The Worm Turning; The Worms Squirming
‘The most damaged survive today as limbless trunks, others whose legs and arms were reduced to digital “flipper” extrusions from the shoulder...’ – Harold Evans on Thalidomide's casualties
Diary of a Dissenter: A Week From My Window.
SUNDAY. We head into the cithole centre to have lunch with some visiting friends — all women, as it happens — from Italy, Hungary, England and Brazil, whom we had not seen for several years. These are sharp and highly successful people, mostly members of a particular Catholic lay-movement. But the lunch would have been an eye-opener had we been buying in with anything more than mild optimism to talk of A Great Awakening.
Everyone is warm and friendly, but there is a slight edge to things, which sharpens perceptibly when the conversation touches on certain topics. The recent funeral of Pope Benedict XVI is one example: They love, or used to love, him very much, but now this love has a jagged edge because of the brooding presence of Bergoglio in the chair of Peter. Their movement is pro-papacy, regardless of incumbent, so they fall silent at any broaching of topics like Benedict’s dramatic abdication, the strange shifts and lurches things have taken in the past decade, the bizarre statements of the man claiming to be pope, and so forth.
But we keep things non-committal on those topics, and so it is de Covid that eventually threatens to end the lunch prematurely. We had marked them in advance as likely deplorables, but alas!, these good people have not the faintest notion what’s been happening in the world. I have a policy of not broaching the topic, but also, when the fictional drift of the conversation reaches a certain indeterminate pitch of delusion, of implementing my iron rule: If they don’t know, you have to tell them.
So I do. This part of the conversation kicks off with Rita contributing to a discussion about air travel and the information that we are currently prohibited from entering the US, on account of being unjabbed, triggering some eggshell-walking. I stay out of it as long as I can, until it becomes clear that our guests are all either totally on board with the vax mandates or are keeping schtum.
Eventually, unable to live with the deafening thunder of my own silence, I respond to some standard-issue orthodoxy with the observation that it is the fake vaccines that are killing people, having unleashed the highest West-wide spike in mortality since WWII. A pin drops in the manner of a tray of crystal champagnes glasses. The only person present whom I have not met previously sniggers noticeably (you know that, ‘Oh, one of those conspiracy theorists!’ snigger) and declares: ‘I totally disagree with you!’ I respond that it is not a matter of agreeing or disagreeing, since what I have just said is not my opinion but pure fact as iterated by numerous doctors and scientists over the past nearly two years, and now being stated on a daily basis by undertakers, embalmers and insurance agents. I relate, as conversationally as I can, the tale of Dr Aseem Malhotra, the cardiologist who lost his father to the mRNA poison, and recently went on the BBC to talk about statins, managing to lob several truth-grenades, along the lines of what I have just indicated, before being escorted from the building. Our grinning friend responds that she knows ‘lots of doctors and nurses’ who say otherwise. Yes, I observe, and isn’t it interesting that one side of this non-argument is being pushed entirely by actors who are being paid for their troubles by those with an interest in purveying the lies? She flashes me that ‘Tin foil hat!’ smile again, so I politely ask her why, if the ‘facts’ are so settled as she appears to believe, it was necessary for one half of the discussion to be amputated at the beginning. No reply. They have learned that not saying anything is sufficient: The argument can only be lost by engagement on the facts.
It emerges that the rest of the group share the grinning woman’s opinion, though less forcibly. One of them tells me that her family is ‘split down the middle’ on these questions, and she has a scientist friend who says similar things to what I have just said, but she has not been able to accept it. Slightly encouraged, I deliver a short, informal but informative seminar on what I call the ‘Rancourt Spike’ — that inverted icicle of mortality that occurred in multiple jurisdictions in April 2020: the die-off of thousands upon thousands of helpless elderly people from stress, panic, loneliness and misapplication of end-of-life sedatives. I expand my focus a little from the idea that this has anything to do with public health, though more cautiously to avoid breaking up the party, explaining about the Covid project and the role in it of BlackRock and its charming CEO, Mr Larry Fink. The woman with the scientist friend as crazy as me looks me in the eye and says; ‘John, you know what you are saying sounds like the plot of a B-movie?’ I meet her gaze and see she means it well: Somewhere deep in herself, sometime(s) over the past three years, perhaps, she has wondered about these things, but, finding no affirmation for her doubts, has swallowed them for an easier life. She is asking me to say something that will confirm her own thoughts. I respond that this is precisely how I felt for the past three years: as though I am living through a bad movie in which the main parts are all played by very bad actors — in both senses. I ask her to consider the box-office appeal of all the dystopian movies she has ever seen: Their pull on the human imagination is surely, I suggest, that the idea of such things happening for real is at least a possibility. The novel, the several movies, called 1984 could not have become such powerful tropes in our culture had they not borne at least some element of plausibility. Well, I say, here we are now. This is the moment all these books and movies have been portending. She looks at me in what is either utter disbelief or the beginnings of realisation, and says something about needing to have another chat with her scientist friend.
After a little more back-and-forth, it becomes clear that none of these people know anything about what has been happening, except what they have been permitted to know by the shamestream media. None of them has heard of ‘gain of function’ or the WEF — the bunch of cockroaches who are setting themselves up to ‘master ze future’. It is a sobering moment of encounter with the reality of the propagandised masses in the raw state.
But the grinning woman who does not agree with me is smirking with the smugness of an RTE newsreader, and this is a more powerful trope in our culture than a whole constellation of facts, or whole libraries of books by Orwell. It is one of the benefits a corrupt culture confers on the obedient: that they do not need to argue anymore than they are required to think for themselves. She can simply rest on the billions of dollars and euros and poundsworths of publicly-funded propaganda that have been unleashed into our cultures so that she need do nothing other than nod toward the serried lines of the chorus of doctors and nurses and other purchased ‘experts’, who, for three whole years, have been dismantling the fixtures and fittings of our culture and civilisation in order to protect their own asses and assets — and grin.
My question about why they needed to close down one side of the argument was a rhetorical one. The background radiation to our conversation speaks loudly of the reason: They needed to stop the truth being spoken, or, if blurted notwithstanding, ridiculed, shunned and dismissed. This is why the ‘fahr right’ is deemed to be dangerous: not because it is far but because it is right. ‘Disinformation’ — ‘this (actual) information’ — is to be suppressed because it might alert you to the official criminality, and thereby save your life.
In the warp and weave of our conversation it is possible to detect the imposed condescension that has glued the lies together for the past three years, almost magically conferring the compliant with an aura of superiority and authority, and placing the dissenter on the back foot. This is actually wondrous to behold, for it is something that previously existed as such a faint trace in our culture that you might have perceived it only in the context of media discussions, and then only fleetingly, accidentally. It strikes me briefly as analogous to the way it has been possible for many years for someone arguing against God to win out over someone speaking in profound philosophical terms by simply smirking into his microphone. Now, shifted to a more earthbound contest, the quality of hard factuality acquired by industrial lies — involuntarily financed by those who will become its victims — ‘informs’ every conversation, colouring all participants in precisely the colours they have been allotted by the puppet-masters. The defender of the narrative has the benefits of a force somewhat akin to gravity: invisible but persistent, and providing a constant added propulsion to everything uttered in its slipstream. Dissenters, on the other hand, must defeat the gravitational weight of the propaganda before they can even begin to overcome the unacknowledged handicap that assails them. Hence, they are unable to avoid appearing to be arguing gratuitously in a vacuum, while the adherents of the orthodoxies simply sit there, offering nothing but their grins. The more the dissenter seeks to suggest himself as having a valid viewpoint, the more he seems to announce his conspiracism and — the thought inevitably follows — probable paranoia. Mostly it happens in the silences and pauses, the knowing smiles essayed as though surreptitiously into napkins. This is the pseudo-reality simply rearing up at the appropriate moment, saying or doing very little, merely standing there as though it is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
Can you win? You cannot win. You feel defeated because you are defeated, though not by argument, simply by the way things are set up. It would take a seismic change in the configuration of the wider debate, and a total awakening of the sleeping innocents, to change this. Nothing you can say can have any effect but to deepen the certainty felt by those who have swallowed the narrative.
You have two choices: Go into full public prosecutor mode, spelling facts and data as though regurgitating your lunch (a very bad idea) or closing the discussion down as though you have been defeated.
There is the additional difficulty in such situations, whereby in seeking to illuminate the dangers of the pseudo-vaccines, you are almost invariably going to run into the cognitive dissonance of those who have taken the jab and are anxious to keep at bay the terror that would undoubtedly accompany the dawning of reality. I change the subject, hoping that I have at least planted a seed or two. But, as Nick Cave [...] says, hope is ‘optimism with a broken heart.’
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Source: johnwaters.substack.com. Image: © Michael Kemp (Pinterest)
AWIP: http://www.a-w-i-p.com/index.php/2023/01/24/the-worm-turning-the-worms-squirming
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RE: "The Worm Turns": idiom used to describe when a person or group of people who have been treated badly for a long time suddenly become forceful and stop accepting a difficult situation (Cambridge dictionary)
