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An American Writer Who Broke The Dark Code In 1980, Of What Ails Americans, And How It Happened
"Probably the most extreme work of non fiction The New Yorker ever published"
“The magnet moves underneath the pattern, the pattern of American life.”
George W.S. Trow
We all feel it, but don’t know how to describe it.
Disembodiment, disintegration, trying to weave carpets of fact and truth, as though this would confer protection or flight.
Mechanics of a truth or essence of a truth?
Tomas Tranströmer described truth as a jellyfish, which “loses all form” when lifted out of the sea in a poem called Baltics, that laments formlessness, and truthlessness. If form is lost, truth is lost.
September 11 is an annual ritual of Americans coming together to compare parts and shards of the great American Psy Op with one another, as we assume Native Americans once shared beads. Then we retreat again to our corners. No consolation or apology is ever issued by the greatest military strength in the world, to her children. Have you ever thought of that?
The American message is grandiosity and lovelessness, with Joe Biden at the helm, eating an ice cream cone in aviator glasses, stumbling long, deaf to not only the cries of all this nation’s citizens, but those of his own children. He seems to love Zelensky. As for you, get your damn shots.
Your ‘parents’ are always at a parade, a parade about compassion, starring them. There would never be any discussion of American citizens receiving any actual compassion. But they might on occasion be pulled onto a parade float. If, say, they had mutilated their bodies, dyed their hair, or in some way knew how exactly to be the right kind of agitprop. That was how far American children would go for attention, and what they took to be love.
Our Government Hates Us, But It’s Nothing Personal
Seeking truth is a consolation prize that offers no consolation, and doesn’t answer the question we’re really asking.
So we dig and reveal, dig and reveal.
Here’s what does not go away, even if we were to solve one of these (gigantic Psy Ops:)
How deeply we were manipulated. And the complete and harrowing absence of anybody who cares.
Manipulated by what?
Toilers Whose Toil Never Ceases
Whatever Big Lie story it was, I felt like a tailor whose pants always had one leg only.
Over and over. I was finally able to see what I was missing, which was the “everything” behind all the “somethings.”
Our obsession with getting “facts right” has been sold to us (even by each other) as equivalent to knowing a deep truth, the one that contains the whole code. But lately, we speak of “rabbit holes,” where we disappear into an even more advanced form of disconnected loneliness. Sometimes you stumble across something and a bunch of pieces fit together, but nothing you find has any power, since remorse is extinct here.
An example: Around 11 pm last night, I discovered the lost jellyfish of the Obama Op, 2023. I was baited with something mis-directional yesterday. I was aware I was supposed to engage in Gay Obama 2023; I was aware I didn’t care about Gay Obama, and I was aware that Gay Obama was important to the Baiters. But also to Tucker.
“Tucker knows what he’s doing,” I thought. “What’s he doing?”
Larry Sinclair held a press conference in 2012, and his story is known.
Then, after a rudimentary online search, I discovered what Gay Obama as an object of focus sends into the blurry background. Something not important and pseudo-scandalous obscures something genuinely dark that would interfere greatly with our mythos.
Larry Sinclair is not here to tell us that Obama is gay and used coke. Nor Tucker.
Many people, including Chicago based mega-investigator of journalism, John Crewdson, know what the actual Chicago issue is. Go to Amazon and punch in “Larry Sinclair,” and look at his (out of print) book. Behold the title, and read the reviews.
Go to YouTube (if you wish to understand why Gay Obama is not the story) and punch in “Larry Sinclair National Press Club.” After that event, in 2012, at which Sinclair spoke tremblingly and for a near hour, including questions, before a mostly hostile press, something happened that was quite chilling, and entirely unknown.
Sinclair was arrested, right after, on site, and charged with a theft crime that had not taken place, on the order of , Beau Biden, then Attorney General of Delaware.
“How did I not know that?” You wonder.
That’s the story. That’s the jellyfish.
The deep pattern of all we “know” and all we don’t know, and how exactly, it began as mythology, fed to you as fragments that “made no sense.”
(I’m going to let you find it, as this is “not about” that which has been so deftly concealed from us about Obama, and what exactly required damage control in 2007, in Chicago.)
Two were executions, one was something else. The three dead men had something in common. They attended a particular church in Chicago. This church had all kinds of things going on that weren’t all that Church-ish. I’ll leave it at that. David Axelrod fixed it, and it got fixed.
Over the last 24 hours, I realized that the “truth” about September 11 and the “truth” about Barack Obama, are linked.
And September 11 and Obama (himself) are not the “point” unless and until the thing that made us think the way we do about September 11 and Obama is dealt with.
September 11 and Barack Obama are as the Bazooka Joe cartoon in which a man is searching for his lost watch beneath the only streetlight that works.
Why do you think mass media’s central demand is that you engage in its (from left to right) roiling hunts for the “truth” about a person?
They want you to think one man ruins the nation. One man saves it.
Now, many years too late, we stand ruined, (broke, broken, homeless, starving, Fentanyl addled, children having their sex organs removed to bond with their loveless parents) as the apparatus at last allows some “truth” about Barack Obama. (The man is not the story, and not important. The making of the saint, and the protection of his Emperor’s garb, is.)
O foolish Galatians! Who has bewitched you?
“The magnet moves underneath the pattern, the pattern of American life.”
Obama Gay and even Obama Communist agent “Renegade,” believe it or not, are not the story.
How do these things happen at the Happen Factory?
How are we bewitched— by what perfect blighting machine?
How did we come to accept, immediately, that Obama was a saint come to deliver us from our old wounds of racism? How did we come to accept that Tony Fauci was an all-knowing father of “science” who would shield us from death, by speaking gibberish on television every night? Even as we died and died and died, his expertise and wisdom were never in question, except by crazy people. He’s our cold, cold father.
[“Public Health” is a thing that does not exist, which you are asked to believe in.]
How did we come to accept that two planes struck the World Trade Towers, or, years earlier, that two missiles did not strike TWA flight 800. What two missiles? The missiles that did exist (radar) were vanished and the planes that did not (in my estimate) were conjured.
Well, we can drop dead for all they care, and many are.
When we say: “This happened,” or “that happened,” we are invoking things largely conjured. Still, we keep at it. We don’t try to make contact with the history of the conjuring or the conjurers.
It’s not enough to say: “We’re in the Matrix.” Or “Forget left and right.”
It’s near impossible to get anything fully right, and even when we do, there is no discharge of the lie burden.
It’s not because of any lack of fact finding skills, but for not being able to look at, (and not look away from) the vast big pattern, or the animating (dark) spirits that established the pattern, well over 100 years ago. We were designed to be a nation whose people would become trapped in gigantic tapestries of lies and gaslighting—but aware of Taylor Swift’s choice of sequined miniskirt last night. My “newsfeed” on Yahoo is virtually all celebrity clothing choices, coupled with up to the minute details about how “the internet” reacted.
The magnet and the pattern, unchanging.
We can’t even see or hear or know anything from Biden’s heroic War In Ukraine?
We didn’t choose this, it was imposed. This is why—agents, bankers, Illuminists, Jesuits, Nazis and Communists aside—we could never understand what was happening to us, to our country, and to everything we once knew, cherished, or enjoyed. Everything felt like it was disintegrating.
One American writer saw it, 43 years ago—America’s actual “problem” maybe even sole problem— flags, plots, and identity politics aside.
A common trope of late is to “forget about left and right.”
George W.S. Trow was beyond left and right. Beyond parlor theories, or New Age theories, or “anti-science” theories about what had afflicted us. The kind of writer that returns from the hunt maimed and half mad.
He confronted the “whole thing,” that was attacking us, and it was actually not a “he” or a “they” or a singular deep plot one could locate and expose.
Something was being done to us, that was slowly but surely pulverizing. It was an inside job. It was an invisible whale in our midst, which nobody could ever find, catch up with, catch, or quantify.
Trow was that whale’s Ahab.
”No one has been able to describe the scale, as it was experienced.”
—George W.S. Trow
He resigned from The New Yorker, in the Tina Brown era, and I used to think whoever did that was was a snob, but I was dead wrong. And this is the absolute least of our problems. And even Tina Brown would seem like a miracle, on today’s lanscape.
“The Most Extreme Work Of Non Fiction The New Yorker Ever Published.”
In 1980, William Shawn, the wooly mammoth of magazine editors, the “legendary” editor of The New Yorker, between 1952 and 1987, published an essay— as an entire issue.
The essay filled, I mean to say, the entire magazine.
It was George W.S. Trow’s Within The Context Of No Context.
Like an American Crowds and Power, written in a similar aphoristic manner, but much darker, actually. Canetti was still working with entirely human attributes.
At the time, “Context” was passed around between writers, “as Samizdat,” photocopied, stapled together—anything. A dark masterpiece, about America, and the medium that would destroy its fabric of life, destroy it—television.
Television as the Disembodied oppressor of America, (that never could, like Stalin, die.) It would give birth to “social media,” and shatter our capacity for whole observation even further.
There have been countless critiques of Television and America (Neil Postman etc) but none (I am aware of) captured its actual diabolical essence like Trow did. (His name rhymes with “grow.”)
It’s driving diabolical essence was its power to impose eternal and radical de-contextualization.
“We felt sorry for anyone who hadn’t read it,” said one writer in Trow’s circle.
Ariel Levy, in her 2007 piece in New York Magazine (still readable, still not overtaken by the deadly algorithms of “woke”) called it: “…probably the most extreme work of non-fiction The New Yorker ever published.”
Levy’s piece was titled The Last Gentleman, a reference to Trow’s early life obsession with attire, especially herringbone coats, and more ambivalently, the fedora. The fedora, as a character, opens Levy’s piece, describing a childhood fedora ritual between young Trow and his father, a city editor at The New York Post.
“Context” (for short) is a work I “approached,” over many years, then backed away from, for how deeply it frightened me. I knew, or suspected, Trow’s theory was right, and that what he was saying was true.
It’s like an x-ray of America—that showed a deadly cancer.
Trow didn’t address any “story” as such, but rather, the deepest patterns of mind-disordering abuse inherent in the medium itself—Television.
The first medium of disordered de-contexualization, a form of ritual abuse. (My words not his.)
Not because it makes us “dumb.”
Because of how radically it displaces, dislocates, and imposes its own demands of discontinuity. Until we ourselves are discontinued.
Push aside what “happened” on September 11, for example, for a moment.
Think about that which made you believe thus and such about what happened, after you were imprinted with what “happened,” which was already of a scale on which things do not happen. (Naturally.)
Since Nov. 22, 1963, (by one measure) things happened in America that do not happen, yet it was part of your American palatability that you accept that they did, (they did) and cling to Daddy’s leg, terrified and confused.
The essay opens thus:
”Could there be wonder in that? The size of the con?”
That seems to me like the American version of “Communism collapsed.”
He predicted it in 1980.
The Context Of No Context
Yesterday, I’d gotten it wrong, that Senator Kennedy’s reading of gay pornography, was connected to Obama and Larry Sinclair. It was worse: He was reading from a book that is not a school text book but that school children have access to. I cited my error, and let the thread gallop, then (late last night) took it down, because good people were still correcting the original error, and the whole thing was swirling and askew.
This may be the most fruitful mistake I’ve made in 10 years. I sat down to think.
I thought about why I can’t think properly.
And Trow sort of appeared, to me, not visually, but as a warm ghost who might actually feel for us, or admit what it was we were all living through, and living without. His presence offered consolation as to how achingly hard it is to live without this “it.”
“Context” is, in a sense, everything. How are we supposed to function like this? Nothing is connected to anything, there is no fabric anymore. It turns out the reason our brains get jarred when we watch any program or any movie is the cuts—the edits. The brain goes from theta to delta, then back, at every edit. Our minds are designed for continuity.
This photo would have been from his time in New York’s Hudson valley, a shack he built for himself, before he was sent by friends to a psychiatric hospital, and upon release, fled to Naples, Italy, where he eventually died, alone.
Most pieces written about Trow, they acknowledge that he was a genius, and they talk about his homosexuality (he never spoke of it,) his years of being among the eccentric, intelligent glitterati of New York City, and his descent into madness. Or was it? Maybe it was actually despair, honestly come by. Writers do get killed by their own works, and it’s hard to imagine what he endured to receive and deliver that text.
It’s “dark” stuff but it’s light compared to the abject darkness of not putting it into words at all, what’s going on here.
“Of all Americans, only they are complete.”
“Is any man as well loved as this soft drink is?”