Reaction - Solution"

David Icke for one calls this syndrom "Problem - Reaction - Solution". Name tags aside this is a central tactic for any secret society bent on controlling Big Politics. It can be illustrated by, e. g., America's top bankers creating financial chaos at the beginning of the century, (action) triggering a public demand to stop recurrence of these turmoils (reaction), resulting in the Federal Reserve System (solution). Or FDR moving the Pacific Fleet from California to Pearl Harbor (action), resulting in Japanese strike (reaction), to which America's entry into the war is the solution.



2. "Divide And Conquer"

That's as old as Noah. The Romans did it among their territorial enemies. And an Elite Group bent on destroying the social fabric in a country can for instance propagate unlimited immigration (we see it all over the westworld today), saying that it's good for Diversity and Humanity's Progress and that resisting it is Racist and Reactionary. When the country's social fabric, traditions and culture is destroyed and it's populated by nothing but media-drugged zombies and ghetto people, then that Elite Group can rule it like child's play.



3. "No Walk-Ins"

When, in your scheme of world-domination, you set up your forces of trusted lieutenants, hitmen, spies and whatnot to carry out the dirtier work, make sure you don't use volountary recruits. No, you've got to have some hold on them, something that makes it impossible for them to defect. Recruits that have heard about your operation and just walk in and want to participate are useless. They tend to have their own will, tending to leave when they don't get a kick from participating anymore. Every secret service in the world knows this. Recruited agents (not rank-and-file agents but agents recruited in foreign countries) must know that if they leave their future will be destroyed by incriminating photos or whatever: that's "having a hold on them".



4. "Sugar-Coating The Message"

Dirty work aside, you could also need a front organisation for your cause. And recruting people to that one is a bit different. Here you shall stress charity and spiritual values and stage hearty gatherings etc. Ask any token Freemason and he says that his organization is all about that. That the higher levels of your secret society is all about Power and Money is only known to the higher initiates. (Related to all this is the phenomenon of "useful idiots", i. e. employing unsuspecting people to promote your goals - like having journalists to "celebrate diversity" as a means to Divide And Conquer, see point 2.)



5. "Two Minds"

Don't bother being so rectilinear and transparent in your society's creed, so clear-cut and rational. Mix old magic and esoteric wisdom with modern techniques, like mind control and propaganda blended with UFO:s and yoga. As for UFO:s: don't get over your head if aliens contact you, no, use it...! Use alien technologies and participation in your scheme for world domination. So don't get upset if the existence of aliens rocks your "rational world view": you have to believe the unbelievable if you are to stay your time in the conspiracy business.

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söndag 15 maj 2011

Svensson: The Fall of Idallion (short story)


Imagine a pre-modern city with a scholarly man as main character. He's a quietist and a loner but one day he gets an important mission since the rest of the burghers are busy elsewhere.

1.

I stood at my window watching the citizens of Idallion walk up to the palace, their silken robes and plumed hats resplendent in the rays of the setting sun. What a pageant, what a parade, what a fitting epilogue for the history of our city – because tomorrow it would all be over, by then they would all be dead, all those men and women walking up to the palace for a final gathering, a final celebration, a final libation in the name of death.

They strode along the walk of poplars and crossed the courtyard, going up the double stairs and disappearing inside the castle with its cupolas, galleries and balconies. I turned and looked around my study, my drawing-room with hand-painted goldpatterns on the black walls, book-shelves with exquisite volumes and a sideboard with the City Key on a purple cushion. Mine was namely the task to hand it over to the approaching barbarians as they took the city, which probably would be by tomorrow. Because I wasn’t going to join them, the citizens, at their party; I didn’t like the taste of wormwood. Instead I poured myself a glass of sweet wine from a caraffe, sat down in a soft chair and held the goblet to the rays of the sun. In vino veritas, that’s true in more than one sense of the word; I mean, what colour, what hue could be more fetching than the eternal light shining through a vessel of Hymarian wine?

Enjoying the bouquet my eyes happened to rest on a picture on the wall, a painting of my great-grandfather Rodebar Cromsolyn: a fierce warrior, however with a certain cultivated trim about him. He was the symbol of Idallion’s last triumph, having captured the neighbouring city of Horsa, thus giving us some respite before the fall. The following fifty years had for their part only brought us setbacks; Horsa had risen and cast off our yoke, and teaming up with the barbaric hordes of The Blue Banner our fate was sealed. And just a month ago, in the battle of The Crow’s Beak, our last army had been routed. By then Rodebar wasn’t its commander anymore, having gone to his ancestors seven years ago. Instead it was headed by my father Modokar who fell in a final cavalry charge, the last glorious moment of Idallion.

It was all over. And now we only had to await the coming of the hostile army and surrender the city. Our final protest would be the mass suicide at the palace, yea, verily, suicide was the word: sharing a bowl of poisonous drink to the sound of flutes and harps and after some lavish wining and dining. That was the reason for the party, the one I didn’t go to – so it seemed perfectly natural that I would be the one who met with the conquerors and handed over the city to them.

The city’s rulers, however tired of life, wanted the surrender to have some formality about it, and so I was to play the role of herald. And it was said that The Blue Banner respected heralds, parleys and exchange of hostages and the like, they weren’t dyed-in-the-wool barbarians, so the stage was set for a stylish end for our city.

I had warrior ancestors but I hadn’t become a soldier myself. I was a scholar and a learned man, living on inherited riches. I had my own little palace, built in red sandstone with details in limestone, on the city’s main street. And there I sat sipping my wine; how nice to spend your last day as a free man, I thought, nice and cosy in your own study! And tomorrow, then what? Enslavement, or banishment and exile, or just keep on living as a stranger in your own home town? Well come what may. And all flesh is grass, all things must pass. Ours was a beautiful city, renowned for its palaces and orchards, for its university and library, and for its taverns and bars and joyous nightlife. And with a history of glorious achievements in both politics and the arts. We had had a good run.

However, recently a misfortune had hit us: one day, some of the city’s children had been lured away by a pied piper, never to be seen again. There was some argument about the piper’s payment, having ridden the city of rats. And then, shortly afterwards, the rest of our children had been spirited away at Tenarian’s Rock, during a day out. They had been lured into the mountain it was said, their fate unknown.

That’s what broke the city spirit, that’s what made all our citizens so desparing in the face of the barbarians’ approach. We had outlived our fortunes, our luck was gone, and culturrally we were resting on our laurels. We were past our prime. We were just enjoying the last autumn days before the cold set in. Everything had been made, composed and written by our predecessors in the arts; what was left to do? That was the tenor of our thought, the general feeling, and with the children gone and our last army beaten, what reason was there to live on? Therefore the decision to meet in the palace and empty the cup of poison was met with appraisal. From everyone but me, whose spitirual beliefs forbid me to commit suicide.

Such was my decision. Everyone thanked me profusely for this, by the way. It was that element of formality they liked, to go out in style.

From the palace screams and laughter could now be heard. The party was in full swing. I finished the wine, got up and went to my sleeping room, stuffed my ears with some cotton wool, took a volume of poetry and went to bed. I had work to do tomorrow, lots of it: I had to bury my fellow citizens. That was a last favour I had promised them.

As I lay there in my bed recess, lit by an oil lamp, I was charmed by the following poem by Nannvel Storness, a romantic from the north who used to dream about southern belles:
Picking some shells on the beach,
making a necklace of them
and giving it to Atyescha: this I will do.

Will she be glad by it?
Will she wear it tonight?

I don’t know.
I only know that I will go to the beach,
pick some shells, nice shells,
make a necklace of them
and give it to Atyescha.



2.

The next day I got up and dressed, striding out in the morning sun and stepping out on the main street where grass grew in between the cobblestones, one of the many signs of decay in our once flowering city. I went to the nearby Crystal Chapel, a shrine erected to the glory of the Unknown God I visited now and again. I entered the vaulted porch, took off my tricorne, admired the arrases and the marble masonry and sat down to meditate for a while. The lustre from the giant diamond at the chancel had a calming effect on me, as it usually had. And I could need that, it was going to be a busy day: would I have the time to bury my fellow citizens before the barbarians arrived?

Leaving the temple I walked the alley up to the palace and went inside, soon reaching the main hall. I could see them all, all of the city’s cultivated dignitaries and burghers lying there – dead. On a table there stood a flask with a label with skull and bones, the selfsame poison they had mixed in their drink and swallowed: wormwood. I stuffed away the flask in a cupboard, glad to have the grinning death’s head out of my sight.

I approached one of the fallen, queen Zenagia herself, ruler of our state. She was dressed in a ruby red dress with silvery ribbons and a violet train, and to that embroidered stockings, patent-leather shoes and a pearl necklace. Removing a platinum blond tuft of hair from her face I admired the delicate, cultivated features, with a faint smile still playing in the corner of her mouth: ironic to the last. Some way to meet The Absolute: ”I beg your pardon, walk over the Sirat Bridge? You can’t mean that I will walk over it, I must have someone carrying me”...

Maybe she had wished me to be there with her at the moment of death, me having been her lover once upon a time. She was my true Atyescha. And for certain she was still beautiful, her face still stirring some passion in me. Our relationship had been a pure fancy, a vanity, a game to play and had of course not resulted in any offspring, not even a bastard son. No cute, rosy-cheeked little baby ever got to suck at this flat chest...

I held her face in my hands and kissed it, extracting the last romantic afterglow from the exquisite lips.

- - -

I got things going by fetching a barrow, loading bodies onto it and rolling it away to the burial grounds down by the willows. Graves were already dug, so it was just to lay down the bodies into them. Shrouding I didn’t mind, except for Zenagia who was wrapped in an arras. The rest had to make do with a simple prayer, but to my Queen I read a poem which I composed on the spot:
Zenagia, Zenagia, my fair damsel,
you have gone beyond, beyond the Beyond.
So farewell my lovely, will I see you again,
maybe in a garden beyond the Beyond...?

Not exactly immortal lines, but they were heartfelt.

I had to ply back and fort many a-time before I was done with my work, but by sundown I was ready. All the party-goers having taken poison were buried, all the citizens who rather killed themselves than became the subjects to barbarians had been brought to the final rest.

I sat down and watched the earth-filled graves, lit by the rays of the sun setting behind the far mountains. I drank some weater from a bottle and calmed myself.

After some meditation I went back to the palace and sauntered through the empty state-rooms, looking at canvasses and leather wall papers, carved furniture and stuccoes, heavy drapery and busts and reliefs, objets d’art and precious things collected through the centuries by an honourable city state, now at the end of its tether. But we had been maneuvering wisely between our neighbours, more relying on the might of the word than that of the sword, not so much on the whip as on the carrot, having received foreign emissaries and royalties and entertaining them lavishly, giving them presents from our treasuries, and putting on shows and reviews in their honour. This had worked fine for a while – until the threats became more tangible, like then one from Horsa when we had to mobilize our army. Which had been done, with known result. But we had fallen with flying colours.

And now the combined army of Horsa and the barbarians were approaching. I went up into one of the palace towers, looked out over the city and its surrounding Wide Fields, without descrying any nearing army. Well, perhaps tomorrow...

That left me with nothing else to do but to wander along in our beautiful Idallion in the twilight, among weed-choked ponds, over deserted squares and terraces, past exquisite palace fronts and faces and dream about past glory, echoes in the alleys and parades along the streets, ceremonies in the Crystal Temple and receptions in the Palace, with foreign emissairies in their best and the courtiers in gold-emblazoned livery, and at the centre of everything Queen Zenagia in all her debauched beauty.

I was a scholar and a poet enjoying the riches of my heritage, the sandstone house opposite the Palace. My father Modokar’s real home was the war; before the battle of Crow’s Beak he had been a mercenary colonel here and there. As intimated I myself lacked that special soldiery mettle, despite the ancestry from Modokar and Rodebar; I was a dreamer and a rambler, lately living out a lotus eater’s existence in my house. Maybe I could go on living that life even after the barbarians had taken the town.

Or should I just leave Idallion after having surrendered the city, leave my grand palace and be a drifter and a roamer, seeking true adventure in the world at large? I still had some life left in me.



3.

The rattle of arms, agitated voices, cuts of axes, and the trample of heavy shoes awoke me the next day. Freshly awake I got up, got dressed and went down into the drawing-room grabbing the cushion with the City Key. My mission was about to be fulfilled, the invaders were here.

I went out on the steps seeing the main street of Idallion filled with a column of cavalry and infantry, carrying blue banners: a battle-weary crew they were. The poplars of the palace walk were being chopped down by sappers in leather aprons and long beards, their axes flashing in the morning light. We didn’t for one have a city wall, ours was an Open City, and therefore the army had had en easy entry – but diplomatic customs could have a worth of their own, so I got down the stairs, approached the head of the file and a tubby, unshaven fellow on a black horse, clad in cuirass and panached helmet and a rapier at his side, heavy boots in golden stirrups.

The soldiers watched me in awe. Unmoved I bowed to the commander and said:

”Commander of Horsa, honoured Crown Marshal; I am Paralipon Cromsolyn, Idallion’s last surviving citizen. Kindly accept the Keys Of The City.”

”Hmmm,” the commander said. ”Well, darn it, I will!”

A servant approached and accepted the gift, and as for myself I was given a horse on which I could guide the Marshal around the city. I put on my tricorne, swept away the cloak and got into the saddle, and off I went on my grey stallion with this Adrian Edirne, as the commander was called, by my side.

The army of the enemy had taken the city and the looting had begun, even though my house was put under a red seal by the commander. Unperturbed I could ride around with him and show him our parks and palaces, our ponds and gazebos, our winding alleys and straight avenues. I could also tell where the rest of the city’s burghers had gone – to the Great Unknown, the Great Hereafter. And that I had chosed to live on so that I could surrender the city.

The tour was over and we reached Agorá, the city square. I was brought into a tent and served a lavish breakfast. I took a goblet of wine, a pear and a slice of bread flavoured with wort.

”So where are you off to now, Paralipon?” Edirne said to me chewing on a chicken bone. He seemed rather nice for a barbarian; maybe he was born to it, maybe it was the occassion of being victorious general that made him magnanimous.

”Where to? Yes, where...,” I replied, and before I could say anything more he hastened to add:

”Of course you could keep your house; you can stay here as long as you wish.”

I drank some wine and said:

”I thank you, commander. But sometimes I do feel like leaving this town, venturing out into The World.”

”Indeed?” my host said. ”But from our talks this morning I sense that you are a wise man. You could stay in your house and be a teacher for us, a guru. I have a thousand soldiers but I don’t need that to make Idallion great again. Not only.”

”But I know nothing,” I lied. ”I have no particular education. I only dream.”

”A dreamer, eh...? I see. Well, then maybe it’s better to become a Wanderer, a man who walks the Earth and greets people, talks to them – and then moves on, wherever Fate may take him.”

It sounded alluring and it helped me to make up my mind. Idallion was a finished chapter in my life. I finished my meal and declined the offer of a horse, however accepting a flask of water, some dried meat, some herbs and a staff. I took my leave of the Marshal and started along the once proud main street of Idallion, hearing the din of the looting soldiers slowly die away behind me, reaching the outskirts of town and so walking out into the World. An inspiration told me to forget the past and live here and now, not to settle in the murky row of years but to make the day my home.

I strolled out of the town and beheld the mountains in the distance, those lovely beckoning blue ridges. On the spot I composed a poem that summed up my feelings:
Away, away,
heading for that open road
I will find me a palace of golden sunshine,
silvery moonlight, emerald greensward,
topaze cowslip and ruby rose...

Out in the world, away from the barren surroundings of Idallion and off to more fertile lands, lusher and greener; away from this Idallion stinking of Death, heading for Life.

Yea, verily: I would go to more well-watered lands, seek out a beach and there pick some shells, nice shells, make a necklace of them and proffer it – to a little girl passing by, or to a beautiful woman or to the Unknown God, destiny would decide which.

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söndag 20 mars 2011

Golden Age Ahead


I'm a flower of society,
a golden child -
come rule the golden age with me.

Are we on the brink of a golden age, a midsummer century? Yes, I believe that. The new age will begin soon. But it won't be so rosy and cosy to begin with.

There will be a heighetened energy level, a more intense spiritual feeling in the world. But since today most people are materialists and nihilists, this impulse will scare them and lead them to violence and all sorts of negative things. But in the end, after some years of fear, fatigue and hunger, the infidel will be driven to the altars and kneel before God, begging for mercy. Then the new age can come - but only then. You don't get anything for nothing.

The new age will come. We have already seen the birth pains begin: the Jasmine Revolution The Japanese earthquakes are part of the same syndrom. More indications will follow later this year, which is still only in its first quarter. Imagine e g what this years Hajj in Mekka will bring: millions of zealous muslims, amassed in a small space. It will be like Tahrir square 40 times over. Crowd psychology, anyone...?

I'd say: feel the change, feel it in the earth, the wind and the rain, just like Tolkien's Treebeard did. These are the times that try men's souls but stay cool and the victory is half won. The world might burn and civilization might go up in flames, but that's no matter as long as you don't let your mind catch fire.

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lördag 5 februari 2011

Lennart Svensson: Boots On The Ground (short story)


Recently I discussed how a future soldier would be equipped. And here I discussed some other future war-related topics, brought about by some movie. Now I'll take it to the next level: I'll bring you a story of a future war, replete with laserbeaming hearts, riders in the sky and nifty oneliners. It's concluded by a discussion of this and that; there's always that discussion, that school masterly lesson of How Things Are. Tell me Professor... But now, let's make room for Jason Revell and his cronies battling it out in the force fields of tomorrow!

The G-Type sun of Waldaria was beating down. The smell of phosgen, cordite, alkaline lye and ozone lay thick over the bombed-out, surreal landscape. Twisted plasteel and ferro fibre lined the foxhole. On the bottom of the pit lay splinter and fragments of concrete, empty laser batteries, used detonators from q-grenades, rations, water bottles and a periscope.

With his back to the pit wall, catching his breath, company commander Jason Revell was sitting. He was a seasoned combat veteran, a fire-eater and a lover of action. Essentially, he sought rest in action. And now he was in the midst of action in the combat zone, battling it out against man’s fiercest enemy ever: the Raptors, a species of intelligent, humanoid velociraptors.

Revell’s unit was in deep trouble, the enemy could be approaching – so by that he was satisfied, relaxing his whole being. He loved impossible situations like these.

Joining him in the cavity was Oshima, the recon squad leader plus five of his men. They were all armed with laser carbines and dressed in battle suits with purple-and-black camouflage, one of many patterns to be chosen by means of the suit’s nanotechnical properties. The helmets they wore were tight-fitting contraptions, advanced gizmoes with dark vizors functioning as IR, nightvision and whatnot. For now it was day and the vizor just acted as sunshade.

Revell and the recon squad was spearheading the company’s assault into a Raptor strongpoint. After two hours the 80-strong unit had taken a smaller outwork. Its trenches and shelters were rather free from damage, giving the company some breathing space.

But the enemy was approaching, right? Revell had seen some enemy shapes in the forefield before they dug in. So, what to do? He had to take a look.

As intimated a periscope lay on the pit floor. Revell grabbed it and took a peek over the edge – and now things got serious, now he must have really enjoyed himself as the action-lover he was. For what did he see? Verily: he saw giants approaching, ten feet tall Raptors gathering for a counterthrust – enemy soldiers in skirmish line, fierce alien warriors in helmets with protruding snouts and suits in hexagonal camouflage, particle-ray guns at the ready, coming in for the kill in line abreast over the sharply lit landscape, basking in the glory of the G-Type sun.

It all took place during the reconquest of Waldaria. This was the third planet the Raptors took in their heyday, their time of clash with man, their time of conquest and stealing man’s empire. Waldaria, however, became the first to be recaptured by man. Man’s 5th Army was sent there after some pelting from space, some celestial prep fire, and in one of the battle groups Revell’s company was serving. It was, to be precise, Delta Company, Battalion Senkrecht.

But as for now the Raptor enemy was on the way, threatening the very existence of Revell and his men. So what to do? Revell for his part had a 15 rounds MLRS salvo on call, so he simply called the battery and demanded support. This was done by means of the radio integrated in the helmet he wore, the hermetical helmet with infrared and nightvision.

The battery having confirmed, Rayon called his company:

”Company, stay in cover! Incoming!”

- - -

This all took place on Waldaria, February 15, AD 3477, an ordinary-extraodrinary day in the 35th century. Mankind’s 5th Army had landed on the planet, a planet once belonging to him and then taken by the enemy, this Saurian creature called Raptor. The ensuing conflict was called The Raptor War. Now the planet in question, Waldaria, was being regained by man. This particular day was about taking an enemy fortress, a stronghold that the Raptor for some reason chose to defend, right in the middle of nowhere.

The strongpoint for its part consisted of three main emplacements in the middle, supported by outworks.

The battalion had been brought to the fortress by quibble, unloaded, and been given support from heavy laser gunships. Then Revell’s company had converged from two directions on the first outer work, the platoons and squads giving and demanding support, angulating their lasers to be able to knock out enemy force fields. Saps were taken and parallels cleared.

And now the Raptor had gathered for a counterstrike. But Revell had called the rocket artillery, the MLRS, the Multiple Launch Rocket System unit deploying some five kilometers to their rear. Soon it whizzed in the air above them and the men ducked. There was a burst and a shaking of the ground. The splinter from the rocket grenades did no harm to the Raptors’ battle suits, Revell knew that. But the shockwave from the impact of the salvoes floored them, knocking the lizards down.

When Revell had counted to 15 impacts he ordered his closest unit, the recon squad, to go forth and clear the premises. Led by Oshima the five men rushed out of the cover, up a ladder, and on to a rampart where they deployed and rolled out a net of laser. Then Revell called for 1st Platoon who caught the Raptors from another angle.

The enemy counterstrike was quelled. The company moved on into the maze of the enemy strongpoint, a veritable fortress. Soon Alpha Company was digging in next to a rampart, a seemingy impenetrable body of steel concrete. Revell looked at the ridge from his hideout in a ditch, scrutinizing every meter. On the right end of the works he got to see a shrubbery that had remained unscathed through the prep fire; this could be used as concealement. And the works itself was damaged, showing an aperture where an inroad could be made.

He called the battalion commander. The connection was bad, nothing was heard for a while. Revell lay down on his back and looked at the clouds scudding across the sky. The smell of cordite and phosgen was ever present.

Then suddenly a voice was heard in Revell’s earpiece:

”Caesar Bravo, I read. Over.”

”This is Sigma Two,” Revell said. ”We have found a means to make an inroad to the fortress.”

He went on to tell the battalion commander his plan. They were at the centre of the enemy’s stronghold, having it surrounded by two other companies of the battalion. But these two had been halted in their advances, so the battalion commander gave these the orders to bind the defences while Revells unit broke through.

So the others bound it. And Revell’s company found a crack in the hull, an aperture through which they could sneak in and wreck havoc. Thus the whole of the fortress was cleared, but the actual piece of terrain that the battalion had to conquer wasn’t safe by that, oh no – for now the Raptors launched another counterstrike, a massive, all-out deluge of electron rays and flying rectangles, the latter being their particular form of flying vessels, drone aircraft that seemed to be everywhere.

The battalion distributed itself in a 360 degree defense north of the fortress, in rocky ground that made for good cover and concealment, and for a good overview of the stony field over which the enemy attacked. And using their utmost skill in laser marksmanship they pinpointed and took down most of the rectangles by saturating their force fields with fire from several carbines. As for the enemy in the field Revell wished that he had had some more of that MLRS support, be he had already exhausted his quota and so had the other companies.

So the enemy attacked them rushing over the open ground seemingly on their way to crush them.

However, the onrushing enemy infantry had nowhere to take cover in the field. Revell and the other company commanders told their men to aim and fire, working in pairs and angulating their targets. And the enemies became somewhat easy targets for Revell’s marksmen.

”Captain! On your right!”

Revell insinctively got his laser carbine ready and fired to his right. There a ten feet tall figure in hex camouflage was standing poiting his gun at him. At the same time as Revell’s laserbeam hit the creature the other guy, Oshima, the one who had warned Revell for this last danger, this last enemy infiltrating their position after the onrush over the open stone field; at the same time Oshima’s laser carbine got going, thus hitting the alien with two rays simultaneously. The beams from both Revell’s and Oshima’s weapon knocked out the Raptor’s force field grilling him on the spot, leaving only charred remains.

The battalion had carried the day. Next they were airlifted out, meeeting on their way back to the base photon gunships giving the beaten enemy and his knocked-out fortress a last treatement of energy beams and fragmentation bombs. The battalion returned to base for some rest and recuperation before next day’s fighting, eventually clearing the whole planet from its occupying Raptors, those thieving aliens having robbed the planet from Man in the first place. Man took back Waldaria and then the other two planets, chasing the Raptor away from what was rightfully his and restoring his stellar Republic.

- - -

There you go, the war was won in the end. That aside you might ask: all this fighting on the ground, was that indeed the war of the future? Were are all the fancy rocketmen, flying around like stinging bees, jumping from spot to spot like butterflies?

Well, therein lies the problem with these guys, their being all over the place. As any student of miltary history knows, what can be seen can be hit, and what can be hit can be killed. And that was Man’s lodestar when he had to create an army out of nothing, a fighting force to meet the Raptor threat. It was out of the question having soldiers with spiffy jetpacks flying around throwing bombs; that’s how many pictured themselves Space War Infanty back then, but sadly it wouldn’t work. These rocket boys made conspicuous targets, prone to be blown out of the sky in no time. True, there were force fields, but these could absorb just a certain amount of energy.

So man had to stop dreaming and start from scratch. He had to learn to fight on the ground, that was rule number one, the general clause behind fighting this war. Not so glamorous maybe but what can you do.

This much I proclaim, this much I state: the Raptor War had to be fought planetside, had to be won by boots on the ground. It was ”the muddy, bloody business of infantry warfare” once again and Man was learning it the hard way.

As I’ve already told you interstellar Man met the Raptor in the 35th century and war broke out pretty fast. It had nothing particular to do with them being aliens; Man had met more peaceful aliens before that, like the Musseronians and the Idallians. Anyhow: Man had been thrown into a war and he had no army. The enemy had taken three of his seven planets and he had to take them back – but how?

Item 1: he had to have an army, to simply have a spacefleet wouldn’t do. The navy could support the army by transports and spatial bombardment, but to get down on the planets and force the Alien to sign the papers of surrender, Man needed boots on the ground.

And that brings us to Item 2: as hinted he had to have soldiers that fought and traveled on the ground, they couldn’t fly around like stinging bees. They had to have cover and concealement from terrain features.

Item 3: the armament. In the 35th century laser weapons were common so a military variety, a laser personal weapon was developed in no time. The enemy had energy weapons too and against that a force field was needed, which was developed in a couple of weeks.

But the force field had, as intimated, some limits. Because of a feature called angulation, which was detected at this time, two or more energy beams, fired at the correct angle, could knock out the field. One ray hitting the field would simply get absorbed; two rays, however, saturated the field and made it to collapse. And as I said a solider with a jetpack, roaming the skies like a bird, was a conspicuous target.

Item 4: support. You can’t make war with personal laser guns only. You need weapons with effects like shock, splinter, and smoke too. So Man developed rocket artillery, heavy lasers, sound screens to protect the units from heavy enemy fire, and so on.

Item 5: movement. The soldiers couldn’t simply walk to the battle zone. As the star fleet had shipped the units to the world in question you had to get some atmospherical transport, and that was made by vessels soaring by means of crystal magnets and protected by force fields. I know the first rule (what can be seen can be hit etc) applies to these quibbles too, but they had heavier weaponry than the single soldier; they could defend themselves in aerial combat, pick out targets on the ground and silence them, and that was more than a poor, lonely soldier with a jetpack could do.

And with that you have the principles for an army; firepower, movement and protection, 35th century style.

And the gist of it all would be that fighting on the ground was what brought us victory. Or rather: we couldn’t do without it, as some people thought at the beginning of the war. They figured that a sound bombardment from space would make the enemy to yield, but they were wrong in that respect. Bombing a planet from space releases fearsome powers, true, but there’s always the possibility to take cover from the onslaughts in underground caves and hideouts. And you can’t bomb every square kilometer. There’s a mathematical limit to the distruction you can cause with bombing. It’s called the law of dimishing marginal returns. Maybe it’s an economical axiom, but it works in other areas too, like space bombing: your first, say, ten loads of megaton cubicles may raze a city to the ground, but what with the next ten? Rubble is rubble, you can’t destroy it anymore. But in the meantime sufficient parts of the enemy army might be hiding in its shelters, 50 meters under ground, just waiting for you to land your army. Unless you do that, unless you go down there and face him, the enemy is unconquered.

Thus you need boots on the ground to win a war. Primarily you need spatial forces in order to give the enemy a reasonable dose of space bombing, and then some naval vessels to protect the bomb force and the troop transport, and space rangers for local security. But to gain ultimate victory you have to get down on the hostile planet and face the enemy in hands-on combat, as I have shown in this story.

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Virtual Guru

torsdag 2 december 2010

The Northlandic Strain


Sweden is divided into three parts: Götaland in the south, Svealand in the middle and Norrland in the north.

As for myself I live in Norrland. I live in the county of Angermanland by the Bothnian Sea. And some 40 years ago I was born in the county of Lapland, situated inland and to the north-west of Angermanland.

Both Lapland and Angermanland are northern provinces. They are both part of NORRLAND. Now this Norrland is a mythical part of Sweden just like Scotland of the Bristish Isles or, say, Texas or some other rough-hewn part of the U. S.

I'm a Northlander. "En norrlänning" as we say. And many Swedes from Göta- and Svealand wish they were Northlanders. They envy us our Biblical erudition, a classic trait here: archaic tales of Northland farmers citing the Bible ever and anon, that's a fine heritage of ours.

Example of Svealand people wishing they were Northlanders are the poet Gunnar Ekelöf and the sculptor Anders Åberg. The former wrote some poems about the log cabins, the rosy hue of the winter evenings and the waves beating the shores of the Laplandic lakes. The latter, Anders Åberg, was born in Stockholm but moved to Angermanland some years ago, starting a cultural theme park called MANNAMINNE. It's got old buildings, a tramway, a museum etc. It's a life-size piece of art, mirroring the wooden objets d'art of a more manageable size that made him famous in the first place. One of these are to be seen at Arlanda Domestic Airport ("Inrikes"), showcasing the nearby town of Sigtuna in a pillar of wooden houses.

Anyhoo: Mr. Åberg fell in love with Norrland and then moved here, and now he's a local hero. Mannaminne is a focal point for culture and goodtime, for "believing in your heritage" and all that, a fine mix of traditionalism and modernism, built log by log by Mr. Åberg himself. I must go and visit that Mannaminne some time. Website here.

So how shall I conclude this? Well, as an illustration of my Northlandic strain I might give you a poem about my Laplandic creed, called "My voyage". It's got some references to Carlos Castaneda, a great traditionalist in his own right.

My voyage began in the heart of Lapland
among drumming noids and yoiking saamis.

I danced to the rythm, sang to the northern light,
praised my creator and began my journey.

I lived among the flowers and the trees,
I read about gurus past and present,
and skimming the shelves of fantastic libraries
I found the Book of Books.

It was about a man in the moon
who flew with crows, talked
with lizards and danced with Zacateca.

He jumped into an abyss, listened
to the flowers and talked with
a coyote. He was human.

The voyage continues. In the misty Andees
there is a beverage called "the black gold";
I have drunken it - and I have seen the promised land...

I'm just a human - I'm just a human -
I'm just a human - I'm just a human being...

Every day I brew some of that fluent gold
on my Brewmatic, and dream of condors
and eagles, silver crows, and giant butterflies
with golden dust on their wings.

My collection of Castaneda books dwells safely
on my shelf. The Laplandic sceneries of my youth
is always with me. The black gold is still worth seeking.

The voyage continues...


(Picture from Mannaminne with a trolley car in front of a Angermanlandic threshing house)