Lingering with Intent in the Land of No-one

by Kevin D. Annett

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“They treat me like I’m invisible” said Joe, homeless and toothless.

“Well you’re not” I assured, extending my hand to him. “I see you.”

And life returned to his eyes.

The view out the window tonight appears unchanged from forty years ago: the same deceptively quiet slum and its hundred-window stare. But behind those shutters and my own reflection dwell entire lifetimes of wisdom, won drop by bloody drop.

I didn’t even own a typewriter in those days, and the words bled laboriously from my pen. I wrote on a wobbly green stand-up desk that I’d filched from a neighbour’s throw-away pile. My stories were barely-concealed autobiography, set in harsh and dried-up places that tested everything about their characters. I recurringly warred with a never-published creation, a novel about a young communist trapped in a Depression-era Saskatchewan town. My work never amounted to anything but a mirror of myself since nothing was making me grow up back then. And so the novel withered like any Dust Bowl wheat field.

Pouring through those surviving scribbled parchments is to plunge again into the acid-despair of that twenty one year old boy as the better world he sought evaporated even in its imagining. I had forgotten how crushingly lonely he was, how incapable of showing his heart to another. The boy’s writing was an escape valve for the cyclones of suffering in him and around him, from which he refused to take shelter. His words created what he and his few comrades could not conjure in the world. And so each night the young writer found solace and a renewed consecration at his broken but still-standing desk.

Most of the familiar land marks from that time have collapsed and blown away, save personal devotion. The world around me is as abandoned now as the ruined town my protagonist Samuel Wedge occupied while he lived through my pen. My voice still resounds in the wasteland but none are there to reply. An empty gallery once audience-packed greets me now; humanity has become an entire ghost nation.

It is unfathomingly strange to end up like Homeless Joe, unseen and invisible, after the tumult I unleashed. Joe’s tears at my greeting may have been more than relief, but the recognition that others like him still existed despite our erasure.

In my cheerier moments I interpret our exile as a necessary vindication of the few just souls: the way that the universe refines and sets apart its chosen warriors and messengers, and preserves its remnant. For have we any need any more of the sluggish and dead mass of people, or had we ever? But then I recall the Great Cosmic Shrug, and where Joe will try to sleep tonight, and reality returns.

I’ll publish this tidbit soon and it will be read by hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, but it will receive no replies. The pilot light in mankind has gone out. If there is to be a rekindling it will only come from something other than ourselves as presently constituted.

The Asylum is our World: Lessons from Ward Two West

by Kevin D. Annett

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Personal adjustment to a psychotic social order is no sign of mental health. - Eric Fromm

One of the more gratifying illusions granted to me by advancing age is the sense that my sixty one years have occured to teach me something. Take my time working in a psychiatric facility, for instance.

Perhaps fittingly, I paid my way through seminary and into a kafkaesque United Church ministry by working at the University of British Columbia Psych hospital, in my early thirties. My assignment was on Ward Two West, among those souls designated as “schizophrenics and psychotics” by doctors whose main job was to keep them drugged up and manageable. As a roving orderly I was quickly introduced to the five basic personality types on the ward, among both the patients and the staff.

What is fascinating is how, during the many years since that brief spell in the nuthouse, those same five personas keep manifesting all around me. Ward Two West in fact introduced me to all of the kinds of people I would later encounter in the moral madness of the United Church and its various cohorts in crime. In fact, it seems to me now that the normalized nuttiness of Ward Two West has become our world.

The first and most common persona I encountered was of course the Tranquil Majority: the mass of dissociated and managed patients who had no idea of anything. They led the kind of 9 to 5, sleep walking dullness common to 90% of our populace, habitually following the rules and going along without harbouring an ounce of their own vision.

The next group was far less common because they were awakening to themselves and to their situation. But these Awakeners were just as confused as the Tranquils because they remained trapped within their own obsessive bubble and babble. They were the ones who over coffee in the day room would give me torturously long explanations of the real problem in the world and the secret villains behind the scenes responsible for their misery, in the manner of any internet word-warrior who’s worked everything out. But that’s where it began and ended for the Awakeners, for they were as glued to the Ward as the Tranquil Majority.

The third group were the Ardent Rebels: the very few of the patients who’d eschew words for direct action. These Rebels had held on to enough of their natural outrage and courage to simply bolt and run from the Ward, or slug a nurse rather than take their meds. I suppose you’d call them the obvious activists. They never lasted too long, any more than does a lone-hero, “free man on the land” type who single handedly tries taking on the corporate state and its courts.

And then there was the fourth class of patients: the seasoned Veterans whose capacity to endure and learn from their own mistakes had allowed them to know themselves as well as they knew the system. The Veterans remained quiet, camouflaged and off the radar, biding their time for the right moment to act. They were the ultimate realists who trusted and relied on no-one, and for that reason stood the best chance of surviving and even transcending the Nut Ward.

And the fifth persona? They were, of course, the staff members themselves: the nurses, doctors and administrators who made the whole thing operate, and who therefore were the most insane. For as the system’s professional Managerial Class, they had been assimilated most completely into the required illusions and delusions of the Ward.

This basic schematic of the Insanity Industry’s power structure is but a stage setting for an appreciation of the main event, which is the mutual dance the Five performed and still perform. Learning the steps of that production is key to breaking free from its madness and finding that liberation from the walls of delusion that keep all Five of us personas trapped and condemned.

The first recognition about the dance is that it is precisely that: constant motion and change. None of our five classes of people tend to think or live in terms of continual movement, but rather limited static jumps, which is the energy signal of right-angled, interior prisons like the Nut House. Observe a swarm of flies if you need proof of this: bugs that are outdoors move in circular or randomly unpredictable patterns, reflecting the energy of nature. But indoor flies jolt about in restricted, right-angled motions, mirroring the contained energy grid of a house.

Such a grid pattern is stamped on every child born into so-called western culture. Its angular control of all the energy within its boundaries is present in the most basic template of our culture: the so-called Cross of Christ, which replaced the early Christian symbol of open-ended eternity, mistakenly described as a fish image. The Cross is in actuality the pattern of an angular energy grid. That configuration emerged millenia ago. It arose from the right-angled street plan of the army camps laid out by the Roman legions on campaign, which later evoved into the most common layout of modern cities. That angular grid pattern depicts the nature of power that emerged from Rome and captured the world: in a word, domination.

The Domination archtype of the one or the few over the many conditions every aspect of thought, religion, law, medicine and power in our culture, and shapes all five of the personality types in question, whether on the Nut Ward or off. It is not surprising then that these Five groups habitually operate in predictable patterns that can be anticipated and controlled by a small elite acting through the Managerial class. Nevertheless, the nature of the dance between the Five remains one of a constant movement that persists despite an interior-conditioned thinking. This tight web can be disrupted by the entry of conscious thought into the energy pattern: a consciousness that claims that energy for itself and redirects it in a new manner, by acting outside the experience of the system in new and creative ways.

I observed how this began to occur, even among the heavily medicated and managed denizens of Ward Two West, through as simple an act as switching off the Ward television set. Silence then began to draw the attention of normally comatose patients to gaze out the windows or towards one another, as something deeper began to stir in them.

Knowing this, the system has become increasingly adept in not allowing such personal energy from prevailing or even finding a momentary foothold in the normally managed populace. The latter of whatever persona cannot be allowed themselves. Instead, thanks to the internet and an increasingly domineering and invasive technology, people are kept universally immersed in a single electronic energy medium that can uniformly control all thought and action. Through an artificial environment that is now effectively absolute, humanity is thereby being deliberately componentized into the operating units of a single global machine: the inevitable and perfect expression of the Domination archetype.

This imperative of uniformity by the system determines the nature of the dance between the Five. The motion of the Managers is singular: simply a top down, domineering control. While powerful, this motion is the most static movement of the Five, for it is monolithic and restricted to only one course of behaviour. The other Four personas therefore have a potentially enormous strategic advantage over the Managers and their tyranny, since the Four are capable of greater movement and unpredictability provided they can overcome their habitualized natures.

Of the four personas, the Veterans and the Ardent Rebels are best prepared to operate thus outside and against the system. In practice, they constitute the vanguard that can drag the others along with them in those fleeting moments when the system begins to break down and new alignments of power are necessary and therefore possible. But by their natures, Veterans and Rebels are highly individualistic and self-reliant, and are not inclined to think or act collectively. They can, paradoxically, also constitute the greatest barrier to change because of that individualism.

Nevertheless – to use another Ward example – it was the Rebels and Veterans who led initiatives to bring about reforms or changes to Ward routine when the conditions allowed it. In a nutshell, Rebels provided the energy and Veterans the thinking for change. The rest of the inmates eventually moved according to the new energy pattern created by these two personas against the dominant norms on the Ward.

The Managers and their controllers knew this, of course, and as in politics, their main effort went towards dividing and splitting the Rebels from the Veterans with bribes and selective repression. When they became identified, Veteran Ward members would be the ones invited to sit on Ward committees and be coopted into the administration. Rebels, on the other hand, would be neutralized through threats or overt punishments. The analogies to our own situation are obvious.

I also experienced how the Awakeners often became the biggest distraction and disruption to the coalescing of any real change on the Ward. In fact, it was often more likely for a sudden dissent to emerge from within the mass of Tranquils than from the Awakeners, who operated from the false belief that they already knew what the problems were and what had to be done, thereby isolating themselves from the others and from any capacity to move or to change. Awakeners are invariably just armchair talkers. But the majority – the apparently dead and sluggish Tranquils – are like elementary particles that can be shaken into a sudden and even radical opposition for brief moments, like the masses of people become during any socially revolutionary period and situation.

All of these movements invariably pose a basic question of power: of who will run the Ward, and why, or even of abolishing the Ward altogether. But that question must first be imagined by our different personas before it can be perceived as a “practical” goal: an imagining which in itself is the biggest and seemingly most difficult thing to do. Inmates cannot imagine escaping their confinement until either they have begun to think outside of its walls or become engaged in concrete actions and experiences that alter their thinking and open them up to new possibilities. The purpose of any leadership among the four inmate-personas is to unite both thought and action to establish a continual counter-culture of opposition within the bowels of the Ward itself: a new way of being that is in reality the seed of a new power arrangement that will replace the old one altogether.

I have used the experience and the model of a psychiatric ward to illuminate our own situation in a way that takes seriously the personalities molded by conditions of domination and “ward management”. We are all very much the inmates of a psychotic, violent and dissociated global culture that requires segmented, unintegrated and functionally-defined personalities in order to survive: that is, a population of inwardly sick and dependent people, not healthy and conscious ones. No society thus formed has a future except as a managed machine one, devoid of life and change. Regaining our own minds and lives is therefore the first most basic step in breaking down the walls of such a global insane asylum and finally allowing all of us captives to be set free into the Natural Law and Liberty that is our birth right.

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Leaving the False Churches: A Call for Prayer, Fasting and Separation

Issued by The Covenant of Free Congregational Christians (The Covenanters)

on Sunday, October 22, 2017 In preparation for the 500th Anniversary of the Reformation

Woe to you, Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you are like whitewashed tombs which appear beautiful on the outside but are filled with the bones of the dead and all things corrupt. - Matthew 23:27

For what does light have in common with the darkness? Therefore come out from among them and separate yourselves, says the Lord God. - 2 Corinthians 6:14, 17

Since 2013, the churches of Rome, of England, and of Canada have been convicted of unspeakable crimes against children and humanity. Under both man’s law and the law of God they have been declared criminal bodies and their authority has been nullified. The curtain of judgement has fallen on not only these churches but upon all those who remain within them. It is time for all people of conscience and of Christ to leave forever these false and murderous churches.

Commencing at sunrise on Sunday October 29, all people are invited to enter into forty eight hours of prayer, fasting and spiritual separation from the Satanic churchly powers. On October 31, on the 500th anniversary of the Reformation, Christ’s people will assemble in new congregations apart from these powers and their worldly churches.

We call upon all members or adherents of the Roman Catholic, Anglican and United Church of Canada to begin this process of inner and outer cleansing by ceasing and desisting from funding or associating with these criminal bodies. Fast and separate with us and return to Christ Alone, and declare this intention by taking the appended Pledge of Conscience and sharing it with your family and other church members. In Christ’s name and according to his purpose, Amen.

Pledge of Conscience

I, ______________________________ , after prayer and in good faith, hereby pledge to disassociate myself from the Church known as   

________________________________ and to deny it all attendance, funding and adherence. I do so because of its criminal conviction as a genocidal, child

killing institution that has betrayed God and humanity, and thereby forfeited all legitimacy, rights and authority. I also pledge by this separation to pursue my

faith in the company of others who have or who may take this Pledge. So help me God.





Note: Please leave copies of this Pledge in the church collection plate and share it with others. See the evidence of the crimes of your church at and . Contact The Covenanters at and read its Founding Confession of Faith at .

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Confessions of an Allegedly Angry Man: Breaking the Awful News

by Kevin Annett

(to be read in conjunction with the adjoining piece “Proudly Canadian …”)

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“In times like the present, men should utter nothing for which they would not willingly be responsible through time and eternity.” – Abraham Lincoln, 1861

The other day one of my less than insightful readers whom I’ll call Shirley took offense at something I wrote. With a passion unusual for a pale Canadian, Shirley explained to me how I would have much more support from the public if I wasn’t so “bitter and angry” about my own country, and learned instead to “look for the positive in people”. She also mentioned something about God.

Shirley’s fervent accusation perplexed me at first, since the dire writing to which she referred was composed by yours truly as a satirical poke at Canadians’ moribund capacity to strain out a gnat while swallowing a camel: in this case, the latter being our sordid Group Crime and Denial involving lots and lots of dead brown children. After all, one can only laugh at enormous tragedy, since it defies all of our words.

In fact the woman’s barbed censure of me came at a fitting moment, since not even an hour before her remarks I had been asked by an interviewer to do more than comment on the murder of the nine year old girl named Vicky Stewart. My interlocutor asked me how her death made me feel. And the truth was that I didn’t feel anything.

I’ve sometimes imagined what position in life I’d enjoy if I was actually the nefarious man portrayed by my critics. I’d be a lot wealthier, for one thing. In Shirley’s case, if I indeed harbored the kind of bitter rage she’s detected in me from her remote vantage point, then I would be exploding passionately over Vicky’s beating to death by a United Church matron named Ann Knizky. If only I had such rage! But worse the luck, I’m too much of a Canadian to not glance over my shoulder with concern at how the crowd might interpret my blast of indignation. For as any of us know who have faced the fire of official vilification, in our country the problem is never that a wrong is done – it’s that someone is talking about it. Just ask Shirley.

Vacuous critics aside, I’ve spent today probing my absence of feeling concerning little Vicky’s killing. I’ve seen her picture and come to know her sister Beryl who witnessed the fatal blow. I know the details of Vicky’s brutal ending as well as I do the untold thousands of other faceless victims whose extermination I have chronicled and shared with a disbelieving world. And perhaps that fact explains the thick padding around my heart and the staunched tears that cannot flow. No doubt too the grief of having my own beloved daughters stripped from me when they were mere infants has helped to exile me into this emotional dead zone where my rage cannot find its voice. In that way I’m a lot like my pale country men and women. For like the classical Greek heroine Antigone, if I have died it is so that I may truly help the dead: my fellow Canadians.

Besides a failing agility and subsiding libido, entrance into my sixties has brought me an unexpected clarity about what I’ve actually been doing these past two decades. I thought for a long time it was to expose a terrible wrong called genocide in my own backyard and give voice to its stumbling survivors. As it turns out, that was all but a preamble to the main event.

Nobody ever likes to have the awful truth presented to them, particularly when their end is in sight. For instance, soon after I was ordained as a clergyman I was called to the bedside of a dying woman named Carol who was the young mother of three children. She had barely days to live. Her parents and brothers were all there along with her distraught husband. None of them wanted to face the truth that she was about to die. They tried cheering her up and told her she’d be up and better soon. But she knew the truth, just as they did, somewhere beneath their dread and denial.

As Carol got worse and began to sink into a coma, I finally said gently to everyone in the room, “Now might be a good time for all of you to say goodbye to Carol.”

They all turned to me in shock. Carol’s mother barked at me angrily, “How dare you!”

“She doesn’t have much time left” I replied, but the woman couldn’t hear me.

The mother never did say goodbye to her daughter; instead she stormed out of the hospital room. But eventually everyone who remained faced the truth, and that’s when their tears and sobbing began, and their goodbyes to their dying Carol. Yet none of the bereaved family ever spoke to me again, avoiding me with hostile glances as if I had been the cause of her death.

Equally apropos is another story much like that one, told by a survivor of a Nazi death camp. The man was a Polish doctor being shipped in a cattle car to Auschwitz with hundreds of children and their parents and teachers. As the train neared the death camp, one of the elders, an old woman who’d taught music in the Cracow ghetto from where they had been shipped, began to tell the children happy stories of the beautiful land of eternal youth that awaited them all. She began to lead them in singing. Soon the children were all calm and contented, even as the blaring sirens and screams of Auschwitz approached.

The surviving doctor remembers that he grew angry at the old woman and took her aside.

“Why are you telling these children such lies, at a time like this?” he demanded.

The old woman smiled sadly and replied,

“This is not the time for the truth.”

Part of me agrees with the old woman: the childish part of me that once felt that love means medicating the suffering with a narcotic called hugs and happy wishes. But my seasoned and higher self understands that the truth is never dispensable, especially at moments of suffering; and that any love that denies the truth is as false and transitory as a mild painkiller. Only the truth can allow us to grow beyond our infantile need for protection and mature past the wheel of injustice. For experience shows us that the universe does not want us to be happy as much as it wants us to grow up.

People like Canadians – whose culture has the blood of the innocent on its hands and who are caught in an enormous group lie required by their crime – are not capable of growing up. Like any bully caught with the club still in his hand, white Canadians are not moved or concerned by the legions of children who were tortured to death by their churches as much as by someone who points out the bodies. As a senior United Church official once exclaimed at me, “We know all about those things. The only problem is that you’re talking about it.”

The official’s words are a perfect depiction of the banality of institutionalized evil: of the fact that those immersed in a Group Crime are not so much intentionally evil as they are dead in their hearts and dissociated from their own feelings. This obtuse condition was epitomized by the Anglican clergyman who confronted some of us who were leafleting his cowed parishioners about the more than 50,000 children who died at their corporate hands. The man screamed at us,

“We’ve said we’re sorry! What more do those people want?”

And the pastor was genuinely shocked and confused when I replied,

“Imagine if it was your child who was raped, killed and shoved in the ground somewhere. What would you want?”

My question confused the man only because the whole “issue” of his groups’ complicity in mass murder in his own backyard had never been internalized by him, or by his group. Raped and murdered children was not a reality to him but an abstraction, unrelated to his daily life. And it is precisely that kind of numbed and hermetically sealed moral capacity that is required for any Group Crime to go unresolved and unpunished, and thereby continue. The greater the atrocity, the greater the denial and personal distancing of it, whether at Auschwitz or the Alberni Indian residential school.

Passion and anger has no place in the rigid mental dissociation of group criminals like Canadians, for such upheavals threaten to crack open the careful arrangement of make believe humanity and personal self-exculpation that characterizes the winners of any war of genocide. Ultimately this neurosis explains the behaviour of my antagonist Shirley who took such offense at my laughing at the denial and delusions of my people. For to a white Christian in Canada there is no greater offense than to cause a controversy or division. Clearly, they don’t read their own Bible very much.

At the end of the day, our real enemy is not the risk of breaking glass in outrage but our incapacity to do so. Our frozen feelings and captivity in an arrangement of death and lies is as much a threat to the fiber and being of the Anglican clergyman as it is to you and me. Genocide condemns the killer and the killed alike. The one who tortures another to death and “gets away with it” carries around a death sentence and is eventually destroyed from within. White Canada, languishing in its group lie of “healing and reconciliation”, is dying from the inside out because it has yet to face itself.

I have no prescription for the terminal condition of my people because there is no cure. As much as Canadians deny their own condition, there will eventually come the fact of death. It is not to the passing crime called Christian Canada that we must minister, but to those who will come after it: the next generations, whether native or white, who must know the whole truth lest they replicate the evil.

Perhaps one day I will learn to let my own blocked grief flow and find that voice of rage that will shatter the prison bars. But if such grace falls upon me or on any Canadian it will be because of and not despite our relentless facing of the truth and our struggle to speak it. For as Alice Miller reminds us,

“The truth about our childhood is stored up in our body, and although we can repress it, we can never alter it. Our intellect can be deceived, our feelings manipulated, and conceptions confused, and our body tricked with medication. But someday our body will present its bill, for it is as incorruptible as a child, who, still whole in spirit, will accept no compromises or excuses, and it will not stop tormenting us until we stop evading the truth.”


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