The Egg By Zan Minsh copyright

Well, today I walked until my feet were sore and I just cannot imagine why? Someone told me last night about their roaming heart and I just felt so enclosed - you do too - sometimes - don't you?

Someone once said; 'the things you own, end up owning you.' I suddenly felt engaged to my sofa, imprisoned by my toaster and mocked by my books.

I walk for about a mile and came to a wooded area and a tangle of weeds and I trekked through as I needed to take the road less traveled. Then I saw it.

It was somewhat larger than a chickens egg, but white like the low sky of the northlands and only just; lying in the cold. It reminded me of something from a distant galaxy; only how could that be, I've never been there, not in this life at least. The mist on the ground covered slightly the base of the egg but it stood up right proud and strong; its granite looking shell like something beyond the work of any Italian sculptor of any age or age to come.

I figured it had been abandoned - by what ever it was that left it there and yet it seemed to stare at me.

I picked it up. The egg. It lay in my hand between me and the swaddling city below. I stared at the marble correctness of it.

An hour later, it was home and I took it to my office - it lay there on the cotton wool I had fashioned into a nest.

And I watch it still - almost breathing through its shell - something. I wait for the tiniest sound or movement, like I'm waiting for the definitive answer to some question I never even asked.

It moves so little, if at all, like a bomb waiting to be itself.

I can't leave it; I love it so much - already! Love without knowing, or reason, stored within a shell.

And if I wait and no alligator nor swan nor snake, then soldiers will come and I will eat my love piece by piece.

You won't understand - no-one knows what loving an egg is like - or, you all do, but you don't like to admit it.

I woke up this morning and for a moment, as the snow hung from the window and the light gently burned through the curtains, I forgot about my egg. I was happy again; momentarily lifted from the burden of such things. And as I lay confused by this dream I had of the floor crumbling at my feet and a girl I had never met, who lives in the sky, I smiled because the day had come.

It is these moments, when the curtains are still drawn, that the stillness and ancestry of the room makes a noise of escape into your own self. It's like being under warm water, without the need for air; you would stay there and never surface and although you can still hear the world in the distance beyond the glass and the brick of your cave, it does not belong to you; and nor do you require it to.

But then the egg came back to me. It was like coming up. A wave of rich love from toe to heart, thickens in the arms and flushes the cheeks. The taste of metal and the memory of the precious gift.

I went to look at it; half expecting a dragon; or something that lives in the sky. Still, no movement, clay white and perfect; full and safe as my heart. Can anything come between us? No! Not the sound of the radio nor the dripping shower head can drain this moment. I've never been so happy - honestly! Than today here with my egg - my beautiful egg.

I shone a torch through her body and saw shadows in her x-ray. Maybe one moved; maybe it was the light. But there was something curled into an egg shape and its potential was palatial.

Its whitewashed face - so cold, empty and pretty. My tabula Rasa!

Today, I will give my egg a name - something pretty, something Russian.

Omsk lies in her nest as we post, quietly, beyond quietly; she may now enter my dreams.

I watch her as she sleeps. A blast of spotlight hides me in the shadows, moving slowly. I remain a servant to this love; she an unblemished ghost.

If Omsk is a Swan, she will glide over houses; if Omsk is an Alligator, she will eat whom she pleases; if Omsk is a dragon, she will burn up saints like idols in spotlights. If Omsk is a lady; she may love me, she may not.

I leave for some food and drink, coleslaw and some white bread. I come back. The night has moved on. Omsk has not; although it's hard to tell what happens beneath the surface - some ocean full of unknowable things, beyond exploration.

I touch her with my finger nail, some connection is made, a texture in the nail and in her marble coat. Her smoothness and beauty, upon close inspection, is made from a million imperfections that we are blind to see. She is drowned in fierce light and the eye, under this scrutiny, can moon walk her skin, like lips on flesh; the flow, the one, the other. There is no difference now. Omsk, not giving in to the touch of my finger, remains still. She can not come tonight. She is a sea of tranquility.

I am suddenly in panic. I am alone with an egg - what is to become of us?

Time is pulling us together, second upon second, and apart also. Just me and Omsk here in our tower of light, alone. And then somewhere, from the bedroom next door, there is a presence; soundless and dark. I'm sure it knows of eggs and hidden things and it is ticking, just ticking.

Today I googled the phrase ‘marriage laws’ and found out this;

Men cannot marry;
Grandmother
Mother
Mother’s sister
Mother’s half sister
Father’s sister
Father’s half-sister
Adoptive mother
Sister
Half-sister
Daughter
Adoptive daughter
Sister’s daughter
Half-sister’s daughter
Brother’s daughter
Half-brother’s daughter
Granddaughter


So no mention of eggs.

The snow outside came down, now with a sudden thickness, the colour of eggs. I turn up the central heating, to make it warm for Omsk. I find myself incubating her. I find myself wanting her to become what ever it is she is; and yet, I have a grain of doubt.

Sometimes I find myself running – just running , across the landscape like I am fleeing and I don’t know what from; tripping over flailing knees and tipping head first in to the speed I have created and just when I feel exhausted and can run no more; I turn up the speed as if delving into some deep well of black water; wrenching it up, splattering and coughing against the sides of the brick work, nothing but a circle of light ahead. When I run I forget myself.
It used to be the same during sex.

Omsk is all I think about when still. I phoned in ill at the office today. I said I was sick. I didn’t mention that I was in love with an egg.

Love is an illness; that much is true. It is like an addiction but more painful.

I am so scared that when I ask Omsk to marry me, she will say no. I imagine the word ‘no’ and how it goes off inside my head, as pressure releases and the windows blow in, I imagine the pain as the skin is ripped to shreds and the shell cracks.

Sometimes I don’t want Omsk to hatch. What will she be? Will she still love me?

She’s amazing! Did I tell you that? Asleep on her bed, Omsk looks so warm and secure, as if I’m watching her through a plastic crib for the first time. The moon is full tonight, like a stone mill-wheel clinging on to nothing. They both have me tonight. I can’t describe it fully.

I took a photograph of Omsk today and took it up the hill to the spot where I found her. I waited in the naked trees for two minutes or four hours, I didn’t really look. I wanted to see if something came back for the egg. A swan, an alligator, a snake.

Nothing, until a dog came sniffing through the undergrowth. It spied me and stopped. Had it smelt the egg? Did he suspect I had it? Have I kidnapped Omsk? Our gazes were not broken until a woman came up behind it calling. She spied me too and stopped. So now, I had four eyes to stare into.

-What on earth are you doing?
I could feel myself shrinking. I was the size of the dog now, barely above the weeds.
- Are you Ok?
- Yes, I’m err waiting for an alligator.

Then she was gone. The dog too. It was getting dark. The moon had spun into the sky; a big wide tear. The trees had become shadows and the city began to melt under my feet. I knew where happiness was, that moment. I left the photo of Omsk where I found her in case something came back for her. I left my phone number on the back.

Walking back through the city to my flat, I had the feeling that is the reward of all this; the highest of highs. As small as I was, the lights shimmered, kaleidoscoping on wet streets. The city was a cooking pot and drum machines blew crushes from every doorway. I was the riches in the road that moment. I knew where I was going and who I was going to. This was my apartheid. We have become separated in knowledge, you and I. And even before the cold dripping steel of the key slid into the lock; I knew that this was a charmed life.

Sometimes, I want to wake up and the egg be empty and I will never find out what it is that lies there within the shell. How you will unravel from your shell. It is beyond such a fragile mind.

My mother calls. She is worried. I haven’t checked in this week. She misses her baby.

I listen to the answer machine play out and I tell it about Omsk. I couldn’t tell the real one. She can’t cope with change.

She grew into the fifties, a bright young thing, a socialite; out of a universe of post-war gloom and into the space age. She had a Jackie Kennedy haircut, which changed with the blooming of the sixties and meeting a man who looked like Rock Hudson. His power was a draw to such a fragile bird. He was a statesman and an emperor to her. Then, by the end of that decade I carved my name into her side. And I was here.

Did the promise of those long warm summer nights at endless parties, materialize? She swears it did. She clings to it still, in old photos and memories, like she can still taste it. And the blood of the past is still there in the air. She misses her baby.

Yet, you are before such matters Omsk as you sleep in the night. Before life with the space race in front of you, I am in orbit around you; waiting for you to land and you pulling me in.

Times before you Omsk have faded into cliché. My past crumble in your present. Valentines day 2007 and all is quiet but my heart is at war with itself.

I slept with you on the pillow next to me and I had a dream in which my life unraveled itself like my sticky legs were freed and with a SMACK I shouted the room down. It was all there in a hotel, my whole existence within the corridors of this unique world, room after room full of people who I knew or once knew, laughing and living and yet again I was just passing by like a journalist or a ghost. A room for Munich, Rome, Pamplona, Bejing and Omsk. A room for each of my lovers. A room for each of my girlfriends; Elenor , Rachel, Claire, Cathy, Fiona, Sam, Silvia, Angela and Omsk. Could this be heaven? Constantly passing through room after room and each room leads you to another paragraph of you life?

I wake up, midnight, a day of no special consequence and I sense my mother is in danger and that’s when I first heard the electronic voices outside the backdoor.

I have heard the voices since I was five. Lying in bed at night, watching the lights scrape the ceiling clean and white. I have had the same words in my head, over and over. Sometimes I resist them; other times they seem to pull me in, like I am a moth and they are the campfire! It smolders but shines so bright against such an unholy darkness. I am just game here!

The letterbox speaks so loud that it hurts and I can’t shut it out The light finds its way around the curtains.

When I was a child, the words did not compute inside my brain. I received them like a sealed envelope. I feel cut off, like Rachel in Manchester, my little epileptic lover, who would just shut down. When laying in the sun on a field just talking about the only thing we knew ‘our love.’ She would suddenly just stare just out of focus. That was my real time with her; when she was cut off and I had her all to myself. Her petit mals were so engaging, so full of life in their stillness.

I remember lying there in the long grass of Gatley Hill all alone, with my lover. Her face, a stone cold egg, staring out across the fields and down towards the brook. Just seconds before, we had been lost in our private world; our imaginations ablaze in the wild grasses. Then the laughter; and as it petered out I turned and found her frozen in the air, cold as the stream that passed down at the bottom of the hill before the estate and the world began. Her eyes didn’t flicker, just stone still. She was a doll and the most helpless creature that has ever been. I brushed the hair from her face and watched her carefully as people watch the dead. She lay in my arms beyond the birds singing dementedly and the children rolling down the hill in the distance; screaming and yelping. I touched her lips with my fingers and her eyes slowly refocused.

She looked at me quietly for a few seconds in the shade of the long grass. She had come back, quietly, with no fuss.
- I wish we could stay here forever
A lone plane flying from Manchester chalked a line across the sky; slicing us in two. There was a sadness in her voice that I didn’t get; but in later years I recall it as The Knowledge. She had it, I did not.
She lay her head across my chest and we fell silent. The clouds were gathering far out at sea. She knew.

I knew Omsk was scared of the voice in the letterbox. I went to comfort her. The lights were coming in from all sides of the flat now, growing brighter, the voice growing louder.

Rachel didn’t have long to live but she never told me until the last days. I didn’t even guess. I pay everyday for that mistake. I never even saw how she became thin and quiet and her skin changed too. I wasn’t looking out for anything like that. The beauty of her dazzling eyes robbed me of seeing any illness in her. For all my cleverness, I had nothing.

But I do have something. You know that don’t you? My Omsk, frozen in time too, is waiting to be. She is perfect in every dimension. I’m waiting for her to open like a distant eye. I’m waiting for her to change the universe in one breath.

Seventeen years old, Rachel told me on the roundabout, on the park at the bottom of the hill. I had made us into a spin and she and I stared inwardly at each other, leaning back and holding on with hands. She, clearly in focus and a smudge of universe behind; gave me a look of a girl watching a boy on a platform growing smaller and smaller. The last of the summer was squeezed out that night.

The sky grew pink and chilly. The street lights had come on and the orange lamps picked up two faded figures stood by a swing facing each other, one with a head on the others shoulder. I pull her by the collar and smiling I said.

- you can’t. I won’t let you.

I needed her petit mal at that moment. I needed her to freeze and stay like that forever; preserved; never changing; never fulfilling anything.

I’m sat under the letterbox and the voices are still there. I have Omsk in my hands. Silent. She has given me so much without knowing. The light that shines through the curtains floods the room and I’m back there with Rachel again, feeling like I’m about to be executed.

I kiss her and a tear falls down her face and into my mouth. It tastes of glass. Her face is orange as she snorts back the snot and I look in to her eyes and I wait for her to freeze. Nothing.

From a crack in the curtains a neighbour spies a boy and a girl at the end of their journey together and as I look down at Omsk on my knee I start to get the same feeling

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew, I can hear the birds outside and see the light behind the curtains.

Remember when you said we were going to go away, where no one could find us? We were going to find our own place somewhere. We could build a house out of wood, on stilts and live in the deep forest, just you and I; remember? We could go where the butterflies are as big as dinner plates and the light changes everything. No? I never said it although I have thought about it often.

To hear you on the telephone after that night, Rachel, was more than I could stand. I felt removed from you, for the first time. Detached; like a painting is from a subject. There I was, at seventeen, sat in the dark at the bottom of the stairs in the old house, trying to fit a life spans worth of words into a few hours we had left. And I was speechless.

The point is this; she wasn’t perfect, I never said she was perfect. She was a bit of a tomboy and she was never the smartest. She was abandoned as a child; then adopted by her parents. She loved art but only ever painted bunny rabbits; like a little girl would. She spoke like a child sometimes. But she was perfect for me, you know? We were not the best jigsaw in the shop but we fitted well together. Where there were dark things, she brought light. Where there was suffering, she brought relief. Where there was science, she brought magic.

Omsk is perfect, because she has no life, just as Rachel is now.

I look out of a chink in the curtain and I see a man on the roof of the building opposite. He is dressed in black armour and he is carrying a weapon. He is as a crow in the persistent rain, fluft out and standing in the umbrella of its own self. The rain, tacks streaks into the glass. If there were a time for Omsk to hatch, if this were fiction, it would be now. I am willing her to show her face, not just her beautiful belly. She will not.

The phone rings and it is a man who wants to know who is here with me. He is softly spoken and kind. I tell him about Omsk. He asks if she is Ok. I say fine. He asks me if I want to come outside. I ask him for what? He says it is just to talk. I tell him I am talking. The phone goes quiet. I put it on the floor.

Somewhere, a long time ago, I was on a gravel path behind the mourners following my girlfriend. She had a beautiful, smooth white coffin that was small and light. I used to pick her up and throw her over my shoulders. Now, on shoulders again, she is carried gravely through this field in silence. Such small steps. Such tiny feet. Scraps of flowers, fading letters and windmills line the path. Cuddly toys; an alligator, a swan, a snake placed beneath shining marble stones, to what end? Then, a magpie clatters over the drizzling horizon. I am momentarily lost to this universe.

The numbness that began that day has only changed by a matter of degrees since. I am, myself, alone.

The heat in the room is changing. The light fading again. And I have brought Omsk to this place so I must stick with her. I do not leave my love ones. They leave me.

There is nothing in the fridge but I am Ok with water. We are ok, Omsk and I, we make a promise to each other to stay for the other. I made that promise before. The body needs so little to survive; just water, a little food, love and hope. And, this is all we are, lest the things we truly do not need!

I have lived without hope for so long; I have forgotten what it tastes of. In my memory it tastes of an English summer in a meadow on Gatley hill; the perfume of young bodies; the drifting shapes of clouds.

I am sat at the table, Omsk sat on it. It has gone dark. There is no electricity. I can just catch the last sheen of her shell in the light that manages through the drawn curtains. I am beginning to lose my faith in her.

Twenty years ago, when they lowered the coffin into the ground, I caught her mother’s eye. She looked at me as if to say, you’ll be Ok! I couldn’t take my mind off the box and it’s shell and the cold earth surrounding it. All I ever needed was in there.

I came back the next day, alone.

From behind a curtain in a house across the road a man sees a crow black figure stood motionless in the rain; a magpie bounces across the wall. He has no flowers, or words or ideas.

A patch of bare earth like a plaster lies silently in the field. The earth will settle they say. Things move on. I will be ok.

I am drunk with hunger. I wanted to tell you a story about an egg. I cannot even do that.

I have begun to think a little more loudly. I hear the rain and it sounds good. I am overpowered by the voices that are creeping under the door and try to get to Omsk and I. My imagination is beyond the ceiling that threatens to fall; bowing with liquid that runs down the walls. The ants are back. Their universe seems so solid; unshakeable hierarchy of ants. I watch them crawl over your skin.

Sometimes, when I sleep, I can hear the forest, talking simply of creatures and drifting airs. I am alone in the bracken by the glass brook. I hear the call of animals, I cannot put a name to, perhaps dragons, swans or eggs! I see the sunlight fall in spots across the floor. The blossom is out again, soon she will fall.

Where am I?

Here with Omsk, I feel an ending, as the spots of lights trace across the curtains, pulling me down.

From the door I spy a man on the roof pointing a gun. I see the police cars in a line, one by one. I will be swallowed by their uniforms. The blues and the reds of the police lights bathe the bricks of the houses opposite with their curtains drawn and their mouths tightly shut. I am beginning to unravel.

Alone, in the dark room for the first time, I close my eyes and light dawns. A bedroom, perhaps a million years ago, full of toys still and the walls a shrine; a dizzy height, overlooking the garden with its shed and your arthritic Labrador. Somewhere, a child wails and voices blunder unintelligibly from the road.

Life is still here, my lovely. So still. I will be soon inside you and I will reach the eggs you have.

That was the first moment of all this. It had to start somewhere. Every moment since, can be traced back to this time; our prehistory!

That’s when I decided to walk out into the lights. After being in the dark for so long I find it hard to see in this glare. I cannot see beyond it. I am made to stretch my arms out wide; like a crow in the comfort of the sky. I am made to kneel before this world.

If Rachel could have become pregnant, I might not be here, kneeling in the dirt, surrounded by police, with an egg in my pocket. Although, you never know, do you?

A dull summer in Gatley, Manchester, a light easterly breeze. I find you lying quietly on the bed, listening to The Smiths, thinking, plotting a way out. You were smarter than me, by a mile. Oh, I had the words, but you had it all. And, all that could have hatched never did. We never stood a chance. Reel around the fountain.

But it’s OK that things don’t hatch, like Rachel or Omsk. Some things never change or lose their way. Some things are above life’s menial demands.

And with the cuffs on in the back of the van I see the city slip by one frame at a time. Shop by shop, the adventures and hatchings of people are revealed, as stills.

Closing Down,

Half Price Sale,

Everything Must Go!

I am quiet in my head and yet I can see the woman in the park hanging from the tree in the mist, swinging on the dog’s lead. She is quiet. Her eyes strain in her face but she is still, the bloody animal at her feet. The city below lies still and permanent. My hands are sore and wet. I can smell her blood. It smells like Rachel’s blood.

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America Falls - Micro Documentary out now

America is at a cross-roads. You can decide to continue with the status-quo of billionaire worship and blaming workers and the poor for all your social and economic ills, or you can begin to stand up like the people in Wisconsin and other states to protest the ever-growing Plutocracy.

The ones who have been raping ALL countries and now is dismantling America., is the SAME GROUP OF CREEPS: The International Bankers, ie, International Monetary Fund, ie, The federal reserve. It's all the same gang whatever it calls itself in each country or context. They do it under black flag ops., ie, in secrecy,that is through MINIONS, PUPPETS or whatever term defines their lack of character. We have been "sheeple" for too long. For America's sake, let's get our noses out of the TV and WAKE UP!

"Copyright Disclaimer Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for "fair use" for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, and research. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use."

WAKE UP copyright SGTbull07

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The Masque of Anarchy - An argument for civil unrest.

Ye who suffer woes untold,
Or to feel, or to behold
Your lost country bought and sold
With a price of blood and gold.

Let a vast assembly be,
And with great solemnity
Declare with measured words that ye
Are, as God has made ye, free.

Let the charged artillery drive
Till the dead air seems alive
With the clash of clanging wheels,
And the tramp of horses' heels.

Stand ye calm and resolute,
Like a forest close and mute,
With folded arms and looks which are
Weapons of unvanquished war,

And that slaughter to the Nation
Shall steam up like inspiration,
Eloquent, oracular;
A volcano heard afar.



Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number,
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you-
Ye are many - they are few

The Text is an edited selection taken from the poem The Mask of Anarchy by Percy Bysshe Shelley circ 1819 - Banned by the authorities for 30 years. It is a response to to the  Peterloo Massacre which happened in Manchester when the people protested and the authorities cracked down killing 18 people. Sound familiar?  The full text can be found here.

These blogs are in a series were I find evidence in the past that the oppression and corrruption people see today has always existed and has always been fought against. You are in good company to rise up. Vive la revolution.

Edited and copyright Zan Minsh
Images by various media

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Manc on Wire: Until they become conscious they will never rebel....

Manc on Wire: Until they become conscious they will never rebel....: He remembered how once he had been walking down a crowded street when a tremendous shout of hundreds of voices women's voices -- had...

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Until they become conscious they will never rebel. (or the truth about education, power and the 'feral underclass.' Please comment.

He remembered how once he had been walking down a crowded street when a tremendous shout of hundreds of voices women's voices -- had burst from a side-street a little way ahead. It was a great formidable cry of anger and despair, a deep, loud 'Oh-o-o-o-oh!' that went humming on like the reverberation of a bell.

His heart had leapt. It's started! he had thought. A riot! The proles are breaking loose at last!

When he had reached the spot it was to see a mob of two or three hundred women crowding round the stalls of a street market, with faces as tragic as though they had been the doomed passengers on a sinking ship. But at this moment the general despair broke down into a multitude of individual quarrels.

There was a fresh outburst of yells. Two bloated women, one of them with her hair coming down, had got hold of the same saucepan and were trying to tear it out of one another's hands. For a moment they were both tugging, and then the handle came off. Winston watched them disgustedly.

And yet, just for a moment, what almost frightening power had sounded in that cry from only a few hundred throats!

Why was it that they could never shout like that about anything that mattered?

He wrote:

Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they have rebelled they cannot become conscious.

That, he reflected, might almost have been a transcription from one of the Party textbooks. The Party claimed, of course, to have liberated the proles from bondage.

 Before the Revolution they had been hideously oppressed by the capitalists, they had been starved and flogged, women had been forced to work in the coal mines (women still did work in the coal mines, as a matter of fact), children had been sold into the factories at the age of six. But simultaneously, true to the Principles of doublethink, the Party taught that the proles were natural inferiors who must be kept in subjection, like animals, by the application of a few simple rules.

In reality very little was known about the proles. It was not necessary to know much. So long as they continued to work and breed, their other activities were without importance. Left to themselves, like cattle turned loose upon the plains of Argentina, they had reverted to a style of life that appeared to be natural to them, a sort of ancestral pattern.

They were born, they grew up in the gutters, they went to work at twelve, they passed through a brief blossoming-period of beauty and sexual desire, they married at twenty, they were middle-aged at thirty, they died, for the most part, at sixty.

Heavy physical work, the care of home and children, petty quarrels with neighbours, films, football, beer, and above all, gambling, filled up the horizon of their minds.

To keep them in control was not difficult. A few agents of the Thought Police moved always among them, spreading false rumours and marking down and eliminating the few individuals who were judged capable of becoming dangerous; but no attempt was made to indoctrinate them with the ideology of the Party.

 It was not desirable that the proles should have strong political feelings. All that was required of them was a primitive patriotism which could be appealed to whenever it was necessary to make them accept longer working-hours or shorter rations.

And even when they became discontented, as they sometimes did, their discontent led nowhere, because being without general ideas, they could only focus it on petty specific grievances.

The larger evils invariably escaped their notice. 

 There was a vast amount of criminality in London, a whole world-within-a-world of thieves, bandits, prostitutes, drug-peddlers, and racketeers of every description; but since it all happened among the proles themselves, it was of no importance. In all questions of morals they were allowed to follow their ancestral code.

The sexual puritanism of the Party was not imposed upon them. Promiscuity went unpunished, divorce was permitted. For that matter, even religious worship would have been permitted if the proles had shown any sign of needing or wanting it. They were beneath suspicion. As the Party slogan put it: 'Proles and animals are free.'

The following words were an extract from '1984' by George Orwell  Part 1 Chapter 6 Publication 8th June 1948 - The Images are from various media and date from the present.

Edited and Presented by Zan Minsh..

Clips are by George Carlin and Bill Hicks who are no longer with us.

Orwell, Carlin, Hicks came to shine a light on the future and the dangers we all face at the hands of financial global institutions- it will be at our peril to not take heed and spread this love.

Stay free

love

Zan Minsh

PS. Please read, reread 1984 it is breathtakingly far-sighted novel. It was written for OUR emancipation and not as THEIR blueprint.  Fight the power.

Publication date	8 June 1949

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The Smoking Gun - That the BBC refuse to consider. Remember Building 7?

While these intelligence failures suggest at least the reasonable possibility of U.S. government complicity in 9/11, there is a mountain of physical evidence that directly implicates high-level government knowledge and participation in the planning and execution of September 11. Perhaps the most damning evidence lies in the bizarre collapse of WTC7 Anyone familiar with the story of 9/11 knows about the collapse of the WTC North and South Twin-Towers. But a third high rise also fell that day. At 5:20 p.m., the massive 47-story steel frame Building 7, untouched by the hijacked airplanes, imploded in the exact manner of a professionally engineered demolition - at near free-fall speed, straight down, and with scientific precision into a compact pile of rubble, barely damaging any of the surrounding buildings.

The official explanation for the collapse is fire - as in fire weakened the building's structural support steel to the point where it could no longer hold its own weight upright. The magazine Popular Mechanics has tried to posit the theory of lethal structural damage caused by the falling debris of the North Tower as reason for Building 7's collapse. But no existing public photographs, nor videos, show anything near their claim that 1/3 of Building 7's façade was gouged out. Furthermore, even if structural damage was significant, this would not account for Building 7's eventual symmetrical, box-like collapse, where all four corners, and all four facades of the building fell simultaneously straight to the ground. And most significantly, the official government explanation is still fire. So this essay will stay with fire as the stated cause.

Flames were visible on 3-4 floors of the building, having been apparently ignited by falling debris and ruptured diesel tanks at the base of the structure. And while relatively minor in severity, these fires were apparently responsible for the building's demise. But fire as the cause for collapse poses a number of significant problems - problems that break fundamental laws of nature. Firstly, fire from diesel fuel and building debris does not remotely approach the necessary temperature required to weaken and melt steel. Steel is melted and forged in sophisticated blast furnaces at incredibly high temperatures. Secondly, even if fire did cause the necessary weakening of the buildings steel support beams, each of those more than 50 beams would have had to weaken and fail at the exact same time to account for the symmetrical downward trajectory of the collapse. A wildly contentious scenario. Dr. Steven Jones, Professor of Physics at BYU who specializes in the fusion of metals, has comprehensively and scientifically debunked the possibility of Building 7 collapsing due to fire (or the minor damage to the building's façade from the falling debris of the North Tower).

In the spring of 2007, Professor Jones published his second major paper on 9/11 -
Professor Jones' meticulous research explains why no other steel frame building has ever suffered a total collapse anywhere on the planet before or after 9/11 due to fire (remember, Building 7 was NOT hit by an aircraft). Including WTC 4, 5, and 6, which were more intensely pelted by debris from the Twin Towers' collapse, and had fires of equal intensity burning for many more hours than the adjacent Building 7. (For more examples of other intense high-rise building fires that did not cause collapse, which did not result in total structural collapse. This 32-story high rise burned fiercely for 20 hours, with flames shooting hundreds of feet into the air, gutting the entire building. And while significantly more severe than the fires of Building 7, which burned for only a few hours on only a few floors, the Windsor Building flames did not bring the building down. The damage from the fire did produce a partial collapse, and this collapse behaved exactly in line with the laws of physics and nature. Part of the building fell in an isolated collapse into the street below, leaving a huge, gaping wound in the middle of the high-rise with exposed rebar and debris hanging hundreds of feet into the air. The inferno did not produce a symmetrical, straight down, box-like, virtual free-fall total collapse witnessed in the fall of Building 7. Strategically planted, well-timed explosive devices are what weaken steel symmetrically and create coordinated downward implosions. Not random fires scattered throughout a building.

Another, and perhaps stronger, piece of evidence for controlled demolition of Building 7 is the speed at which the structure fell. It was a 576-foot tall building, and a conservative estimate of available video evidence shows that it fell in 6.5 seconds. A marble, with nothing but wind resistance in its path, would fall to the ground from the same height in roughly 6 seconds. Somehow, the top of this building fell to the ground in a perfectly symmetrical downward trajectory, with 47 floors of steel, concrete, and thousands of tons of upright standing debris in its path providing huge amounts of vertical resistance, at virtually free-fall speed. Allegedly because of random fires on a few floors. .

It is important to note that even if Popular Mechanics is right in its assertion that damage to Building 7 from falling debris of the Towers caused its collapse, this still does nothing to explain the impossible speed at which it fell. Only controlled demolition, as Dr. Kuttler states at the end of his computation, resolves the observed rate of collapse. Because in a controlled demolition, waves of progressive explosions from the top down would remove sections of resistant columns and supports, providing the vacuum-like pocket needed to account for the 6.5-second collapse. No other hypothesis, including the premise narrated in the 'official story', accounts for this speed.

Because all available evidence points to this controlled demolition as the most logical reason for Building 7's particular collapse pattern, serious questions now need answering. To wire a building of that size for implosion requires weeks of careful study and planning. Which means whoever wired the explosives knew far in advance of the September 11 plot. So who? And why? Perhaps Larry Silverstein has an answer. In July of 2001, 2 months before the attack, the new leaseholder of the Twin Towers and Building 7 took out a huge insurance policy on his buildings. In it, there was a special clause 'in case of terrorist attack'. For the collapse of the Twin Towers, which he also owned, Silverstein argued in court that he should be compensated twice because two separate airplanes flew into his two separate buildings. And this, according to his argument, constituted two terrorist attacks. He won this argument, and was awarded $7 Billion for the Towers' collapse, quite a return for his initial investment.

A short time after September 11, Silverstein further implicated himself when he made a grave verbal blunder in an interview for a PBS special where he admitted that he and the fire authorities decided to 'pull' (implode) Building 7 on the afternoon of 9/11 as a way to avoid incurring more loss of life. But a last minute decision to 'pull' by Silverstein and the authorities would have been flatly impossible because of the weeks required in the planning and planting of explosives. When asked to explain these strange, incriminating comments, Silverstein refused, for two years, to clarify. Until finally his office released a statement claiming that what Silverstein meant by 'pull' was to pull the firefighters out of the building before it collapsed. But this is another in a long line of nonsensical statements made by principals in the 9/11 debacle. Silverstein and the 'officials' to whom he was speaking knew that firefighters had been evacuated hours before the alleged conversation and subsequent collapse took place. For further analysis on this subject. It is worth noting that on the morning of 9/11, all of the buildings making up the WTC complex not owned by Larry Silverstein managed to remain upright, despite equally heavy fire and structural damage.

Perhaps a government official from the CIA, Department of Defense, the IRS, the SEC branch investigating the infamous Wall Street corporate fraud cases, the Secret Service, or New York City's Office of Emergency Management (OEM) knows something about Building 7's odd collapse. All of those agencies strangely had offices in building7 The presence of OEM is particularly disturbing. They occupied a recently reinforced bunker-like space on the 23rd floor. Equipped with bulletproof windows, bomb-proof walls, and hurricane resistant windows, the office housed a sophisticated command center with top of the line military communication and logistical equipment. Perhaps Building 7 was a command center of a different kind, used as the true Ground Zero for the operation carried out on 9/11. A command center that became a crime scene after 8:46 a.m. that morning. A command center that needed to be destroyed.

Perhaps this OEM department could also explain the miraculously coincidental fact that on September 10, FEMA officials, in conjunction with NYC authorities, had arrived in the city and set up a command post near the World Trade Center for an extensive simulated terrorist attack operation to be carried out on September 12. Perhaps Mayor Rudolph Giuliani could shed some light on this subject. He confirmed this miraculous coincidence in his own testimony to the 9/11 Commission, all of which, unsurprisingly, never made it into their 'official' Report. "... the reason Pier 92 was selected as a command center was because on the next day, on September 12, Pier 92 was going to have a drill, it had hundreds of people here, from FEMA, from the Federal Government, from the State, from the State Emergency Management Office, and they were getting ready for a drill for biochemical attack. So that was gonna be the place they were going to have the drill. The equipment was already there, so we were able to establish a command center there, within three days, that was two and a half to three times bigger than the command center that we had lost at 7 World Trade Center. And it was from there that the rest of the search and rescue effort was completed."

How in the world is this wild coincidence not front-page news of every newspaper in the country? Why in the world was FEMA in NYC, down on Pier 92 near the WTC, on the night of September 10th ready to 'go into action' on the morning of September 11th? Did certain leaders in the U.S. government know full well what was about to happen? Can this 'terror drill' possibly be a random coincidence? Did they send in good men and women from FEMA and other emergency services under the guise of a prospective 'terror drill' to be at the ready to quickly clean up their mess? Did they orchestrate the entire operation, and then swoop in, fully armed and prepped, to prove and prop themselves up as the ready saviors they have spent the last five years reminding us they are? And if Giuliani becomes President, what grounds, what lasting image do we suppose he will be using to bolster his campaign?

Perhaps this is just wild conjecture. Perhaps there is a simpler answer to the questions raised by Building 7's collapse. But ultimately these questions are not an investigator's responsibility to answer. They are the responsibility of the investigator to raise. The responsibility in answering those questions lies with the official storytellers. They are responsible for plugging any holes in their narrative. Questions that arise regarding Building 7 are simply part of the natural speculation inevitably aroused by its suspicious collapse. They are important questions. They are the type of questions that, as stated before, the 9/11 Commission was formed to answer. But, incredibly, the Commission did not even allude to the existence, nor the absurd collapse, of Building 7.

It would seem logical that the collapse of a massive 47-story building (which is as big as the Bank of America Building in San Francisco), the first steel frame high rise in history to collapse solely from fire, which also housed the offices of important government agencies in downtown Manhattan, would warrant an investigation. Or at least a citation by the government commission assigned to thoroughly investigate the events of 9/11. It would seem logical to think that structural engineers, chefs, and wood-burning stove owners around the world would be interested to know that steel has suddenly become susceptible to fire. It would be logical to think that the tell-tale shock wave, 'squibs', internal box-like implosion, freefall speed, and neat footprint rubble pile clearly pointing to a controlled demolition of Building 7 would interest those investigating its collapse. But the 9/11 Commission Report does not even mention its existence. Nor does NIST, the government agency assigned to investigate the collapse of the Twin Towers. Like the 9/11 Commission, they did not mention its existence, its collapse, nor the bizarre specifics of that collapse - which so contradict official accounts.

 

Only FEMA has officially reported on Building 7's demise. And while their report hints at fire as the cause of the building's fall, even they admit the inherent weakness of that premise. "That the necessary evidence to further investigate Building 7's collapse, (i.e. the steel beams, trusses, and support girders) was quickly and illegally cleared, shipped overseas, and recycled - before photographs could be taken or qualified investigators and explosives experts could be called in to sift through the evidence - only deepens the efficacy of the hypothesis that a well-planned, high-level intentional demolition caused the collapse of WTC Building 7.

It should again be noted here that Popular Mechanics magazine has tried to debunk some of the issues raised by the 9/11 Truth community - both in a feature article in March of 2005, and a recent 2006 book. Besides the inherent absurdity of a magazine tackling the research that should be undertaken by Congress and an independent Special Prosecutor with full subpoena power, their work is riddled with the same inconsistencies and conveniently isolated and selected bullet points they claim undermines the very research they are attempting to debunk. For a comprehensive and specific critique of their work,

Update: In an extraordinary development, a 9/11 blogger has uncovered live BBC news video footage from the afternoon of 9/11 showing its reporters detailing the collapse of WTC7 (the Salomon Brothers Building) 23 minutes before that building actually collapsed. The following video is a recap of some of that footage. Notice the extraordinary fact that as the female reporter speaks, the scrolling text at the bottom of the screen confirms what the male lead reporter had been saying for the first 15 minutes of the broadcast, namely that the Salomon Brothers Building (WTC 7) had collapsed, and that very building is standing wholly upright directly over the reporter's shoulder!

 

How is this possible? Who knew what when? "We might reasonably guess that before making its way to the BBC by whatever means, the information originated among the authorities in New York. And that is the question here: Who was the original source of the information? Did the source also phrase the event in the past tense? How was the source certain the building would collapse?" This is not a suggestion that the BBC was 'in' on the conspiracy. They are just passing on a report. So where did that report originate? And how could the sources of that report possibly know a giant building with some peripheral fires was about to fall? There is no historical precedent for that. It is a clairvoyance beyond any reasonable explanation.

For a more detailed, written analysis of this story,  It should be noted that the BBC has given an absurd response to 911truth.org in regards to this strange string of events. And to no one's surprise, the archival video library in which this massive blunder was discovered has removed the clip in question from its stacks.