“No one grants me freedom for I am a free person. Lock me up and throw away the key for all I care. But you will never be able to coerce me into being vaccinated.” Christine Anderson, MEP
Remember this date: October 29, 2021. The date the United States authorized Big Pharma’s mass experimentation on our children. The date the FDA authorized Pfizer’s COVID gene therapy “vaccine” for children 5 to 11. It all starts next week with CDC clearance. They just can’t wait another minute.
60 seconds is all it takes for the entirety of your blood to travel through your body and back to where it started: your heart. Blood moves through arterial rivers and capillary streams.
The first time I flew to Luxor from Cairo, I looked down in wonder at the Nile River, flowing like a great artery through the land, bringing life. Along the banks all was green and fertile, then, almost a clear cut line where the desert began, a pale yellow infinity of nothingness as far as the eye could see. The contrast between life and death, beauty and cruelty, left me awestruck.
So it is with our bodies.
The human body is a miracle. It produces two million blood cells deep in its bone marrow per second and the heart pumps 1500–2000 gallons per day. Once formed, those red blood cells move into the bloodstream with white blood cells and platelets, all circulating through 60,000 miles of arteries, veins, and capillaries.
Truly, we are fearfully and wonderfully made. (Psalm 139:14)
Life is in the blood. And the heart is at the center of it all.
People have known this since time immemorial. Blood shed on the battlefield ended a life. It was said that vampires sucked the blood out of victims. In many religions blood is spilt on the altar to atone for sin.
When I was a child, an important ritual of friendship was becoming blood brothers/sisters. I did that with my best friend, Kelly, when I was in elementary school. Swearing loyalty forever, we cut our fingers and mingled our blood. We wrote out contracts promising loyalty and signed them with our blood, imagining we were pirates. Kelly and I are still friends to this day.
No one would ever do that now, however. People have become terrified of physical contact of any kind, let alone mingling their blood. I wouldn’t recommend it.
AIDS was the start of that fear. COVID brought it into all of our lives. That fear is senseless but like a shadow in the dark that looks like a monster, if we don’t turn on the light we will never know that the monster is really just a coat draped on a chair. Most people seem content to live in ignorant darkness rather than face the responsibility of light.
Our children are growing up in a world where this fear of the real world has reached such a height of hysteria that it has almost succeeded in overpowering their desire to live in the real world. The gods of tech are offering them a way of escape. The Metaverse.
Remember the video game The Sims, released by Microsoft Windows in 2000? Kids spent hours at a game that simulated every day activities of one or more virtual persons (“Sims”) in a suburban area near SimCity. I didn’t get it. Who would want to sit there, pretending to do all those ordinary things that were so boring in real life?
Incredibly, millions of people found it—is the word, fun? I don’t know.
This Metaverse has evolved to the point where users can now go inside the world, create avatars of themselves and interact.
Mark Zuckerberg has just unveiled the new name of Facebook—Meta—and his Metaverse. It looks quite hokey and I read a lot of comments from people making fun of it. But remember that Zuckerberg is only just beginning. Facebook’s goal is to own a monopoly on the Metaverse and I wouldn’t put it past them. And anyway, if Facebook doesn’t succeed someone else will.
The completed version of what Zuckerberg presented could take up to a decade to evolve. Just in time for my grandkids to live in it as teenagers. God help us all.
Like The Sims, the Metaverse is a digital world but a hundred times more advanced. It is filled with virtual ads and virtual goods that you can buy. The goal of the creators is that players will spend as much of their time as possible in the Metaverse and as little time as possible in the MEATverse.
The MEATverse is the real world. Yes, it is really called that.
Because we are all meat to the gods of tech. And we are all being consumed continuously by them. Our lives, our very blood is their sustenance.
The possibilities for scenarios in the Metaverse are endless. I read about one scenario where a user named Priya inhabits a virtual city that has everything you would find in a real city—cinemas, restaurants, apartment buildings, parks. At the center is a Facebook pavilion described as “the largest building, almost church like in its dominance of the square.” How spine-chilling is that?
Priya can meet old friends here and make new ones. She uses Metaverse currency to pay for her avatar’s clothes, that Gucci handbag she’s been craving. Her new car. Priya meets another user who looks like a green and warty ogre, they fall in love and get married. You see, in the Metaverse, you can be anything. You can even be a criminal, a rapist if you want. You can be a devil or an angel. It’s not real. There are no consequences.
Executive Rubin tells us that the desire of people like the one who made Priya is to spend more and more time in this virtual world. She eats, sleeps, exercises, interacts with other avatars there. “This is aided by Netflix, Facebook, Instagram and other Metaverse integrations.”
Within two decades, time spent in the Metaverse could rival that of “TV in the 90’s and Facebook in recent years.” And most importantly for Facebook, “net revenue after developer payout is billions a year,” Rubin said. That would come from the sale of virtual real estate, hats, weapons and status symbols. And ads, of course. Lots of ads. Food companies, car companies, drug companies, would pay for ads promoting their brands. Users would choose, let’s say a Ford truck to drive, based on the ads that attracted them and the amount of currency they had. They would work hard to buy goods.
In fact, the economy of the MEATverse would transition into the Metaverse. The goal of Facebook is to bring the Metaverse to the stage where we are all so far inside the prisons created for us that we will spend money buying fake things rather than living a real life.
“I might check in to Facebook multiple times a day, but I will LIVE in the Metaverse, work in the Metaverse, and potentially prefer my time in the Metaverse to my day-to-day grind,” a document that Rubin wrote says.
Does it all sound terrifying? It is.
Our children are already two thirds living in this world and we don’t even realize it.
What are some ways our children are being programmed? Let’s look at China because it all starts there and spreads like a plague much worse than any COVID virus. The virus is a distraction keeping us from what is really going on.
Schools in Guizhou province and the Guangxi Zhuang autonomous region are using “smart uniforms” embedded with GPS trackers to make sure students do not skip class, and to assure parents of their children’s attendance and safety, China Daily reported.
Focus headbands, made by BrainCo in Massachusetts, were used in a trial with 10,000 schoolchildren aged between 10 and 17 in China. Over 21 days, students wore the headsets during class and teachers could monitor their average attention levels using an app.
It is all coming here—after all, these headbands were made by a company in the United States. And this is only one example. Whether it’s a headband or another way, such as a chip embedded inside of us, which is only a matter of time, teachers will know when a student isn’t paying attention and parents will too. No more Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn antics. Tom will never again pull anything over on Aunt Polly.
Each student’s level of concentration and information is measured and sent to teachers and parents. Students are even monitored for how often they yawn or check their phones during class. Besides their teachers ranking them, parents can do so, too. Imagine having your behavior monitored every second of every day and being punished or rewarded for every single action, even your thoughts.
Children expressed how they felt while wearing the headband. It was tight, it caused headaches, they felt as if they were being controlled. The level of stress that children have to adjust to with this type of monitoring cannot be good for their health.
China’s cashless economy is made possible by face recognition. China has a web of over 200 million surveillance cameras. You can watch a video about it here. Everywhere a Chinese citizen goes they are tracked and monitored on what they buy and how they behave. They are scored to show how good of a citizen they are. This is the Social Credit System and, for example, a person can be scored on a scale of 350 to 950. Most Chinese say they are okay with this—at least that’s what they say on camera.
We all recognize the desire to work hard to maintain good credit scores. Without it, we cannot purchase the things we want or need.
Vaccine passports are more about accepting this social credit system than about the virus. The majority of people accept the vaccines, wanting to be good citizens. What’s the harm? After all, most people are good citizens. More restrictions won’t really change our lives. In fact, it will make things better. This is how people rationalize it.
V2K is a technology that was discovered in 1962 by Dr Allan H. Frey, and it is called the “Frey Effect.” The technology can put voices in your head, that no one else can hear. There are numerous patents on this technology. It is said that governments use it to harass and attack targeted individuals worldwide. This is getting into a realm I haven’t researched much and it isn’t easy to find reputable sources on the internet, so I will leave it as a fascinating bit of information to further explore.
Along the same vein we can ponder Havana Syndrome. Victims describe it as being bombarded by waves of pressure in their heads or hearing the noise of an immense swarm of cicadas filling their heads. Others portray the effects as a wall of sound, in one place but not another, as if they are deliberately targeted. Most recently, in January 2020 a pair of National Safety Council staffers experienced symptoms just outside the White House, with one telling Adam Entous of The New Yorker that when it hit, he felt “as if I was going to die.”
I am not sure if what these people are experiencing is some kind of espionage or hysteria. But of one thing I am certain: If the governments have found a way to do these things, they are doing it. And if they haven’t found a way yet, they will.
The absolute worst and most terrifying of all is a laser, possessed by the Pentagon, that can identify people from a distance by their heartbeat. The Jetson prototype can pick up on a unique cardiac signature from 200 meters away, even through clothes. Faces can be altered but your heartbeat is unique to you.
This is the final frontier. Once we give over our blood and our hearts there will be nothing left that belongs to us. We will be like a cadaver on the mortuary slab, no more mystery, just a pile of flesh and bones. Perhaps this won’t happen in our lifetimes but you can be sure it will happen in the lifetimes of our children and our grandchildren. Is this what we want for them?
By that time, our children, down to the age of 5, and probably even to 6 months old, will be trapped into taking any number of mRNA drugs for various ailments, their natural immune systems shot. Incredibly, parents are lining up to be “good citizens” and vaccinate their children. One mother lamented on Twitter that she didn’t want to do it, but if it meant they could get their freedoms back then it was worth it.
This mother and millions of parents like her are willing to barter the lives of their children for freedom—freedom that they do not realize they will never have again.
We are surrounded by statistics and data. We are told to “trust the science.” We are pressured to believe—yes, believe—that there are these people who know so much more than we do and we must—yes, we must—obey what they tell us to do.
But if we just pause and think for a moment, really think with our God-given common sense, this nightmare is so appalling that we can only do one thing, reject it.
Do you read books? Because I do. I love books more than movies. More than social media. Books can be a big part of our salvation. But they take time. They take concentration. They take using our own imaginations instead of passively allowing someone else to hijack our minds.
Oh, we are too busy to read books. No, we aren’t. We spend hours on social media. This has taken away our attention spans. We need to bring it back again.
As Ray Bradbury says in Something Wicked This Way Comes, “When rivers flooded, when fire fell from the sky, what a fine place the library was, the many rooms, the books. With luck, no one found you. How could they!–when you were off to Tanganyika in ’98, Cairo in 1812, Florence in 1492!?”
Not in a metaverse Cairo, but in a Cairo of your very own imagination.
I’ve shared on occasion parts of my childhood adventures traveling the world with my family. Here is one part of it which illustrates the importance of staying grounded in the real world and the mystery it holds.
For those who don’t already know from some of my other essays, when I was 10 years old, my dad heard the voice of God telling him to quit being a businessman and become a writer. As a result my family took off to travel the world so he could gain inspiration for his books.
Here’s what happened in Fez, Morocco.
The most beautiful gateway to the Medina is blue and green, patterned in tiles. It’s called Bab al-Shams, Arabic for “Gate of the Sun.” Once we passed through the Blue Gate, we entered the sudden chaos of Talaa Kebira, the main thoroughfare of this 1,200 year old city. Bumped, pushed, jostled, we found ourselves carried along in a roiling sea of djellaba-robed masses, mule carts, vendors and street urchins.
“You see how it is!” cried our guide triumphantly. He was a boy not much older than me, completely self-assured in a way that left me awestruck. Without him, surely we would have gotten lost in the confusing maze.
“Stay close,” Dad ordered.
The first thing I noticed, even more than the sites and the sounds, was the smell.
Coriander, cumin, cinnamon, freshly baked bread, sweat, raw meat, urine, cigarette smoke and who knew what else, all converged in the tiny lanes teaming with bodies, the smells stewing endlessly in an overstuffed pot. 300,000 Muslims, or thereabouts, lived in this walled medieval city and it seemed they were all out shopping that day along the 9,000 plus streets. The Old Quarter was lined with shops, some mere cubicles barely big enough for the vendor to squat on a small mat, squashed between his wares, and smoking from the inevitable hookah. Bartering, gossiping, heads poking out from shadowy corners and arched doorways, everyone watched as we passed and tried to gain our attention. As usual, we stood out, especially since there weren’t any other tourists in sight, only the occasional group of two or three unwashed hippies, who almost blended in with their earth colored clothes and sandals, their long scraggly hair often held back in scarves.
Truly, we felt as if we had stepped back in time.
Our parents had given each of us a bit of money and my older sister, Janna, and I knew exactly what we wanted to buy. Magical lamps, like we’d read about in Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. We were determined to find the lamp that held a genie imprisoned inside.
There were plenty to choose from, a dazzling display of bright shiny oil lamps packed onto the shelves of some of the larger shops.
“Tourist traps,” said Janna disdainfully.
Her eyes fixed on a small lamp, old and dented, lying forlornly on its side in the midst of a sorry bunch of scattered trinkets.
“That’s the one!” She reached out to pick up the lamp.
As Janna was paying, I wandered to the entrance of the next alcove, where I saw a glass bottle on a shelf. It was about six inches high, the color of emeralds, thin and delicate with a swanlike neck. A cork stopper sealed the narrow opening.
So the genie can’t get out! I thought excitedly.
A fine layer of dust covered the bottle, as if it had been waiting there, forgotten, for many years. Waiting for me! It had a history, that bottle. Perhaps a pirate had owned it once, and then a princess, or maybe a gypsy. Maybe the genie had been trapped inside for a thousand years, waiting for this moment! I would have to be careful. Genies were wily.
When the vendor saw me take the bottle off the shelf he immediately began haggling in French. I showed him all my dirham and he shook his head adamantly. The bottle was very special. It was worth more. But once the money was paid and I had the bottle, he was all smiles.
Without thinking, I started rubbing the dust off, anxious to see what it looked like in the sunlight.
Janna hit me hard on the back of the head. “Stop!”
“Ow!” I cried, startled.
“Are you an idiot?” she hissed. “You want the genie to get out—here?” She gestured around the busy bazaar.
I couldn’t believe my thoughtlessness.
“That’s exactly what I was talking about! You just don’t think! That bottle…there’s something mysterious about it. You have to take care of it—keep it safe!”
Once back at our hotel, we said good-bye to our guide and he was quickly swallowed by the crowds, on to his next conquest. Janna and I barely had time to hide our treasures under our pillows before we were off again.
We found a cafe where my parents struck up a conversation with a university professor who spoke excellent English, a slim, princely gentleman with long, expressive hands and wearing a dark suit, sandals and a knitted cap on his head.
“Ah, Fez!” he said, as if revealing a secret mantra. “To understand it, you must understand the mystery of the number five. And the construction of an onion—and the nature of your heart.”
We were immediately intrigued. How could a city be explained by a number and an onion?
The professor took a puff from his hookah and continued with his explanation.
“You see, Fez is like an onion with five layers of peeling. At the center are the Mosques, the places of worship, of knowledge, and of enlightenment. Then you have the working places called souks. Then are the homes of the people. Then the walls that hold it all in. If the walls were not there the city would explode from so much life! Outside the walls are the gardens and cemeteries. The cemeteries we go to when life is over, and we go to the gardens to contemplate life and death. You understand? You sit in the garden, an outside place, and look inward or else up to the sky. It is a beautiful construction, don’t you think?”
We agreed that it was. He observed us thoughtfully for a moment, as if contemplating whether we were enlightened enough to understand what he was about to say next.
Then, as if deciding that perhaps we were, he continued. “Are your cities so built? With such a perfect plan? You think you have order, streets in straight lines, traffic lights, police making the laws to be obeyed. But it is not the natural order of life. Natural life has chaos within the order. Like Fez. This city is built on truths so ancient, they are a part of the earth on which we walk. They are in our blood, our hearts.” He pointed at the ground. “See the stones?”
We looked down. They were old and worn from the trampling of hundreds of years.
“They are the stones of this place, this earth. Not asphalt!” He flicked the air with his long fingers, as if he were flicking away a fly.
“You may ask, why five layers? Five is the sacred number. Five calls to prayer each day. As there are five pillars of Islam. Every neighborhood has a mosque, a school, a fountain, a bread oven and a hammam, or baths—five! And there are five types of design. Marble, mosaics, cedar wood, plaster and calligraphic art. These you see on religious buildings.”
He leaned back again and took another puff. “So we see the dichotomy of life. The baths are a vision of heaven in the pleasure they give us, but also of hell in the heat and burning of the fires. Where, we may ask, is the pleasure? Where is the pain? Both have a place, both are interchangeable.”
My parents and the professor continued to talk and I half listened, while watching the never-ending stream of interesting characters passing me by. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows, darkening the streets and engulfing the city in an aura of mystery, the hooded men and veiled women gliding like ghosts, their eyes large and black, darting looks at us and then away again.
At that moment, the Muezzin commenced his high, mournful call to prayer, the sound floating from the center of the city outwards in an undulating wave. People stopped and pulled out mats as if from thin air, bowing down and praying to the east as the Muezzin sang.
When the prayer ended, the professor posed a question to my parents. “You are from Los Angeles. How do you explain your city?”
“It’s nothing like this!” exclaimed Dad. “It’s modern, without all this history. I can’t say I love Los Angeles, it’s an evil place, as all the world is. The only hope for the world, for any city, for you and me, is faith in Jesus Christ.”
My dad never missed a chance to “witness” to people of other faiths and I held my breath wondering if the professor would be offended. But he merely nodded and smiled. He seemed to be enjoying his hookah far too much to let a little conversation with a foreigner irritate him.
Mom said, “In Los Angeles, we have people from around the world. People come and go very easily. If you ask anyone in Los Angeles, I don’t think they would find the history of the city interesting, not like this.”
The professor nodded thoughtfully. “It must be as you say. I have never been there. But, still, beneath your city the land is old and has a spirit. The land is old everywhere. Here we build up from the land. In America, I think you build on top of the land. What you build has nothing to do with the land itself. You understand?”
We nodded. Even Dad, who liked nothing more than a good debate, didn’t argue the point, only objected that “the land doesn’t have a spirit, that’s paganism,” and left it at that.
We walked with the professor through the streets to our car, past stone walls, closed gates and doors covered with strange writings and symbols. By this point in our travels, I had passed by so many walls and doors, beyond which I could see nothing. What would I find beyond those walls, I wondered. Perhaps gardens and palaces, like in The Arabian Nights. The people passing on the streets looked to me like insubstantial ghosts in their flowing robes, yet I knew that we were the ghosts, just passing through, not resting our feet firmly on the ground, not living and breathing and knowing any of the places we visited, only dreaming of what it must be.
From behind the high walls on either side of the narrow road, we heard the sound of singing, although to us, it sounded more like wailing.
“Where we walk is sacred ground,” said the professor. “Here, they have many zaouias, where the Sufi brethren worship and sing. They are the most ancient and mystical of Islam’s followers and move towards truth by love and devotion. Through song, they reach a high spiritual plane. This is how they show their devotion to God.”
The professor paused, listening for a moment, a rapturous expression on his face. “This is a very famous singer, you are lucky to hear it! When the Sufi sings, he is a drunken lover, giving all his devotion to the Beloved. It is beautiful, don’t you think?”
I closed my eyes and for a moment, I almost heard beyond the strangeness of the sound to the joyful heart, as if the singer had fallen from the spirit world, filling the streets with wizardry. My parents politely said it sounded very nice. My younger brother Jon tried desperately not to laugh. Janna and Davy wore strained expressions and I supposed mine was the same. We didn’t understand this music.
We got into our car, inviting the professor with us, deciding to drive outside of the city to see if we could catch the last rays of the sunset on the rooftops.
As we drove, Dad said, “I find what you say fascinating. How can you best describe Sufism?”
The professor was pleased by his question. “It is difficult to answer. The best way is by telling the story of the elephant, by the auspicious writer, Rumi.”
“Okay, let’s hear it!” said Dad, never one to turn down the opportunity for a good story.
“A group of men in India had never seen an elephant and one night in complete darkness, they came upon the creature. Each man reached out a hand and felt a different part of the elephant’s body. One felt the leg and thought it must be a pillar. Another felt the ear and thought it was a fan, and so on. If they’d had a light, they would have seen the whole elephant and all would have described it the same. But they had no light, they were in darkness and so, each one interpreted as best they could, based on their experience.
“For the Sufi, tariqat is the spiritual path, recognizing that you are spiritually poor and needy, that you are ignorant and cannot possibly understand the whole. But you seek to understand as much as you can with the sight you have been given. Continuously, selflessly remembering God.”
My dad nodded. “I like that story very much,” he said. I smiled to myself. No doubt it would end up in one of his sermons.
By this time, we had stopped the car and were standing watching the last faint glimmer of rosy light kissing the rooftops good night. Across the hillsides, sparks of brightness began to appear. In wonder, we realized that they were bonfires, surrounding the city like a jeweled necklace. Hundreds of shadowy figures were moving up the hills towards the fires.
“What’s going on?” we asked.
“Storytellers. At sunset people climb the hills after work and gather around the bonfires to hear stories. Everyone has their favorite storyteller, they are like rock stars. We have a great love for stories.”
The sight was bewitching, unlike anything I had ever seen before. Back home, there were hills behind our house. I imagined people climbing the hills to listen to storytellers, instead of watching television. I almost laughed at the thought. If I tried to explain to my friends that a story told on a hillside, lit by bonfires, was better than television, they’d probably think I’d lost my mind. And why wouldn’t they? They weren’t here, having this experience that only happened exactly like this, not anywhere else in the world. No one else could ever feel the ancient magic of this moment, calling to them across the hills. I wanted to hold it forever, capture it like the genie in the bottle.
As I gazed out at the bonfires, I thought of all the marvelous stories that were being told at that moment, the words rising to the starry heavens with the snapping flames, and it seemed that such moments, happening all across the world in different countries and in different ways, were an important part of what balanced the good against the bad. These stories were a powerful sorcery, floating upwards and then descending again upon the earth in blessings.
We, along with the blessings, descended back into the city, sadly saying our good-byes to the professor near the cafe where we had first met him.
Before leaving us, he gave a playful warning. “Walking the streets at night, beware the hidden world of spirits and Djinns.”
“Djinns?” Jon asked, wide-eyed and eager.
The professor looked down at him, his own eyes shining strangely in the moonlight. “Powerful, magical creatures created through smoke and fire. They take mortals as servants, as lovers, even as food. It is said that King Solomon bound 70 Djinn for his service, by using a ring as a Talisman.”
I could feel Janna’s excitement matching my own. This was marvelous news! Djinns! Talismans!
Before Janna could stop me, I blurted out, my shyness forgotten, “My sister and I bought a lamp and a bottle. Are they Talismans? We thought maybe one of them might have a genie inside. Is that what you’re talking about? Do they really exist?”
I held my breath, waiting to hear what the professor would say. Here was an educated man, talking about storybook stuff as if it was real!
“Of course they exist,” he answered gravely. “But you must be very careful. Do not play with these powers. Bad things can happen if you don’t know what you are doing.”
Dad looked severely from me to Janna. “Where are these Talismans?”
“At the hotel,” I said, realizing my dreadful mistake.
I could feel Janna’s anger smoldering just beneath her skin. We’d been so close to something incredible happening—to possessing a Djinn! And I’d ruined everything. The professor knew about these things, he did! But I would never have the chance to speak more with him.
Dad turned his sharp gaze on the professor. “There is no reference in the Bible to Solomon binding Djinn to his service. None.”
The professor took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. He certainly did like to smoke. Sucking in deeply, the end of the cigarette erupted in tiny, bright red sparks. He held the smoke inside for a moment, then blew out one puff and then another, creating a series of smoke rings. I watched in fascination as they wobbled past me, slowly expanding and then dissolving into nothing. I thought of the Djinn made of smoke and fire. Could the professor be a magician? Yes, he must be!
The professor said mildly, “I do not wish to argue the point. I only know I come from an old world.” He smiled at all of us. “It has been a pleasure to spend time with you.”
Dad shook his hand. “It’s been very informative meeting you. We’ve learned a great deal today and are grateful. I pray that God will reveal the truth to you.”
The professor bowed his head and closed his eyes, his hands clasped as if in prayer. “We should all wish for this,” he said.
As we walked away, I turned back for one last glimpse of the mysterious professor but he had vanished.
Alas, I never got to rub the bottle to see if a genie would appear, nor did Janna get to rub her lamp. My parents took away our Talismans and disposed of them.
And we had to endure a lecture on the evils of sorcery and how we shouldn’t try to call up demons.
Back in the car and on our journey once more, I asked Janna if the professor might have been a magician in disguise.
She was still angry at me for getting us into trouble but she answered, “I think so. We missed our big chance to have our own Djinn. All because of you.”
With a loud “humph!,” she folded her arms across her chest and stared out the window, chin jutting out, green eyes stormy.
“I said I was sorry fifty million times!”
“Sorry doesn’t matter!”
It was true. Sorry wouldn’t bring back our Talismans or the Djinn. Which was probably a good thing anyway.
Who would want to exchange this beautiful, terrifying, painful, heroic, spiritual and always mysterious reality for the Metaverse? This wonderful world with billions of stories, each one unique, will never be a MEATverse.
As the professor reminds us, even the stones of a city like Fes are “built on truths so ancient, they are a part of the earth on which we walk.” The metaverse will never be in our blood, our hearts, like Fez remains in mine. Indeed, the metaverse is a place that kills our hearts and makes our blood run cold.
By next week the stage will be set for the government to start vaccinating our young children. They will pump more and more drugs through our children’s veins. Then, they will begin to identify them by their unique heartbeats. Every movement they make in the real world will be monitored and graded. They will be so oppressed that living in the Metaverse will seem free in comparison.
With all my heart, I stand with Christine Anderson, and I say: Let them put me in jail and throw away the key. Let them torture me, kill me, even. I do not care. They will never vaccinate my grandchildren. And I will do all in my power to keep these precious souls in the real world with all its magic, reading stories and exploring wherever I am able to take them.
On this hill I stand and fight to win or die. I pray we all do the same.
I want to thank my mom for the journal she kept of our travels without which I couldn’t be so accurate. Also, for the great conversations we had about those days over the years that kept it fresh in my mind.