Memes are beliefs that are circulated through a society or culture, much like a virus. Like viruses, they are seldom benificial and usually have the purpose of holding individuals within a society ‘in their place.’

There are many classes or types of memes, depending on their function and source. Memes will certainly serve, also, to keep you from getting in the vortex. Some prime examples of memes within the American culture are;

‘Nice guys finish last.’

‘The rich get richer and the poor get poorer.’

‘Love of money is the root of all evil.’  (A popular mis-quote, by the way.)

Examples such as these are just the tip of the iceberg.  American culture abounds with such saws and the media is filled with examples of rich people being portrayed as self serving, shallow, greedy and dishonest. Far from being the real truth, these types of memes allow members of society to feel justified in ‘staying in place,’ not expecting more and therefore not striving for more.

Historically, people in power have twisted spiritual truths to suit their own ends. If you want people to be willing to sacrifice theirselves in whatever military conflagaration you think up, what better way than to play up self sacrifice as a virtue that will be rewarded in the afterlife.

If you want to keep folks in their place, get them to believe that God choses the rulers and that only the select few can speak with god. It will also help to keep people from feeling empowered (getting in the Vortex,) if they believe that god exists outside of them and that ‘He’ is a judgemental and vengeful god.  Also get them to believe that god is in control of their destiny and they will soon stop trying to become self actualized.

“Prologue

The Story of Easter

Imagine you are on an island. The ocean lazes out before you, a stretch of glass-glinting blue. The sky is clear and the overhead sun bakes your skin. Palm trees rustle in the breeze and the grass plains ripple like a second sea.

The people of the island are thriving. The trees offer syrup, the ground provides cane and the ocean provides porpoise. You gaze out over the cliff-drop and watch as a canoe lunges on to the beach. Its crew leap out, shouting, hauling the vessel and their laden nets. Around them, children run and splash in excitement.

The islander’s huts rest in the shade of forest. There are barely half a dozen buildings, constructed of woven-together wood, fragile but functional.

Time passes. Over the years, the population grows. Huts become villages and palm trees are felled. Squinting out to sea, you make out twenty boats or more.

Black clouds thicken on the horizon. The wind snatches at your cheeks. Thunder grumbles and cracks. Day turns to night and the ocean seethes like a snake nest. Waves explode into foam and boats smash upon the rocks. Crops are ripped from the earth. Huts fold and collapse.

The day after the hurricane, the people of the island decide to build a god.

It takes them many months to carve the god. It has the face of an islander, with almond eyes and narrow cheeks. To bring the god to the cliff top, the islanders lop down more trees and create

runways, the statue trundling upon trunks slick with sap. More trunks lever the statue on to its platform. The ingenuity of the engineering is awe-inspiring.

More years pass, and another cold breeze snaps against your skin. Another death-black cloud scrubs out the sun. The seas rip and crash. More canoes are lost, more fishermen, more huts, more crops.

The islanders realise their folly. Their god has not failed them-they have failed their god. To make amends, they must build a second god.

Night becomes day becomes years and the statue is joined by another, and another and another. They appear, popping into existence along the cliff, one by one. They stand in a silent chorus, each facing the rising sun.

Still the storms come. The islanders split into opposing tribes, each blaming the others for their gods’ failure. Each faction creates its own god, and another and another. Each one is bigger than the last and requires more resources.

More trees are felled. The quarry is hollowed out.

Your attention turns inland, and you are surprised to see that where once there was forest there now stand a few skeletal palms. The huts that remain are battered. The people’s bodies are wasted, their skin seeping with disease.

Another year passes and the forest is reduced to one lone tree. The other palms have been cut down, to repair the huts, to replace the lost canoes, to trundle yet more gods to the cliffs. The people have become desperate. They weave canoes of grass and reed but they prove too fragile. Without the shelter of the forest, the village is abandoned.

The tribes split and split again, and wars rage. They fight and what they kill they cannabalise. You hear a crackling fire and smell sweet roast. Glistening meat is scraped from a charred skull and devoured.

A blink of an eye and the final tree has vanished. Where did it go? To forge spears, to transport a god, to build a canoe? You stare in disbelief. Surely it should have been obvious that by destroying the forest, they were destroying their means of food, of shelter, of survival, of escape, of salvation? What madness must have possessed them?

The tribes fight until there are few left. And those that remain turn their anger on their gods. They smash out the eyes, demolish the platforms, they topple the statues. The island that remains is scorched and barren.

You stand and stare out to sea where two hundred statues once stood. Now the idols are half buried among the grasses that ripple. The islanders have gone.

Now stop imagining. You are on an island.”

Jonathan Morris ‘The Tomorrow Windows’