That everything upon Earth is for everyone, this is not discussed.
That no one should be allowed to possess wealth to the extent that some people possess wealth, that when people have such wealth these people also have power over each one of us, this also is smothered.
Chapter Twenty Three
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orning, Wednesday June 6, 1900.    George Arthur and Constance wave while the large Brougham makes its slow rumble out towards the highway.
Already up the steps, Annabell disappears into the Manor hallway.
Constance looks up at the open doorway where McBride waits. She wishes Annabell had remained.  There’s still much grieving. A sensitive girl, Annabell needs time. They all need time.  She resolves tomorrow to go to Annabell’s apartment.  They will have a long talk.
She turns towards Arthur.  He smiles.  She smiles back.
He’s been a blessing.  If only Ronald would tell her he is well.  Her hands clasp together, tighten.  Annabell must be encouraged to see there is a world that awaits.  So very hard when something so despairing comes to the heart. She will say that.
As the carriage slips through the overhanging trees, all that seems to remain is a sense of emptiness.
Meg, who’s been standing back, breaks the gloom by asking George if he still wishes to take a walk.
“I do believe we might, my dear.”  He peeks at the sun, moves to clutch Meg around her waist.  “Arthur, Conny, what do you think?  Coming with us?  How about we take the old path to the moors, up to the coppice?”
“Skyler can have a run!,” adds George in his persuasive way.  “We will have our None, our noon-time in the trees?”
Glancing again at McBride, Constance has no idea what to do. Should she go to Annabell now.  The girl is all alone.  But then she thinks it might be good for her to have some time by herself.  The two have been with her day and night.
The last thing she wants is for Annabell to think she has to deal with her.  Tomorrow will be just right.  Annabell will have had a day by herself.  She glances at Arthur.  “I will.”
George smiles.  “Good, Conny, for a moment there I thought you were going to...”  he doesn’t finish. “Arthur?”
Arthur nods.
Looking up to the butler standing by the Manor door, “Horace, ask the kitchen, a small pack in a hurry for us. A meal for the woods. We will return for tea.”
“I’ll take care of it right away, sir.”
“Capital.  Why don’t we get into our Wellingtons,” George takes Meg’s hand as the two climb the steps.  “Say we meet by the stables in half-an-hour, three-quarters?
“Bring the food over to us there, Horace.  I want to see how Sazim is settling, have a word with Fred.  We’ll be in the horse field.”
The four stepping inside the spacious hall, walking to the stairs, McBride closes the large mahogany doors.
Twenty minutes later, in the horse pasture behind the stables, George and Fred examine the white, powerful, high spirited Arabian that George has just purchased. Sazim, the new horse, not yet used to his master, stamps his foot as George scratches him.  “Getting better with us, isn’t he, Fred.”
“Ah!  Tha’ ‘er is, sir” Fred holds his hands out, offers the horse some dried apricots picked from his pocket.
“And the rest, everything all right?”
“Nought wrong w’it any, pleased t’sy”
All the horses are out in the pasture and they visit each one: Ronald’s chestnut, the Gidrn mare Hasty, with her wide, sparkling eyes. Whitespot, the Andalusian palomino, Mandalmane’s horse for Arthur’s use.  Fred holds up a treat and from the far side of the field the Austrian gelding comes running, Majest, a stately Warmblood that Ronald bought for Annabell.  Following Majest come the two drays, sturdy horses used for the carriage, Nicker, the bay coloured shire and Uncas the not-large Belgian, all rewarded with pieces of oatcake, oat, honey and beetroot cakes made by Fred’s wife Betty.
The pony on loan from John Hopkins, Milly, seeing them getting a treat, runs up.  A few small pieces of turnip comes forth from Fred’s large apron pocket.  Milly sniffs them. Meg watches from the field gate as the last of Fred’s deep apron pocket are brought out, apple quarters and half carrots, scratches accompanying as more than one lay their head upon Fred’s shoulder.
Walking back at the gate, George glances back at Hasty. “What are we to do with her.  I don’t think Ronald would have her sold.”
“You must ask Lady Middleton,” replies Meg.
“Would you like to ride,” asks George.
Meg smiles anxiously, “You will have to teach me.”  
George smiles back.  “We will get a gentle spirit for you to have practice with.”
George has asked her to set the wedding date.  He has given her a ring and they are formally engaged, but there is still too much grief.  She has said that when Mr. Hews leaves, and Lady Middleton, then it will be time to plan for their future.
She still wonders what she is doing.  Lady Middleton and Mr. Hews are so nice to her.  But there is young Mr. and Mrs. Coulter, and the back of the house.  She has looked up to Fred and Mr. Enlem and their wives from as long as she’s been here.
George and she walking alone, Meg is content.  She has difficulty with her words and he tries not to laugh at her. She knows though when she has said something wrong. Will she get better?  She wants to believe she will.  She wants to be the best wife she can for him.
It’s all external, the changes that she’ll have to make.  In her heart she knows she loves him, and he needs someone.  She doesn’t know why but she thinks she can be that one.
As the four turn from the horse field, Constance and Arthur come to meet them.
Constance takes Meg’s arm.  Here again Meg has become used to this kindness of Lady Middleton.  Being held like this still makes her feel extremely self-conscious, but it also makes her feel welcome.  When the four walk together now, Lady Middleton will walk beside her, leaving Mr. Hews and George to converse together in front.  It’s all done with great amiability and she knows she has to get used to it.
Lucy will be leaving when she marries Tom.  Lucy and she are like sisters.  Now Lucy is going to be a farmer’s wife, and she’s going to be George’s wife and they are all going to live happily ever after. Even Mrs. Minton has been talking about making it right with Mr. McBride.
How this has all happened, she doesn’t know.  But it has so she shouldn’t be so sensitive that’s all there is to it.
Constance asks them to wait a moment.  Approaching the gate Hasty sees her, runs up, allows herself to be patted.
With the mare alongside the gate, Constance leans over kisses Hasty’s ear softly.
Tears gush forth.
“Will you take her with you?”  asks George.
“Take her back to London?”  Constance, turns, raises her parasol.
“I think she will be happier here.  I might be leaving for an extended period after Annabell is married.  Do the tour that Ronald and I were going to do.  Miss Hooper and I and the Chinese noble.”
“When you get back?”
No answer for McBride comes towards them carrying two holding bags.  “I hope you have not been waiting, sir. Cook wanted to have it just right.”
“Perfect timing,” George takes a bag from him.  “Please thank Mrs. Minton for us.”
McBride hands the second pack to Arthur, helps him to manage the straps.
Walking along the back of stable building, reaching the connecting path, George calls out to Fred who now stands outside the stable doors.  “Thank Mrs. Enlem for the horse treats.”
“Aye!  I’ll tell Betty it’s mentioned, sir.  Wonderful day ‘er is w’ote dou’t.  Be’se’en company on ret’n, ‘en.”
“Yes” George turns towards Arthur, looks back at the ladies. “To the bridge.”
. . .
Emily is more and more uneasy.  As the carriage passes along Oath Highway, then through Weatherby village, she keeps thinking of opening the window.  If only she peeks out, her mind keeps telling her, Annabell will be waving.
Now along the road to Biddiford, not a word has been spoken by Edward.  In the large Brougham they both sit silent, he in the right corner, she on the left.  She glances at him, his face also seems troubled.
“Did you notice anything, Edward?”
“About Bell!  Yes!” Edward turns his face towards the window. Annabell’s kiss had been long, loving.  He had wanted to hold her, not let her go.  She felt so light, so fragile.  Why had that odd feeling come to him?
Moments pass, the clop, clopping of the horses, the swish of the carriage, the wheel sound the Brougham makes.
“I’ve been thinking of nothing else, Emily.  There’s something!  I’m sure there’s something.  I’m wondering if we should be leaving now.”
“Shall we turn around?”
“She will be most angry.”
Edward seems as if he wishes to say...
“Tell me!”
“I had this odd sensation as we parted.  It is hard to describe.  You will think I am foolish.”
“I won’t!”
Edward, embarrassed, begins to turn back towards the window. “It is as if a tremor shakes me.”
Stopping himself, he looks at Emily, “At the hotel in Biddiford we’re to wait for the change of horses.  The best horses were sent there yesterday for the long journey. Rooms have been arranged for us.  We are to have a meal.  I will ask for the use of the telephone.  You and I, we will speak to Bell from the hotel.”
Emily shades her eyes.  She does not want to go to Biddiford.  She wants to return immediately.  But Edward’s suggestion seems reasonable.  If Annie laughs, she will know she is being foolish.  “We will talk to Annie on the telephone.  You can tell me how she seems to you. If we think we should go back, we will return to the manor.”
Falling into the heavily padded seating, Emily floats to a haze of disturbance, her mind an upheaval of energy.
. . .
“It seems their desire is to establish America as the country of control,” Arthur says as they walk along.  “The United States unified with a unified Europe.  But first the war or wars that will bring about a unified Europe.  Then again the pursuit for world dominance.”
Arthur takes a deep breath.  “I have this recurring dream.  It came to me again last night.
I am amidst a fair of some kind, in a village. People ride a carousel full of brightly painted animals: zebras, lions, horses.  A small child rides on his father’s lap.  Thick grey leather covers the wood of the rhinoceros they ride upon.
The child grips firmly the small horn.  The father, one hand holding the child, has his other hand wrapped around the large horn.  Children pass me running.  In their hands are whirligigs, their toys spin around.
My mind sees me in a carriage speeding away from the village, descending into a steep cavern. As the ground rises around me, I enter a large opening.
I have been in this structure before.  A guide meets me dressed in clothing of an ironmonger.  This man has given me tours previously.  I have come to believe this man somehow controls this vast underground.
I am taken to a stand of carriages, step into the head carriage.  The guide does not follow. Two others step inside after me: a well-dressed man my age, also a younger man.
The driver takes his seat.  The door slams shut.  The controller peers at us through the window as we move away.
We climb, the carriage takes a roadway where alongside is a train track.  A train approaches.  I see beacon lights.  A memory that I have seen many trains with similar carriages entering this underground.
I watch a line of passenger carriages pass me.  Through the window, human bodies stacked one upon one.
All the bodies are placed sideways.  I try not to look but the faces within the carriage they stare at you.  As if they are immobilized, some way stupefied.
A hundred, even more carriages.  Bodies stacked, bodies placed neatly one upon the other, placed sideways so their faces look through the window.
Some have soldiers dress, many grasp a gun or rifle, the barrel held up close to their face.  The rest seem to be ordinary people with dress that one might see in any street.  A few with a bowler or top hat clutched in their hand.
But it is the eyes that stare that frighten me. The eyes return some powerless yearning.”  
Arthur shakes his head.
The hackney carriage reaches a village.  The horses stop, the driver converses with some fellows standing upon the way.  Then a hand is raised.  We are allowed to pass.
Leaving the village, I do not know how long the horses gallop.  We approach many houses, London. Again through a large opening we begin to descend.
Down, down into a vast underground, this also a fair.  Inside an enclosure where one pays money for a ride is the man who brought us to the carriage. The controller counts money. He looks up as we pass.
Moving through the fair, at the end once more we begin to move upwards. A goods train passes us.  A goods train that has carriages all with open sides.  Involuntarily I turn my eyes.  Many bodies I see stacked, bodies glassy-eyed, staring as if not completely dead.
‘Why am I returning?’ is the thought that comes to me.’
‘I have no power.  Why?  Who is it that controls me?’
. . .
Annabell in her apartment after the departure of Emily and Edward sits in indecision.  ‘I am going to do this. Should I do this?’ The words play in her mind.
‘Dear uncle,’ she mutters.  ‘Why did I not think more clearly.  Why did I not ask.’ Thoughts then fail her. Annabell clutches at her stomach, bends forward to stop the pain.
An interval passes as if she has been asleep, as if she has been somewhere.  Rising from the bed, she shakes herself, walks to the side table, picks up the simple chain of small, pink-tinted pearls Edward gave her.  ‘If I am to do it, I should do it now.’
Attaching the pearls around her neck, she fondles the undecorated gold ring Emily placed upon her finger.  ‘I am ready,’ she tells herself.  ‘I have to go.  I must go to the moors!’  With that she rushes to bring out her riding clothes.
A last look from her apartment window, her hat upon her, she is out, down the corridor she will not see again, down the stairs.  To the side entrance, through the privy courtyard, through the gate she rushes to the stables.
“Miss Ann’bll,” exclaims Fred, glancing at the riding jacket she wears.  From a young girl he has admired Miss Annabell.  How she has grown, her strength, the carriage she bears.  “Y’uncle, them none far.”
“Uncle!”  The words are not at first comprehensible.
“I thought ‘fer momn’t you might be a’ter...”
“Uncle George,” Annabell cuts him off.
“Yes, Miss.  Your uncle, L’dy Middl’ton, Miss Tren’on and Mr. Hews.  Not these few minutes past, ave ‘ey...”
“It’s Milly I came for!  The Hopkins’ pony you keep for Miss Adams.  I wish to take Milly for a ride.”
“Yes, Miss.  Not Majest!  Milly, yr’n wish.”
“The pony,” Annabell repeats.
Fred looking peculiar knocks again at his head.  “Co’se, y’n b’ridden ‘er.”  He shouts into the stables.  “Tom!  Get Milly, will yer lad, fer Miss Ann’bll.”
Tom pokes his head up from one of the stalls, shouts back, “You wish me to saddle Milly?”
“If you can prepare her.”  Annabell calls into the stable.
“Two shakes of a lamb’s tail.  ‘Er’s out in field.”  The farmer’s son puts down his fork, strolls to the stable door.
“I very much appreciate it,” Annabell says as Tom walks past them.
“We’ll have ’er right away.  ‘Er’ll be pleased with run.”
Fred smiles.  “You off to Weatherby, Miss Ann’bll?  F’ne day f’t.” The pink pearls the young Miss has around her neck glisten in the sun.
“Yes, Weatherby!”  Then something corrects Annabell. “I mean a ride to the moors.  It is a lovely day.  I believe Milly will enjoy being out there.  The quietness!  We both love the quietness.”
Fred tries to master his wonderment about whether pony loves the moor’s quietness.  Then thinking the young Miss, having full Warmblood gelding to ride, much more striking for pearls is gelding, cannot do anything but exclaim: “Oh!”
Annabell points upward.  “The birds flying high and free! It’s all so bountiful this time of year.  The meadow flowers carpeting the fields!  I want to stop by the brook, listen.”
“’Deed, Miss Ann’bll,” Fred glances to the tradesman’s lane that Tom has taken.  “I’ll just get Milly’s things, Miss. Tom’ll be back. Lad’ll need to strap ‘er up.”
“Yes” replies Annabell, her face belying the turbulence.
Left alone, the confliction that Annabell is desperately fighting rises.  Why did she say she is going to the moors. When he mentioned Weatherby all she had to do is nod. But they are not going to follow her!
Soon is will be over.  Uncle George, Aunt Constance, they will know.  The panic rises inside her.  Oh, she must do this!
Fred returns, the saddle upon his shoulder.  Stepping past her, he lays the saddle and straps in the middle of the tradesman’s lane.
“Ponies know their way home, don’t they Fred?”
“Aye they do, Miss.  Same as ‘osses.  Same as cows.  All know their way ‘ome.”
Tom comes leading Milly, brings her to where Fred has laid the saddle.  Glancing more than once at the beauty of the young miss, at her stunning yet remote countenance, he takes up the belts. “Nice day!”
“Yes!”  Annabell brushes her hand slowly along the side of Milly’s neck.
Everything tied, the saddle placed, Tom holds out his hand, “Can I give you a hand, Miss?”
“Thank you.”
“Yes Miss,” Tom responds brightly, feeling the warmth of the young woman’s hand.
“Thank you for preparing her.”  Annabell’s foot touching Milly’s side, the pony begins a slow trot towards the manor driveway.
Struggling for some last word as she departs, she turns, looks back. “Oh!  Fred!”
“Yes, Miss Ann’bll.”
“Tell uncle George that I will likely be late.  Tell him not to worry if I am not home for dinner.  Tell him the moor and I, we are one and not to fret.”
“Very good, Miss.  Y’ll’n lik miss d’n’r.  ‘Ems ‘t w’ry none.”
. . .
The four have reached the stone bridge them stopping as custom to look at the passing brook before proceeding.
Constance wanders off into her own thoughts.  Percy had taken her to the gallery at Parliament to watch some law passed.  All she could get out of it is what fools they make of themselves.
A small group of people, do they really have the power to rule everyone?  She has difficulty with that.
Marian ever belligerent about a woman’s vote, believes all the evil is because men rule.  She sees it as the grocer, the ironmonger, the rich male shopkeepers in the town who wield their influence.
Laws are passed for them, Constance has no doubt.  But the system of the rich having most and the working woman and man having to go along with the scraps that fall their way, that hasn’t changed.  Not in her life.
Look at Mandalmane.  Old and new money together.
Edward is young but it will not be long before he is asked to sit on a board.  How will he vote?  Perhaps he is progressive, she has heard him speak in favour of women having the vote.  But he is young.  Many young fresh out of university are progressive.
Will not his having to manage family money bind him to the system presently in place.  Children will come along. He will be mixing with his crowd, those who have money, who hold power. Listening to them, why will he not succumb.  It takes a strong person to stick their head up and say this is all wrong.  This is not how it should be. They have many ways of handling such people.
Now in the silence, the four staring down at the flowing water passing below, Constance decides to speak.  “What about the secret societies,” she asks, looking up at Arthur.
“What about them,” he responds.
“Those with the highest initiations work with the families do they not?”
Arthur looks at George, both look grim.  “Yes, a system, a pyramid of influence flowing downwards, high initiations, beyond 32 at the American level, are looked upon to steer the heard. The Blue Lodges, the artisans, shopkeepers in your local village, town, here you see manipulation.  The purpose for joining.
“Judges very much in the deception, as prosecutors, solicitors, as those placed in top positions of the police. Secret societies permeate the courts — judgements of members and prosecutions avoided.  Business contracts influenced of course.  
“Done with a wink and a nod, a secret sign made, what could be more pleasant for those inside these structures. To them it is how life should be.”
“In Hindu text,” says George, ‘the Book of Manu, there is a line that states, ‘The whole world is kept in order by punishment.’ They live by that, they doing the punishing.”
Constance nods.  “I’ve come to believe it.  Ronald was in the middle of it.”
“I would add, money flow, Conny.  The Iron Law of Wages,” says George.
“Ricardo,” nods Arthur.
“Then there’s Plato.  All of this as ancient as ancient gets. Us as shadows watching upon a cave wall as our lives are manipulated by them.
“Everything manipulated though the worker doesn’t know it, down to how much the worker takes home in his pocket each week.”
. . .
Edward and Emily reaching the hotel, both hurry inside. The first thing they do is to make a connection by telephone to the manor. The shared line is having a busy morning, the operator tells them, four calls are waiting, two from Biddiford, two from Weatherby.
They will be the fifth.  It’ll probably be an hour, perhaps longer.  Is it an emergency?  Edward says it is not.
Edward goes to the hostler, tells him they have to wait for the telephone, to prepare the horses on his command. They might have to return, either way they will take the fresh horses back and the groom at Mandalmane will contact him.
Emily and Edward go to the private dining room.  With coffee at the end of the meal, Edward summons enough courage to tell Emily about the time his father died.  “When father passed I felt this tremor pass through me. Then there was a fellow at school, it was during the holidays.  I began to think of some match where we had both been playing.
“I don’t know why.  Then this tremor came over me while I was thinking of a score this fellow made.  Days later a letter saying the fellow had taken a fever and died.”
Edward proceeds to say he is not sure, but this might be the feeling he had when Annabell and he kissed.  It might be his imagination, he does not know.  The feeling he had before they left in the carriage was somehow different.
Emily has gone pale.  “Oh Annie,” Emily pushes back the chair, rushes out the room to the hotel desk.  Edward follows.
“You must tell them this is an emergency.  You must tell them to break into the line.”   Just before arriving at the hotel front desk they hear the ring of the telephone.  The desk clerk listening points to the booth across the lobby.
“Miss Annabell has gone out to the moors, sir.”
“To the moors?”
“On the Hopkins’ pony.”
Edward relates to Emily, McBride’s words. Now in the carriage as it rushes back, Emily paces every tree.  “We should never have left her.”
“No!  Damnation!  Blast it!  Why was I so stupid!”
Then as Emily drifts a figure of a woman walks towards her.  A woman that sparkles as if a thousand stars have been spun into her clothing.
In the dream, Emily talks, ‘I have seen you before.’
‘Indeed you have!’ the lady seems to smile.
A word comes, she thinks that word is ‘Henrietta.’
She can feel the woman’s love pour into her.  ‘Annabell will be glad of you being with her, my dear.’
Feelings flooding, the wondrous being seems to say.  ‘Go back to Annabell, my love.  You and Edward.’  The image fades.
. . .
The party of four are fast approaching the copse.
“This thicket the Manor clears each year,” George says. “Workers from the Briggs’ farm do it.  James Briggs spoke to me me about a tree coming down in that last storm we had.”  Grandfather’s arrangement it seems.
Stepping into the trees, a thin tartan cloth from the top of one of the bags is spread out.  All at the top of the bags are placed upon it: sandwiches covered in waxed paper with scribbling of beef, duck, cheese, cucumber.  Then from underneath, pear cider and elderberry-water bottles.
Sitting upon varied wood and leaves now gathered around the tartan, George fills thick, wide-bottomed glasses.
“There’s a question, I have.”  Meg is barely audible.
“Yes, my love.”  George leans over, pecks her on the cheek.
“All this you have been talking about, this doing of things.  Why?”
“Doing of things, my dear?”
Meg somewhat flustered, continues, “Why do we let these people you talk about do what they do?”
“Most of us don’t know, or don’t want to know,” Arthur says. “Then there are those, the secret organisations, the Masons for example, who want to fit into the scheme. They have no reason to create waves.
“It is our nature to want to fit, to be a part of the heard. That’s our animal part.  If you notice with animals one will wander off, want to be by itself.  So with a human. Farm animals treat one of their own badly at times.  A study of animals and you see how humans behave.  We are animals. We get great comfort from being included.”
“For profit,” says George.  “We allow them to run things so we take part of the profit.  Taking advantage of fellow humans is not restricted to the families.  The idea is to have people work for us, in shops, in factories.  To rent homes. Doesn’t always mean we get rich from it, often we do.  It can be a lot of hard work but if there’s money to be made, who’s to argue.  That’s the attitude of those who are born or who rise to the middle class.
“There was a time when people had common land here in England.  We have preserved some of it, but why did the ordinary peasant allow the nobles to fence off land they had been using for generations?  The simple answer is the nobles made their law and the peasants had to follow their law because the nobles had their version of police. Sheriffs, soldiers paid for by money the peasants gave to whoever had claim on them then.  Claim decreed by law.
“Military are good at putting down insurrections.  To the protesting men death, violence — death to their women and children.  History in this country is filled with the putting down of insurrections.  More important job for the military than war.  More important for those who control.
“Today it’s money.  The really rich buffering themselves with a middle class that owns property.  It’s the middle class today who are the harshest critics of the poor. Speak not a word of those above them.
“The middle class do not think about those above them in terms of subjugation, is my belief.  When they do think about them it is submissiveness, or a belief they might be part of their class someday, or their children might.  All of this keeps both middle class and poor chained to the system that those with real wealth have set in place.”
“The truth is, love,” George hands Meg a piece of cheese.
“Workers enslave themselves by paying taxes, by bringing up children that go into policing and military service both geared at the top levels as having purpose to prevent any insurgency of those who have nothing, or those feeling the financial pinch gnawing at them.
“Humans are clever animals.  Always wanting to make something better than it was.  Because of this life becomes better for a time. Then it has to be despoiled.  The rich allow only the middle class to prosper, and that only to a certain point.  The working class and poor should never rise above their station.  So we have war.  This both culls the populations and takes away surplus wealth that has built that benefits the ordinary person.
“This happens constantly.  Pour money into weapons, create a new enemy, rekindle the fire held against one who has been an old antagonist, it matters not.  All of interest to the very rich is that they prosper from the manufacture of weapons, from supplying the military forces with equipment made in their factories, from the huge corporations, the financial structure they have built.
“It doesn’t have to be war.  War if it doesn’t take all the young men can be money to the lower classes.  More work for them in factories.
“Varied ways are used to strip those who have acquired a modicum of wealth, the new rising middle class structures.  Not the least financial wrangling, bank scams, stock and bond manipulation.  Banks controlled by a few very rich, the families' banks authorised to issue money out of nothing, and then when considered appropriate, crash the system.  Or allow greed within the system to crash itself.
“There is the ever successful techniques of young people growing up not knowing how their parent's lived better, how their parents had life for a time.  That's the easiest way to take back the wealth and keep it, for the rich. Then we see fewer and fewer people amassing greater and greater fortunes.  It’s really stealing.”
“It’s never called that.  It’s never spoken about that when you are born you are entitled to have a house.
“To have enough money so that you are never poor. That you are entitled if you are an artist to be an artist.  If you are creative you are entitled to create that which you wish to create.
“What they do is have those slightly higher within the pyramid attack.  Slightly higher ones have the propaganda that it is those below stopping them from rising.  Middle classes fully agree because they are animals.  Some animals have set structure within their society.  Some at the top, some in the middle, and some relegated to be kicked around.  Human animals act this way.
“If you do not work you are lazy and we are not going to allow you to take from us.  What they mean is if you do not work for us and bring us profit, you are a good-for-nothing and have no value to us.  We use the people who do pay taxes, their money to build prisons when you rebel from your life.  You have no education, no real education, we have seen to that. You have no idea how to live.
“You have no idea of who you are.  All you know is how to get drunk, how to take opiates, drugs.  Alcohol brings you to violence, which we want.  This allows us to remove you, to place you in prison.  If you do not work for us and give us profit you should be in prison.
“They do not say this, of course.  But they know given the options the lower classes have, when growing up, when facing adulthood, most will go along with the system that enslaves them.
“All in this system, middle class, working class, poor, have enslavement as a choice or imprisonment.  It is the same, for if the person chooses imprisonment they are then forced to co-operate by varied means in prison.
“Knowing nothing means they control you because they do know something.  They know how to ‘heard’ you, is the correct term.
“Sending young men off to kill, well that takes care of them.  Resources are drawn out of the society, and not from those who have wealth, for making weapons to them is very profitable.
“The state pays for the weapons.  The ordinary person is taxed both to pay for the weapons and for the profit that accompanies weapon making.
“Resources that should be available for anyone, for the ordinary person to grow and be educated and become what they should be, is not available to them.  If some education is made available it is so steeped in the varied structures of enslavement that only the very foolish of the poor engage.   This is what we call the ‘system.’
“You see my dear, we cannot get our minds around to thinking that this is stealing by the very rich.  That they are stealing from us.
“The poor accept the story, as everyone else, that the ‘system’ is fair, and this is how it has to be.
“That everything upon Earth is for everyone, this is not discussed. That no one should be allowed to possess wealth to the extent that some people possess wealth, that when people have such wealth these people also have power over each one of us, this talk also is smothered in the newsprint that comes to us.
“That such a system, that such a state and its agents in its mechanisms deprives us of our ‘inalienable’ rights — makes us less — this is not discussed.
“Many accept, because of the way they have been taught to think, that ‘inalienable’ rights are not our rights.  Those rights really belong to the rich.  Most have come to accept that beingness upon Earth does not mean our ‘beingness’ upon Earth.
“Many accept that everything is and can be transferred to another.
“Many accept that this is the purpose of ‘law.’  They accept this because that is how they see ‘law’ function:  To take our rights away and give them to someone else.”
© Kewe   All rights reserved.