The Caracas Conference had been officially organized as a four-week emergency workshop to probe the obstacles to peace in a disintegrating world. The world of dust that I saw in my dreams had become the real world. The metaphor of the dream image had become true.

      The conference was held under the auspices of the United Nations, just as Olive had promised it would be, by activating her far-flung connection with people of many backgrounds. Ross was suspicious though, about the conference. He didn't see it as an opportunity for us to change the world. He pointed out that in the past the UN's involvement had always been focused on imperial goals, such as global depopulation, rather than on the global development of the human potential. Ross noted that the UN depopulation project was already in progress. For this reason he didn't want to have anything to do with "any official UN function," as he put it.

      "Then we must turn that conference agenda upside down," I had said to him when Fred showed us the invitation. "I promised Olive that this is what we would do. I never imagined that she was serious in being able to arrange this chance for us, and if so, that she could actually pull it off. But she did. Now I have to fulfill my promise, Ross. Still, I can't do this all by myself."

      Ross eventually agreed to come along in a supportive capacity.



      The world-financial catastrophe that Steve had forecast decades earlier, that the much slandered American economist and self-appointed statesman, Lyndon LaRouche had warned about forever so it seemed, which I had feared would erupt while I was in Africa with Tony, didn't erupt while we were away, but erupted two months after we had returned. The near infinite inflation of the financial values that Steve had warned us about from China, had created a financial bubble in the West, filled with nothing but hot air; a bubble so big, that it dwarfed the entire world economy. The bubble carried a value in the accounting ledgers equal to ten years of the gross domestic product of the entire world. America all by itself carried a debt bubble that was larger in size than ten thousand stacks of thousand dollar bills, each piled as high as the World Trade Center in New York once stood.

      This global bubble had popped. It had imploded into nothing. It had popped like a soap bubble that begins to split open at the weakest point when the internal pressure exceeds the tensile strength of the soap film that gives it its shape and its luster. When that had happened in the financial markets everything vanished from sight, leaving in its wake a spray of tiny droplets that bore no resemblance to the glittering sphere that once existed, while the droplets floated away with the wind. Left behind had remained an emptiness filled with unspeakable misery, and a horror that went far beyond the scope of merely collapsing dreams. What resulted became closer to my own dream where everything crumbled into a pile of dust. Still life went on, for some people it did.

      A few of the poorest nations welcomed the crash. Their debt portfolios became meaningless by it, as indeed they had already been before the crash hit. All debts became meaningless at the moment that the entire financial value structure of the world became meaningless. In any case, the debtor nations had already repaid their debt many times over in real terms, in the service of usurious demands. All this happened, of course, before the world-financial 'house of cards,' valued by some institution at above 400 trillion dollars in size, blew away. The world had been awash for years with financial claims against an economy that was no larger in comparison than the droplets that remained after the bubble disintegrated. This reality always existed behind the fancy facades. Eventually it became recognized, just as the most hidden reality always asserts itself when the dreaming ends. The blowout of the world's fancy dreams caused a rude awakening that affected everyone's physical existence. It should have been obvious that the bubble was empty inside, and most people instinctively knew this, but it was preferable to them to dream the dreams that the Imperial Soap Bubble Society had inspired.

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Stories about  Healing from novels by Rolf A. F. Witzsche