The branded homeless dissident

Reflections on fighting at the front line of an information war

Today is a significant day in occult numerology: it is 6th June 2022 on the Julian calendar (13 days behind the Gregorian one), which is 666 (i.e. 6/6/2+2+2). It is also Juneteenth, a day for celebrating emancipation from slavery — which is essentially the purpose of my work, being liberation from mind control. Lastly, it is Father’s Day, and my older daughter has reached out to me after months of not communicating, which is nice.

I have been meaning to write an indulgent personal piece for a while, and have a number of loosely connected things to discuss. The first one is my experience of being a “global microbrand” called “Martin Geddes”. I started off growing this brand in the tech and telecoms sphere, and positioned myself as a guru on the future of communications in all its forms. Nobody cared much about my personal beliefs, feelings, or life experience. Then I “pivoted” to focus on crime and corruption, especially in media, under the “Great Awakening” banner.

As a result my exposure on social media exploded from a few thousand followers to a quarter of a million. My inbox ballooned to the point where I need multiple email addresses and endless rules to cope with the inbound torrent. My livelihood was taken away repeatedly with deplatforming and censorship. I was ostracised by my old professional world for exiting the extremist groupthink of the authoritarian intelligentsia. I have been repeatedly smeared in the national press for daring to raise the corruption of the ruling junta and their lying media mouthpieces.

Being a fairly approachable rascal, and pretty open about my life and vulnerabilities, causes confusion in some people. They conflate that easygoing brand “Martin Geddes” with the living fleshy person. I have come to realise that most of the correspondence I receive is addressed to the brand, not the human. They are outpouring their ideas, worries, and demands into the ether, but don’t see the impact it has on me, or how I might have a wider life than just being a digital agony uncle. My health issues, difficult lovers, struggles with demons, inner hurts — are invisible.

It has taken me time to accept that I don’t have to acknowledge or respond to everything sent to me, even if my autist wants to regularise the world by doing so. I still do my best, but a perfunctory emoticon or two may be sufficient. If someone writes some long rambling screed, I will scan it, but it’s not an obligation I have agreed to. If someone is hurting or telling of hardship, I will do my best to empathise and give them a sense of being heard. I am not a free counselling service or on-call contact centre for satisfying research queries.

An astute friend noted that the actual human who goes by the name of Martin Geddes is homeless on many fronts. In order to look after a struggling friend for 6 months I moved out of my familiar setting of London to the (far cheaper) North East of England. It is pleasant enough here, and I have friends locally, but it isn’t where I feel most at home. My heart lies “anywhere along the River Thames” or “anywhere in America surrounded by patriots”. The apartment I occupy has also been assaulted with building noise for 5 months, “de-homing” me during daytimes.

My roles as a son, brother, partner, father have also been shorn by circumstances, rendering me homeless in the family space. Those who have been living by lies have closed ranks, and believe that excluding the truth teller will stop them having to confront painful truths. That’s not how the world works; truth and risk don’t care about what you believe or who you associate with. Things can and will turn around, as the unavoidable facts eventually come to the fore. But for now, it’s more homelessness to face.

I am professionally and culturally homeless. My prior pioneering work in telecoms languishes unused, at least for now. I have been excluded from all the major social media platforms that I have used to gain reach and notoriety. My book is censored, and I find republishing it an emotional barrier that is hard to overcome. Even Substack has its issues: it is designed for (censored) writers, but my model is hybrid with also doing photo art, as well as occasionally wanting to promote and market more commercial activities.

Many of my acquaintances seem to have taken the talking points of the corrupt mass media at face value, and stopped interacting with me. So be it; their loss. The idea that I am “right wing”, an “extremist”, or even in a “fringe conspiracy cult” is at odds with my past, as well as current lived reality. I have looked at the data on the corruption of the controlled mass media, whereas they have accepted without question the evaluation of myself by these same criminals. Their arrogance and ignorance isn’t my problem to deal with.

I haven’t poisoned myself or my kids with gene therapies, either. The Cult of Covid has taken so many from us, and it is hard to feel at home in a society that has fallen for such a genocidal scam. Life at the moment feels a bit like being in a “spiritual Siberia”, excluded from the “Official State Party” terrain that most people regard as normal and acceptable. The psychological gulag has invisible walls, and you can whisper with other inmates at a distance over the Internet. Obscure social media platforms like Anonup give a temporary home to those who otherwise find conversational barrenness.

The technology I was working on in telecoms was prospectively worth a lot of money, and I had kicked off a new start-up to monetise it. I had to walk away from all of that, and have no regrets. But the one part of dissident life that doesn’t get talked about much is how to earn a living. I normally keep off that topic, and eschew direct solicitation of funds unless there is some kind of crisis or need. That said, now may be a good time to pull back the curtain a little on the subject.

Twenty years ago I was in a six-figure (US dollar) salary job in America. Ten years ago I was being paid a larger number, and in more potent Pounds Sterling. I have fancy credentials and decades of commercial experience, including consulting to board level at global corporations. If money motivates you then you don’t become a dissident on subsistence income and live in semi-official accommodation while bending a few rules in order to get by. I have had to abandon my consulting company; my accountant has fired me; my business bank has dumped me; and HMRC sends me invented VAT bills that I ignore.

I have had a number of benefactors and patrons over the years who have given me pleasant surprises that have funded upgrades to my living space, tools for the job (like laptop and camera), let me prep for hard times, covered emergencies, and given me some play money for fun. Have I been the perfect steward of everything I have been provided with? Sorry, no. I am human and weak. That said, I have easily crossed the “good enough” line, and if anyone else thinks they can produce more from the same inputs under these conditions — good luck!

The tension is between the dissident brand that people put on a pedestal and venerate, and the rather homeless dissident human with ordinary life problems. I don’t have Geddes themed wares to sell, nor MAGA hats or Q memorabilia. It’s not my style. The activities of the brand would benefit from lots of paid professional support, like a PA, art curator, and marketing help. But that commercialises my world in a way that I am not comfortable with. I live in modest accommodation, drive a 20 year old car, and do admit to a nasty fine art printer ink habit.

I don’t like having to live off the charity of other people, but I have accepted it as part of my work. There are all kinds of rumours of seized funds from criminals being returned to the public, and possible windfalls. That’s a lovely idea, and I won’t say no, but it doesn’t excite me as perhaps it should. All I really want is to be treated equally under the law without being “cancelled”, be able to earn a living under my own steam with my own labours, and get some restitution for the criminal wrongs done to me by companies like Amazon.

For the last two years I have purposely kept myself out of the limelight in terms of doing appearances and interviews. It might serve the Martin Geddes dissident brand, but is too much stress and strain for the real physical human. Being a public figure isn’t easy duty, and isn’t something I ever sought or asked for. I suspect some of my work will someday be seen as historic, and it pleases me to know it. At this pivotal moment in history at the precipice of change it is hard to divine my own fate.

Beyond having the basics of survival, money does nothing for me. If my rent is covered and my bills are paid, then I am good. A bit of extra to hire help and cover costs is nice, but not essential to my mission. My guess is that someday America will be my home, even if right now I am not even allowed through the door as an untouchable “non-jabbed” body. I have endless offers from people to come and stay, so I will never lack for a roof and a meal.

It would delight me to have the resources to do exactly what I like without having to ask anyone for money. Perhaps my future is to hang out with children and teach them courageous critical thinking. Kids are pleasingly authentic, so don’t care about the brand, and can relate to the real human. The final resolution of my sense of homelessness is to be with a newfound family of those who value my gifts, work together to build a better future, and make the (transient) hardship of dissidence worthwhile.