Thursday, February 17, 2005

Me, My Mother and the NWO

Me, My Mother, and the NWO
by Lisa Guliani

I just got off the phone with my mother. The conversation left me numb. Why? Because my mother is asleep, or mostly asleep when it comes to what's going on in America. My mother can't allow herself to absorb my words because my words unnerve her. They make her mentally freak out. I speak of those who really drive the U.S. government and shape public policy. I might as well be talking backwards. My mother is not a mentally deficient person - just a brainwashed person. When I try to tell her of the Bush-bin Laden family connections, she says nothing. Hello, are you in there, Mom? I describe the Bilderbergs. I tell her of the Bush family's past history of funding Hitler and the Nazis, and she responds with, What happened to you? You were never this radical before. Are we having the same conversation here, Mom? I tell her that our government not only facilitated the events of 9-11, but they - along with the media - have engaged in a massive cover-up and have deceived the American people. I explain things slowly. My mother replies with, Whatever you say.

I tell her the television is a conditioning tool with repetitive stories on every channel. My mother says she sees "different" stories because she watches FOX, the History Channel and National Geographic. Okaaay, I ask her to name one news story on television that she would classify as 'different'. I'm still waiting for an answer. She does finally get around to asking me (in a snotty way) who is running the government, if not her precious 'W'. I point her toward the PNAC and people like Wolfowitz, Perle, Kissinger, Kristol, Krauthammer, Cheney, etc. I bring up the CIA and some of the fun stuff they've been into over the past few years. I use the words "global elites" and "international bankers".

She tells me she ADMIRES the PNAC men, although until I told her, she had never heard of the PNAC. The first wave of nausea sweeps over me. Hellooo, Mother. Anybody in there?

I tell her we are close to war with Iran. She says, GOOD! We should bomb them. I have to hold my breath and count to ten before responding to this or I'll scream at her. I count to ten by two's, hoping to quell the second wave of nausea. I systematically list all the reasons why - NO, Mom - war with Iran is not 'good'. I point out how different war with Iran will be if it comes to that. I point to their intact military and their size, their larger population, the fact that they haven't suffered from 13 years of UN sanctions. I point to their potential use of nuclear weapons against us. I use the word 'bloodbath' because it's very vivid and my mother can picture that. She was a nurse back when her brain worked. I add, "We may get more war than we bargained for if we attack Iran, Mom." I talk about central banks in Iraq and Afghanistan and Bush's axis of evil. My mother says our troops are not ready because they're tired. I tell her they're tired because they're stretched thin all over the globe in more than 140 countries to protect the interests of international bankers. Our national defense is being misused. She asks what is wrong with me, rather than seeing what is wrong with this scenario. My mother thinks our troops are where they should be, because 'W' told her so when he read off the teleprompter. She asks suspiciously, Who have you been talking to? I fought the urge to say "Elvis." This would have been the perfect moment for her to accuse me once again of being in a cult, but she took a pass. Tonight, she settled for screaming at me in her head.

This woman who gave birth to me believes the talking heads on FOX news. FOX is different, she says. The third wave of nausea hits me. My mom says quite firmly that she is aware of what's going on in America. She's aware because Bill O'Really keeps her informed. God help us. I'm taking chances by trying to have this discussion with her. We don't speak often. We probably won't talk for a long time after tonight - as in years - so I have to give it my best shot. The level of mental conditioning in my parents is astounding to me because they are smart people. I try not to condemn them for voting for Bush, but frankly, it's embarrassing and inexplicable. It would be different if they didn't have all the political books we've sent, which they do. It would be different if they didn't know me. Then again, they don't want to know me. I grew up to be too "radical".

I'll cut her some slack for not reading the books we've sent her because she needs cataract surgery. Maybe in March, after the surgery, she'll pick up a book again. If she does, it will likely be some slobbering epic multi-generational love story. She actually takes notes when she reads those books. She can't handle our books. They're too radical. She says to me, Well, I suppose the next thing you're going to tell me is that the holocaust never happened. I start to go there, but then I decide to tell her how the Zionists betrayed the Jews in Europe, and what's really going on between the Israelis and Palestinians. I get into the American Union, FTAA, the Patriot Act and illegal immigration. I hit everything but anti-hate speech legislation and unrepatriated POWs. Man, I'm on a roll because I can't believe she let me get this far without slamming the phone down. So I push the envelope of her patience. I broach the subject of Skull & Bones and ask her if she wants to know the initiation rite 'W' participated in. She says, No, I don't want to know. I didn't think so. I tell her anyway.

I return to the slightly more palatable subject of Zionists within our government and media and mention the story of Israel's deliberate attack on the USS LIBERTY in 1967, thinking maybe my mother will have sympathy for NAVY men, being that my father is also a former Navy man. She takes a deep, heavy breath at this point, which I correctly interpret as exasperation. The lack of argument is still a good sign and spurs me onward. No dial tone yet. It's not often my mother's words fail her, even when she's dead wrong. After all, she's Sicilian. I then tell her how and why the Israelis killed Rachel Corrie and how the U.S. government constantly gives Israel a free pass on their crimes, not to mention tons of U.S. taxpayer dollars. I relate how Israel engages in terrorist activity with U.S. approval, and how all this is being done brazenly, openly and shamelessly. I tell her our government is betraying Americans and our leaders are guilty of treason. Her voice becomes louder and she tries to yell over my voice. Where are you getting this crap? So far, so good. Yelling is better than the dial tone, so I'll accept that. This is how we communicate nowadays.

I then figure, what the hell and jump into the deep end of the pool (as far as my folks are concerned). I say 'IRS'. This is TABOO in my family because once-upon-a-time many years ago my parents were audited. This audit traumatized them for LIFE. It destroyed them. They won't even whisper 'IRS,' think aloud 'IRS' thoughts, or God-forbid - dream 'IRS' nightmares. This is the final straw on my mother's camel. Her brain - and this conversation - simultaneously implode. All discussion abruptly ceases. I envision her clutching rosary beads in one hand and Xanax in the other, mouthing a silent novena, praying for God to remove my vocal chords. There will be NO talk - ZERO - of 'IRS', not in my family, not in this life or the next. My parents have erased 'IRS' from their vocabularies. They refuse to acknowledge its existence, except when writing that 'check' on April 15th. On the 'IRS', my parents know I'm right, but they're too freaked out of their minds with fear to venture into any sort of intelligent discussion about it. I scare the hell out of them because I won't shut the hell up about how criminal it is. When they have nightmares, I play the leading role. In real time, they dutifully disavow any knowledge of me - ya know, just in case anybody comes knocking... Lisa who? Never heard of her... I can picture it.

Still, I tell my mother about "Freedom Drive" and the time we went to Washington to hear former IRS agents give speeches about IRS crimes against the American people, and to march in protest around the federal buildings. She says, When were you in Washington, and why would you want to do that? Figure it out, Mom. Like I never mentioned it. Guess she doesn't remember that particular conversation, or the article I wrote and sent to her describing it in detail. What's my name, Mom? I tell her (again) that the FED is a privately-owned, for-profit corporation and not 'federal' in any way, shape or form. She begins to stammer and sputter as I go on about how domestically earned income within the U.S. is not supposed to be taxed, and so on. I move on to the Fed banking cartel. Her breathing is becoming more rapid. I hear a huge gasp, like she just sucked in wind. She's probably trying to take her own pulse. Suddenly, I find myself cut off in mid-sentence. The party's over. I don't believe what you're saying, she tells me. And I don't believe that for a minute, Mom. My mother hates the IRS with a razor-sharp Sicilian passion. So I shoot back with, "What do I have to gain by lying to you about all this stuff?" She has no answer. There is no answer. Again, I'm tempted to ask, "What's my name?" Better yet, what's your name?"

I can feel her anxiety seeping through the receiver. It happens every time I resurrect my 'radical' self into their lives when they'd rather I stay dead. I know this time, for about 15 minutes, she heard me, sorta. Then I lost her. They wear a scarlet "A" on their chests. "A" as in Audit. My father chooses not to get on the telephone with me at all. He doesn't chat with 'radical' dead people.

The books we sent them - The New World Order Exposed, The New World Order Illusion, America Before the Fall, 9-11 Exposed, and Hunters of Souls - are never acknowledged, and probably never opened. The covers alone probably make them hyperventilate. They never acknowledge the links to information in the e-mails I send. I might as well e-mail Bush. At least I'd get a warm, fuzzy auto-generated response from him. I've just sent them some links to radio interviews Victor Thorn and I recently did for his new book, 9-11 On Trial. My mother says she hasn't been on her computer for a year. Like I'm buying that b.s. She won't even turn it on to hear me on the radio? Who am I, Mom? I tell her to have my father, the ghost, check them out. Weakly and unconvincingly, she says Okay, but he's not going to do it now. He will never do it. I then catch her on something she should know very well, but apparently she's forgotten. Either that or it's the brain drugs she's chewing on. Brain drugs make you forget who you are, as well as a zillion other useful bits of important information. My mother has forgotten how long it takes to cremate a body. She used to know this stuff. My father was a funeral director for more than 30 years. My mother knows damn well knew how long it takes to cremate a body. She's watched bodies being cremated, for God's sake. I tell her that over 1000 bodies were vaporized on 9-11 at the World Trade Center towers and couldn't be identified. I asked her what she thought about that, considering my previous discussion with her about controlled demolition at Ground Zero on that day. She starts screaming at me. Whoa, there's life in there after I tell her how long it takes to cremate a body at temperatures over 500 degrees. Her voice is high-pitched and shrill. She argues indignantly and incorrectly. She says, That is NOT TRUE! Ask your father! I say, "Sure, let's ask him." Of course, this doesn't happen. She refuses to put him on the phone; and remember, he doesn't get down with the dead. He just embalms them and sticks them in a box. It's no use pushing the point. I've planted some more seeds in my mother's mind. Good enough for now. Later, I send her the cremation info in an e-mail, directly from a funeral home website, which totally substantiates what she denied. She will never read it. But my father will. He'll just shake his head and mutter to himself what a crazy bitch I've become.

She says she is listening, but who knows. I assure her that I know how difficult this stuff is to hear, to absorb, to digest and to believe. I urge her to read, read, read and not to simply 'believe' anyone - even me. I tell her my name for good measure. Part of her is still alive in there somewhere. De-programming is virtually impossible with someone who is zonked on anti-depressants and sleeping meds. My mother's reality is far different from mine.

Our phone call ends like this: I love you dearly, but I don't want to talk about politics with you. I don't ever want to discuss politics with you - especially over the phone. Fear and paranoia. I lost her. Conversation over. Click. The dreaded dial tone.

I've spent the last few years telling people every single day that they must not live in fear. Fear paralyzes and dictates behavior if allowed to consume your thoughts. If it rules your brain, it will consume your life. The only thing that terrifies me: I cannot wake up my parents.


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