Register Here to join the Ed & Elaine Brown email list at MakeTheStand.com!!! It''s fast, easy, and free. Stay informed with the latest live updates from Ed & Elaine and friends -- direct to your email box!!
Privacy: Ed & Elaine and friends do not give ANY of your information to ANYONE
Site Info
Latest Video
08/19/07
Music slide-show with lots of pictures from Live Free or Die 2. Hat tip to "livefreeordie2" from our forums.
07/14/07
Video from the Live Free or Die 2 Concert provided by Danny Riley. Thanks Danny!
6/12/07
WeAreChange.org presents a brand-new video documentary produced this past week!!! It's so new, that I haven't even watched it yet! Check it out!
6/10/07
Supporter Casey Lee Cobb from OpenYourMindsEye.com puts out a new short film that asks these violent, murderous agents used as cannon-fodder by the new world order some serious questions. Will the cowards ever stop enforcing a non-existent law by committing acts of aggression and violence?
06/07/07
Ed is interviewed by a local news station shortly after federal agents and state and local troopers show up on his property. You can hear their helicopter in the background. Ed stresses that it doesn't matter what they do -- it only matters how he responds, as a lawful man.
06/07/07
Ed and Elaine support, Danny Riley from New Jersey, is attacked by federal and state agents in gilly suits. He is first fired upon and hears two shots whiz past his head. Then he is shocked with a taser and tackled onto the ground, kidnapped, drug through the woods, taken to various locations and interrogated, strip-searched, and finally release (indeed, walking a dog with a cup of coffee is not a crime). He's threatened into talking with many many lies.
06/07/07
U.S. Marshall Steve Monier tells more truth than lies this time, and admits multiple times that they grabbed Danny because he discovered them, possibly foiling their plot to attack and kill Ed & Elaine! Know your enemies: this guy is just a spokesperson for the higher-ups. He takes his orders and will probably take the fall if things go back. It is corrupt, cowardice pigs like this guy that give the new world order and other evil movements their strength. These guys are the "useful idiots" and the "cannon-fodder" for tyrants. When will they learn?
MakeTheStand.com -- The Official Website of Ed & Elaine Brown: Users Journal
It was the end of the day. Autumn swept in with a rush. The trees on Presage hill were stirring with the rustic reflections of still water; clouds passing by overhead dripped sweet tears of autonomy. We were without form in those days. We lived as essence. When essence has been saturated and transposed, all that is left is form. In those days, before only form was left, we lived in joy as the perfect reflection. Now, living without form, we search in pools of water to find, not our image, but merely a thought of what we once were.
When were we separated from such grace? At what point did perfection seek disillusionment through means of irreversible truth? That day— here— in the midst of remembrance, we realize that all of life has been but a fleeting glimpse of something much greater. In the final moments of this ebbing tide we have come to know as life, the whole of our experience comes rushing back—just as the resurgence of a tidal wave, and equally as destructive and humbling. Our sins have been purged and we survive on the dawning of the edge of a new day.
This day, though, is not new. This autumn has before us come in the form of an echoed past, yet this echo is without essence. As such, it is the essence we must find. This echo must be reunited with its purpose.
As the sun set, the solstice furthest from my mind as all year it might be—I merely reflected in those pools of water. Leaves, orange and red—vibrant as starless nights are dark—surrounded me as one might surround themselves with the comforts of home when the realization of a lack there of has set in. I did not surround myself with these colours. This collage of majesty was not mine to claim. Behind this was a force greater than myself, a force that understood me more deeply than time’s allowance.
Prudence had become my name. My plight: the realization that not all was as it seemed. I could feel myself, from a strange corner of existence, being pulled by something as recognizable as my waking hours’ thoughts. This day belonged to me. Feeling reinvigorated and enthused beyond earthly intent, I stood. From the puddle I knelt beside I stood and breathed in all of life. Tears, from my eyes flowed, touching the ground, and reminding me that even I—aesthetic and complete—was a part of what I was discovering.
Civilizations had risen and fallen more times than known truth would allow, and all I could feel—all I could be—was, at best, what I was. This is an irrefutable truth. This is now. No matter what point in time I say it, this is now. This is a truth that time will allow. When does it become fiction? When does that fact become a false statement, in recollection?
The shadows extended to a point beyond my comprehension. From beneath my feet grew a being a thousand times more terrifying than the ghouls of hell, from the nightmares of the devil himself. I realized then that it was my reflection. This is how the perfect light, still with essence and form, saw me. Yet, within my breath and the beating of my heart there was a feeling. This feeling transcended all shape. The shadows of Plato’s wall had become nothing more than the pebbles which my feet brushed aside as I strode through the gates of eternity.
See, to me, my imperfection could be seen in the reflection of the perfect light. However, to the perfect light I seemed as equally amazing. It called me, it’s bright and morning star…In the realization of my imperfection, though, I interpreted this: my bright, and mourning star. I, in fact, mourned in this very affirmation.
How could I, understanding fully that I was a part of the maple’s leaves falling gently into the pool—part of the ripples which refracted—and a part of the very thought that I was—how could I rationalize that I was to mourn. Was I mourning my own existence? Had I been but some sad tale told throughout the aeons as a warning and redeeming quality? I gazed up slowly from the final trace of a wave lapping the puddle’s edge. The wave, stirred by a leaf, was recursive to the tidal wave of all life’s recollections which had culminated in the realization that life is but a fleeting glimpse. This is the first time that I grasped that the waves in the pool of water before me were created at the puddle’s center. These waves were brought about by external forces, just as experiences in life are. But, just as the leaf is a part of nature, as is the puddle, thus merely a reflection of nature itself transposed—so too am I a part of nature, and in this fact I am a part of the experiences which have affected the wave which I then wove goodbye to. Understanding fully? I was only waving goodbye to myself.
I was the leaf. I was the puddle. I was myself taking it all in. I am. Then, who, or what—the perfect light—called me it’s bright and mourning star? This surely must be yet another reflection of the self.
The last leaf fell. Autumn left, with a rush. The trees on Presage hill stood still, and all that had ever been lay before my eyes. How could I not be prideful?
“Awake young sir, the mourn has come to greet you,” spate Pith, in an out of the ordinary English accent, one he put on choppy at best. “It is the dawning of the solstice today, the sun shall be at its peak in but a few short hours.”
No. This has already come to pass. All of the past, present, and future have come to be. My waking moments light has become but a reflection, the shadow of a greater being; I lie at the foot of the Colossus of Rhodes and appear before you now as Liberty’s statue. How humble life’s silhouette has become. How prideful I must be to not mock desecration’s sanctity. I am Niche’s superman. I am Abraham’s Hashem. I am Mozart’s Requiem. I Am.
Every sonnet that Shakespeare wrote, every note which befell the strings of Beethoven’s orchestra—the deafening silence of enigmatic composition – and the rituals of Atlantis past were as one: are as one. The mystery of the now remains the truth of god. The soul search and sole purpose of knowing is truth—such is faith. We are not brought to this planet with suffering and strife; that, as a learned quality, is something which we study to deal with. We put aside innocence in order to more aptly relay information having to do with conformity of values instead of the transcendence of truth.
Within the ides of either, the march can be found. I say this with full realization that tomorrow is yet to occur. To differentiate between the two, today and tomorrow, has been the true aim of my life. I hate the fact that muddy water remains too muddled to see that fact is but the fiction of a greater reality. So, whilst the curtain is peeled take slight—tomorrow has come, and all is well.
From the bed, I crawled towards the composition of Pith. He saw me as but another reflection of the perfect light, as I saw him. If gladder words were received between us two, the day might have gladdened a bit. The ride to see Frank was as it was. The night on Presage hill—? the same: save this. On this night I killed them. All were dead, save Pith, Frank, and Ere. Their souls had become that of the night. Of each I performed hated crimes, death in the guise of an eagle. I even tempted to kill my self. I had killed my self, several times over had I died, too— until essence and form reunited before a crowd amassed. My Joy—? she had become but a part of the puddle. Her essence was muddled as muddy water’s reflection. Yet, she too conjured part of that far remembered autumn’s beauty. In fact, I believe she may be the very colour within me. See, from this point of time, we have as of yet hence met; thus, as a reflection of my future, I will tempt myself not abide by time’s allowance. Time is cruel in its dealing of death.
Each death I have known comes to me in the form of a bird’s call. These are not the dastardly calls one might associate with death: the owl’s hoot, the crow’s caw-caw, nor Edgar’s Eleanor. Instead, death is dealt at the heels of a morning bird’s sweet song. It is not the Swan’s death song; it is more the sweet tweeting of a bridled sparrow. As I look down at the desecrated souls, on the cliff’s edge, the bird doth sweetly sing. This bird knows my plight, as the moon knows it lights the dawn of tomorrow. It knew not why it was, nor why it knew; yet, the sparrow was that strange corner of existence pulling me towards comprehension. Its song played one last time before I thrust myself into the tragic play of the morrow.
Remembering my Joy, recollecting in the gladness of her beseeched word’s recognizance, I came to her still in the form of the man that clothed me. I walked to Joy and touched her sweet face. It seemed foreign to me now, as antiquated as that distant autumn was dank. When I said before I had confused her with a ray of sunshine, I had meant more that I, myself, was distillated with the very sight of her. That is truly when I met with the essence of my self, which I so ardently transgressed at the Modern Crucifixion’s play on stage. Had I known then that I was her Cilious—not his actions but his being—had I known then that form could be altered I would have clothed myself as him instead. I would have kissed her shining face and made her the Magdalene of today.
I knew no such hope. Rather, I knew the future and past, their interconnectedness in form, and their lack of essence. I knew that I lacked essence itself that first time around, and heeded my own warning that today might be different. Why had I tortured myself so, and how would today be different? Today is now. Tomorrow is now. Yesterday is now. The present future’s past is what calls me, and gives me time’s allowance as to identify that which I might put a sunder.
I was drowned in the drink I imbued. I laugh now at the sight of me. As Allah had said, O ye who believe! Approach not prayers with a mind befogged....and with that I was done. Was it such a sin, what I had done—shed the clothes of the man which hid me? I see it not a sin. I see not a transgression…perhaps that is why I am to mourn.
When that perfect light spoke, I heard myself in that voice. I was yet part of what it was speaking. I would like to call it he, yet in that realm of etherealness—no such word exists. He was I who is called I Am—therefore if I wore a woman and He was also I, then She would not be He, But He would still be I Am. I speak of it as “was” because Niche was right, and god is dead. The perfect light is not dead now, it is not dead in any form that we would know—it is dead beyond the realm of eternity, which will forever remain incomprehensible to us. Or, will it? WILL IT! Will—….it! It is the will, therefore you must will it. All that we perceive is but a reflection of the perfect light. In rejecting my Joy I have come to see that the perfect light bends not only matter….form…and self….but it also bends the now.
The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. I agree with Tesla, though, that Einstein’s relativity is flawed through itself. One cannot curve a thing—all, happens to be straight. If everything did not fall in a uniform line, then how could you say that for every action there is an opposite in equal reaction? You believe Newton, don’t you? Or did that passage predate Newton? Was, is, it common knowledge that anything and everything will be countered. Then, if it is true… none of this existed at all. The logic cannot have error found in it. We are only the imagination of ourselves.
The bird sounds again! Must Joy’s life be taken? I think not, just another sad soul from the recesses of this ebbing tide does follow. From the fallows of all life’s grandeur comes nestled to me now the ether. How doth my mourning dove sing? It does not; the bridled sparrow again sounds, and my friends’ lives must be taken. Frank falls, following the transparency of the eagles. If only the turkey had been named instead, this dread burden might be lost. Alas, Franklin was wrong.
Make love, not war. That concept seems simple enough. We truly falter at grasping its meaning, though. Within this phrase, we often jest. Do not look at the physical aspects of the saying. War has a very mental aspect. God once said that thou shall not murder. Murder, meaning a premeditated act of death. But, stand with me now for a moment on the edge of the infinite glass—take a sip, and see if unlike Moses’ followers you can hear a commandment. War: picture now the sum of it. Imagine now every soldier fallen, every patriotic scream, every trumpet sounded. Imagine every man, woman, or child killed, raped, left behind in the savage rampage. Think of all of the blood that the earth had to soak up. Think of all of the souls that god must have received on those days. Remind yourself of all of the war torn families at home. Think of the ramifications. Recall the mother’s tears. See in yourself all of the hate beyond forgotten lies. In truth, the only reason for war is the now. If yesterday is truly already gone, and tomorrow has yet to come, then the only reasons for war are our memories. Be not scorned by the past—for those wounds will never heal, and all of humanity will suffer at the heals of now…for something we cannot even touch. Is going to war not premeditated?
Make love. Now, like war—love is not merely a physical aspect. Love can be dealt just as war. With the dealings of love, man has come to revere it as a personal thing. Love is not personal. Anyone can tell you that love is anything but personal. Are you still standing at the glass—is this autumn no too far for your mind? What of Joy? Joy is dead, but love lives on. Look at that happy faces of every family reunited with the solider thought once dead. Behold in their countenance utter beauty. The child whom had never met their father, the spouse who had thought their love be gone, and the nation who never noticed the difference. We love on an individual scale. We make war on an individual scale—and a personal one. Make love on a grander scale. Make love so that your enemies become not your enemies. Make love so that they can only embrace you as they would embrace their own. Make love until all war seems deaf. And, when the morrow comes—remember now, how all war brought hate—remember how you understand today better than yesterday. Do not discourage yourself. That is the only true discouragement—others may try, but today, now, it comes to you—and how you deal with it. Love is dealt in small increments and doses. We are timid to make love. Why are we not so timid to make war? Why does war come so natural to us? Why not approach the philistines with arms wide stretched? Help them. Tell them all of life is but a dream and usher in an unending day. We are all a part of one consciousness. In the end, we will only be loving or making war with our self. This is what the puddle has taught me.
At the edge of this glass I stand—one foot aloof and one firmly planted in the realm of physics. This is the err, though. We are not physical creatures progressing towards a spiritual state; we are, alas’, spiritual beings undergoing a physical experience. With one foot firmly planted in the domain of what can be explained, and one portion of a soul delving into what we are projected towards, I straddle the lines of the incomprehensible minute now—and that of the seemingly irreversible course of what can only be described in the words of man as tomorrow; I have no sense of self in either kingdom, both have become but dreams of the other. I have become but the thought of my self, and yet I find my self lost in the apprehension that it is the foot that comes before the soul; albeit, the soul exists outside of whence the foot was bore. So, truly, what colour does brushing your hair taste like—? Understanding fully? Words have no meaning when the ethereal plane is spanned, and all fate hoped is revealed in some impending autumn’s past: now.
This now, this fact, is oncoming as the cycles of time are predictable—as the autumn forthright is accepted—just as the germ of man is expelled from the kingdom he predicted, so to are the hells of earth recycled. Here, behold the fire of Sodom recycled as to expunge the disease of man save Noah. Behold, the pride of Greece as its son is slain in due recall through Hector. Behold, Cho—reincarnated from a demon in hell to wreak havoc. Behold the dawn! The sun rises but a few moments before hate overcomes the world—and, we are awakened. We are reawakened. We are awake.
The dismal restitution of belittled figures comes rushing back with vengeance held in comparison with damnation—hell hath no scorn. Hell doth have scorn as the waking hours have light. Hell hath scorn like the burning of crosses, of flags, of corpses, of peace, of war, or life, or solitude, confidants, and of nature. Hell hath scorn, make no mistake; hell hath scorn.
Cast out, rebutted, dismissed, a forgiving god unwilling to accept repentance. This is the cry of the time, this is now, this is realization at its zenith. Realize hate. Realize that all things are a fleeting glimpse of a hateful world—man will do no good unless budged forward into an unforgiving tomorrow. Yet, tomorrow should be forgiven. And it already is: enter Lucifer. Was he not cast down to rule on earth? What forgiving god would allow such temptation? I am a jealous god. Is that not the battle cry? Has a jealous god not set man in a trap? Or… perhaps… this jealous I Am is the jealousness that I am. Since god is all things then he is I. God is the satan he let loose on the world. The puddle’s leaf stirs silent. All is not quiet.
Quietness is ashen drops on a tin roof during a storm of thunder. When the earth quakes and all things considered is well, then quietness is achieved. When achievement is reached then all things considered are faulty. When fault is discerned blame must be placed; then, the homeless are left meek. Yet, the meek shall inherit the earth—so all is not bleak.
Register Here
