COSMIC TRANSLATION CLASS 10 - HOW A TOTALITARIAN POLICE STATE BECOMES ABSOLUTE AND UNFETTERED OUT IN THE OPEN - vrs freedom of wisdom, freedom of understanding, freedom of illumination. September 1, 1995, 10:20 AM. Friday morning (labor day weekend). Just watched a quick update on the O.J. Simpson trial on news channel CNN. Like I say, I am not an addict and do not watch this incredible saga except for excerpts that insert into the news now and then. For instance, I have heard that the largest fire in New York City's history took place a few days ago and the only thing I saw on the all-news channel was the same 10 second clip shown three times, but did keep an eye on the channel hoping for more about this fire, which never came. Most of the news kept coming back to O.J. upsets, the father of one of the victim's declaring how appalled he was that he might be denied the kind of vengence he personally craves: in direct contravention of Cosmic Laws, just to have such thoughts, by the way. Today, eveybody down there (in the US) is upset (according to the all-news channel) over the fact that the judge has ruled the admission of just two brief remarks enclosing a white supremist racial slurr (the word nigger is spoken) and all of the real issues as to the kind of mind and mentallity that produced the tapes is NOT to be heard by the jurers. In the meantime the prosecutors are screetching with rage that anything at ALL is to be played to the jurers, the prosecutors claiming that nothing their chief witness said bespeaking complete white supremacy attitudes and beliefs and details about how to fake evidence, how to set up a target to take the fall for someone else's crime, has anything to do with the O.J. case, the fact of perjury being a non-relavant issue to say the least, say the prosecutors. Strange brew. This is the same prosecuting team, you will understand, who somehow proved in a way that is supposed to be 100 percent scientifically accurate, that all gloves shrink. And so the famous pair of gloves that are the key evidence in the persecution of black man O.J. Simpson in the United States of American, shrank in the months the gloves reposed in the police crime jobs repository, waiting for the fateful day when O.J. was asked to try them on, and they did not fit! They were far too small, not just a little snug, not a little tight, he could not get them on his hands! That was because, according to the prosecutors, because they shrank. The arguement first entered that it was because O.J. was using anti-arthritis medicine which caused his hands to swell, was quickly withdrawn when it was realized that the same prosecutors had been arguing all along that O.J. was as fit as a bull moose and did not have arthritis or any other effect that could diminish his ability to be guilty or to try on gloves supposedly used as lethal weapons, one found smashed against an out house wall at midnight, the other found next midday in a gap between the condos where 200 police officers had missed it all the time. The only reason I am diatrabing is because of the strange way the legal authority's minds down there keep swooling around in ways that can only be as if they are caught in the middle of an intense dream while sound asleep in deep REM state, and think the fast changing paces of the dream are where its at, that this is reality, and that they must stay on top of it to win, and NOBODY will notice the short circuits in logics and beliefs, the beliefs being anything they want to say. It is the kind of mentality that continues to create a universe and a god in one's own images and likeness. Just getting some salt and pepper off my chest. I concider all people as equal including male and female, irregardless of color, so called race, or geographic origin. In this, I concider myself something of a miniature United Nations, and have never failed to tell people so whenever occasion arrises to make such a remark, always in line with the fact that all people are equal. Who can do less when Cosmic Law is the only purpose and origin that counts. Count the number of people who have become suspicious of me, thus. I do not know why black men are reputed to have dorks that are awesome, the biggest in the world, except for the dorks of males of the Jewish persuasion. Is something going WRONG! in the minds of white supremists. You bet it is! September 1, 1995, 1:00 PM. Friday afternoon. P.S. A fly is back on the clock. In exactly the same position as has always been the number one hot spot, swinging back and forth through the air and flying away not as I walked past, but stopped to double check its position, spotted out of the corner of my eye when walking past ears attented to the TV listening to more of the scream team of prosecutors protesting to more or less every sentence being made by the defence, another wrinkle more and more obvious in that the prosecutors had more than 8 months to stake their claims the jury present and now that the defence has had a month with the jury the prosecutors constantly harping on how can the system be so abused that the poor jurers are expected to sit any longer, when they have lives to get back to, and so on. Am I risking my future by making such remarks in this day and age. I don't know. The authoritative infrastructure seems to be becoming more and more obviously totalitarian. This is in some form much like communism, except instead of being established from the background working out front to a political structure, as seemed was the case with Soviet Union communism, in North America the same totalitarian infrastructure is working out front, the only difference being that North America has elections, but, those elected for the most part take power by what ever means is necessary to convince voters, whereas in communism power was taken by whatever means was necessary to convince followers. The miracle of Fatima disclosed that Communism was going to take place. What is self evident about Communism is that it was so radically different than Democracy, that short comings and deeply rooted corruptions in the Democracy system are now easily seen as self evident, a self evidency that would not have been easy to reveal, would have been very easy to keep concealed, had it not been for Communism to throw a spotlight on the ills of modern society at all levels, in contrasts. If you concider the points of totalitarian one after another, you will see that its actions are the same, regardless of what kind of political or religious philosophy fronts the totalitarian regime. And none of the actions, of course, have anything to do with Cosmic Law, and in fact anyone who has chosen to stand and talk the Reality of Cosmic Law publically in any way, has found themselves a target of extreme and rutheless forms of slander and persecution by certain soul regressed kinds of individuals who still believe personal power, lack of consciousness, and heartless inhumane acts, are superior, including male bum rutting and lolly popping on stiff male genitalia as the grue of superior male existence. Hmmm. The worse the behavior the more the instensity to stomp on others to try and prove the worst is in fact the best behavior, but not so, only that it has no grounds in consciousness illumination or higher awareness, to modify, correct, or cure the motives, and so seems free to choose any means at all, to keep itself perpetrated. All it will take to end this idiocy is for people to wake up. Being nice, not as a chosen or demonstrated philosophy, but as a fundamental source of being, is what Cosmic Law entails. It has nothing to do with being meek, a very misunderstood word and now very misused in foolish ways. Being without guile, is more close to the truth of the matter, regards your place in Reality in Cosmic Law and as it is supposed to apply here on Earth, and as it applies elsewhere throughout Creation. Perhaps you can understand a little more of just what constitutes persecution, when those who are nice seem to finish last, 'nice guys finish last' is the prevailing claim, by those who finish first, the most ruthless of all. Just another remark, just something else to ponder, hint hint. Why are the nice people being stomped. Up the main street to St. Joseph Blvd, and just around the corner there up a sidestreet, is an elderly french couple who have used 3 1/2 acres for years to produce organically grown fresh vegetables for sale from their large garage from spring till fall. They are close to retirement and have many friends. Last year they had to install a wire fence around the whole of their property to try to keep out pillagers and thieves in the night. This year just a couple of weeks ago the elderly gent was working amongst some of the rows of vegetables when a gunshot rang out the bullet hitting him in the foot resulting in an emergency race to the hospital. The police seemingly have little interest in the incident, the women feels the police are hesitant to get shot at themselves. So here now are these two elderly people who are nice who have been shot on their small organic farm and have no way to turn since the police don't see there is a matter worth investigating, at the present time. The back of the property borders woods and rough unfinished parkland owned by the city of Orleans. Shots have been heard several times in those woods, the two elderly people tell me. But not a word, not a peep, has reached public notice. Interesting. I don't live too far away from this area. I can't begin to speculate as to what might be happening in those woods or why people get shot at if they happen to look in the wrong direction close by those woods in an east suburb of Ottawa. What does enter the mind as a number of unanswerable questions is why the cops don't care. Where I used to live on the west side of town, bunshots, er, gunshots, were common in the wee hours of nights, sometimes volleys with different guns going off, sometimes several times a week, over several years, and not a single report ever made the press or the media as to who was firing. Cocain always came up as a clue in my private thoughts, when the shots were going off in the middle of the night. Drug dealers fighting over territory is a way of life in most cities in the world, at the present time. But how close is it going to get before it ends. A vegetable grower tilling his rows for produce is shot in the foot in the middle of a middle class residential area and nobody cares, it seems, except for the few who really do appreciate nice people. And what can we do but feel sad about the incident. It is almost as if, if you went to the cops and asked why are they not doing anything about the shot foot, the cops will turn on you and say you did it. And that will end the investigation, officially. Don't laugh. Such things are actually happening in a very wide spread way at the present time. 'You did it' is the sum total of investigation, and the 'you' are the nice people, who thus are proven to finish last. Ironic. But not irreversable. The nice guys are of course male and female. A woman is currently in prison in the Ottawa area because she could not immediately pay a few dollars on her gas bill to Consummer Gas Corp. No one believes that anyone will go to prison over an outstanding utility bill, but there, behind bars, being interviewed by a TV station, is yet another who did go to prison, from where she made remarks that had no rankor, no revenge, she was matter of fact and had humor about her appalling situation. I almost went to prison indefinately once, over a $250 dollar dentist bill that was in dispute. A dentist ruined a front tooth in very puzzling acts of dental behavior over seven appointments, and suddenly the front page was ablazed with news that he, a long time cocain addict, had been caught dealing and so went to the pen for 2 years. I knew nothing whatever about his habit. A full year later I got a bill from a company who had purchased the dentist's accounts as a single wad of paper. I paid a few bucks on it but made it clear that I wanted to talk with the dentist as to how come I was being charged for a destroyed tooth. When out of the pen, I called him and yes of course, the bill was a total oversight, it should never have happened, it will be taken care of and I can forget it, and so on, repeated over four phone calls coming upon four increasingly nasty notices from the bill collector who had bought the wad. And then the fatefull day! A notice in my mailbox mailed with a stamp, stating that if I did not appear in court a warrant would be issued for my immediate arrest, the problem being that the day in court had already transpired two days before I got the notice to appear in court in the mail. An immediate call to the courthouse resulted in my schedule for appearance the next day. Here is what happened. My name was called, I stood up, the judge looked at some papers, made some remarks that deadbeats like this (me) are not wanted in society and began to write the papers to have me confined to the Detention Center indefinately until some decisions could be reached as to what to permanently do with me, the judge apparently in a very bad mood anyway by being called in at the last moment to sit in on a few trivial cases when the regular judge called in sick, the important judge noticing that my appearance had a cross country warrant attached to it so immediately took judicial action. Now, I was standing on my feet, somewhat dazed at the speed at which this was happening because all I had done so far is mention that the recieving of the notice to appear in court had arrived in my mail box two days after the court date and this, according to the judge, was only a screetching weazle willing to waste his time trying to evade detection, then trying to evade punishment when caught. Just as it seemed that handcuffs and shuffle out the side door of the courtroom was imminent, someone I had never seen before stood up and spoke directly to the judge, interrupting the judge's paper work. The man said he was aware of the matter and familiar with the circumstances of my appearance in court and could see no reason why severe measures would be needed and that he and I could work the matter out between ourselves, to everyone's satisfaction. The judge got very angry, slashed pen tracks through sheets of paper, shoved them aside, and announced, ok, if that's the way you want it, and called a recess. Meanwhile I was free to go. The other gentleman and myself met immediately outside the courtroom. It turned out he owned the company that had been trying to collect the bill. It was settled, $20 dollars a month until the bill was settled. And it was done, $20 a month until none was left. He had not heard a single word from the dentist, I have to mention. So here was an instance in which I was trapped, all by myself, branded unfit for society by a judge, over a warrant for arrest coming into existence for no other reason than delays in the mailing system, and all of it brought to an end by the intervention of a single man who decided on the spur of the moment to act in a kind way. So, yes, you can go to prison for an unpayed bill, and once on the wrong side of the law, unless you have MONEY, you are written off. Period. It is no fun to be poor when the richest, and the addicted, and the gluttons for personal power such as the judge, are free to misuse conscience in any way it takes, to satisfy their emotions. True story. Circ. 1988. I may as well fill in some more detail. I made remarks in the court that the dentist in question had been caught dealing cocain and had gone to prison, and it was upon the word 'cocain' that the judge suddenly went malevolent, cut me right off, arms whirling in the air, loud barking remarks half jointed, incomplete, finishing with something like; well, I'll settle this, THIS is what we will do, and started filling out the paper work to have me immediately sent to prison indefinately. I have wondered to this day if he (the judge) was bombed on the stuff the day he suddenly had to sit in for a sick friend on the bench. He was not a nice man to watch. No prejudice intended. He was mean. And big, a 6 footer with broad shoulders, and wide head, a balloon of pitch black afro style hair crowning the white skin of his head, and I would guess in his late 30's. Everything about him, every move, gesture, motion, was slow and deliberate, reeking with power, self proclaimed. Until he acted beserk. Not even a movie actor has portrayed in anything I have ever seen the sudden maniacal loud harking unfathomable barks that suddenly issued from him, and completely changed his state of being, at the mention of the word 'Cocain'. I know my people. I deliberately used the word in that court room to see what would happen. And, bingo! Got him! Flushed him right out into the open. It was the fact of suddenly finding myself being committed to prison, after the flush, that caught me by surprise. Since that time I have been not so careless when someone has to be flushed. And, as I said, when the crunch was closing in, another person I had never met before stood up in the court room and did the right thing to bring the crunch to a stop. Thank you. As for the cocain itself, the solution is to simply stop doing it. Then there can be no cartels, no territorial disputes creeping right up your street in broad daylight. The same of course is true for any death dealing poisons, such as heroin, opium, and others. Why fool around with this stuff, when Reality has so much more to offer. CORRUPTION ------------------------------------------------------------------- August 25, 1995, 9:10 AM. Friday morning. Corruption rears its ugly head again. I have just heard, on the CNN news channel, that prosecutors are doing everything they can to block testimony from a world famous forensic scientist, on the drying time of blood. No doubt they want to block that! Blood slickened glistening glove found mid afternoon in hot dry scorching heat the next day, laying right out in the open, where it has been supposedly laying all along, does not logically compute. Wet, sticky, a day later? This, (if you will remember), is a glove from the pair that was found by demonstration to be far too small, to fit on the hand of O.J. Simpson. The gloves simply could not fit. It does not compute. Someone goofed. The lack of size has not been mentioned since. Corruption is roaring very loudly from the head of the monster that is overlooking the consciousness of America at the present time. I know that my own blood starts to harden within minutes after a scratch or cut, and within half an hour a hard solid dark scab has formed. I understand that all blood does this, hardens and changes color as soon as it is released from the blood stream. And even after a gruesome or grisly traffic accident, within two hours; after for instance the humans have been carted off, and the vehicles towed to police compounds; that officers and fireman can stand in an intersection trying to wash the blood away with firehoses, often having to use a broom to work loose the dried blood. So how can fresh glistening blood be found a day later on evidence the prosecutors claim is PROOF of wrongdoing. It does not compute. Two ice cream containers found at the scene were still hard, had not had time to melt and the store owner who sold the ice cream to the victims said a time of sale a whole lot later than a time needed to put Mr. O.J. at the scene. So something came up that caused the court to disallow the ice cream from the contest. Corruption rears its ugly head, once again. I am not an O.J. Simpson trial addict. I am, however, an on-planet observer. And every so often, peeking in, to see what is happening in that trial, is enough to keep the consciousness alive and alert and aware as to just how far corruption will go to serve its own ends. One thing obvious is that whenever the prosecution is caught in a cross fire, or in an obvious contradiction, the prosecution immediately starts to shout, and proclaim, and emphatically make statements to the effect that the poor man is guilty and only HE can be guilty, and that the defence lawyers are rats and cunning manipulators, and so on, one shouted declare after another, no different in action than the rantings of moslem extremists who have 50 megatons of explosion wrapped to their midrifts and are ready to make a statement before, pulling the pin. The judge, lets these rants go on, after all, it is the prosecution. Prosecution witnesses have been allowed to ramble on for long minutes, even hours, making statements and eventually coming to their points. Seven months of it, in fact. Defence witness have scarcely been allowed by the judge to utter anything, other than the most basic of yes and no remarks. In contrast, you can see the attack and demolish approach (such as used by the O.J. presecutors), even in rotten kids, as soon as such a kid, or group of kids, is caught in a lie or contradiction, they immediately turn on the person who pointed out the lie, and start shouting any kind of smear, lie, attack, that comes to mind, mindless, and screetching, do these kids respond to the truth, when the good side of them has been trashed by society's malpractices? They can, again. A good kid, caught momentarily in a bad situation, will change their story, come up with a new explanation in mid stride, will keep stretching a bogus reason or account until it becomes impossible, then let go and let the truth come out. Bad kids, on the other hand, the more pressed or pressured to account the truth, the more the attacks that do everything to evade the actual matter at hand. The prosecutors in the O.J. Simpson trial are doing this very thing, day after day, ranting, live, on TV, at times without vestige of rational intelligence. And so many down there, think these kinds of adults are the heroes of the nation. Whatever has happened to freedom of wisdom, freedom of understanding, freedom of illumination. Many serious thinkers take their time working through logics coming to their point, but none of these have been allowed to do that, in the trial of O.J. Simpson, when speaking favorably on behalf of the defence. Interesting. The worst are becoming the seeming self proclaimed best, when it comes to law and righteous judgement, a scene that has always been, but now, for the first time, being seen, right out in the open, live, on TV, on the surface of society. Times are changing, there is no question about THAT!. (insert) Circ 2002. More recently a similar style was seen in the takeover of an American presidential election leading to the election of a new kind of president and workforce essentially dictators because of the takeover. Everyone could see tamporing with election machines even a voter's ballot designed to shift in view in dim light so that the dictator slot was ticked off in error. All the way through judges and higher court judges and even state superiors, all the way to supreme court judges running the laws of the United States, all at first expressing doubts and uncertainties about the way the election was called, every last judge at the end turning to side with the dictator inside. I don't even want to speculate as to what caused such complete turnarounds for all judges taking a look at the ruined democracy issues. (end insert) I have taken a risk, reporting the above, because it is going to ellicit in some a direct astral-pyschic negative response directed straight at me, a whole bunch of lesser thoughts welling up and turbulating around unresolvable in an inner magnetic vortex. The problem is that the O.J. Simpson trial itself is engendering mighty astral-psychic responses of a negative kind every day, just by a few moments of exposure to it. The purpose behind such as myself having a few words to say in contrast, is that at least different thoughts, even if of a negative astral-psychic kind, will result in the reader. So, in that respect, some good will come of the writing, by the changing of crystalized points of view, even if I become a target of hate or persecution, or even revenge, after, for having said such things. It takes courage to act in positive ways in the midst of the decay and disintigration of a civilization where chaotic corruption has taken hold in the mass consciousness. A young writer of Canadian repute has produced a work that features pussy, violence, international intrigue, high tech infrastructure, a novel that makes James Bond look like a wooze, in terms of the amount of sex, violence, and savagery that permiates the novel, and makes 5 million bucks on the first book, then comes out with another, than another, and is given a Governor General's Medal in reward for the achievements, and then, is lifted to elevated status paramount and is appointed to the Privy Council of the Prime Minister himself, of Canada. This is true, it has happened this past year. A writer who became famous overnight for his intense visions of pussy and sadistic violence is now a member of the Privy Council of Canada, in recognition, his extremely profitable novels lauded by the press as a leading reason. Along come I, a seeking little voice talking another Reality, and ohhh, Watch Out!, this guy is Wild!. No way, do we want to Think about the kind of things This guy Writes about. Why is that. Fortunately, I am not alone in view nor with things to say that alarm perpetrators of corruption. Unfortunately, I am not self surviving enough to keep my mouth shut. I think, the instinct goes straight to conclusion, that the greatest good for the greatest number, and loving one another, serving one another, in honest, pure, heartfelt ways, supercede all other motives and purposes, for people I honor, which is everybody in principle. Hence the say, it is one way one individual can at least try to do something to lesson the impact when society crash lands as the end result of corruption. It is a conclusion already predicted, for the outer-ego crash of societies is already happening. And has been for some time. Teck Wars, a TV series, was the first to come out with major use of new breakthroughs in the use and concepts of Virtual Reality computer evolutions. Cocain brains, and the instincts of homosexual motives, dominate the drives behind the series. And if anyone thinks these images in Teck Wars are not visions straight from Hell, they are sadly disillusioned. In contrast why not use the same kind of Virtual Reality TV to portray images from Reality, of Cosmic scope, from the mansions and corridors that lead straight to the centers of Galaxies and to the positive, ressurrected potential future, of every human currently on Earth. It IS possible, you know. Hint Hint. All you have to do is look in the right direction. (insert) Circ 2002. Rembering Moses whose activities interesting enough to become recorded as Deuteronomy in the bible. Then, back then 2000 years ago, Jesus Moses and the Divine being seen standing on a mountain conferring, their presence in golden etheric morantia energy being forms deliberately shown to a multitude, thus introducing the presence of a triune being for future planetary translations long into the future, today, for instance. (end insert) September 9, 1995, 12:35 PM. Saturday afternoon. I don't know if I hear it correctly, but it seems as I was walking past the living room doorway that the prosecutor in the O.J. Simpson case was just being shown on CNN News on TV saying that prosecution has stunning new proof that moments after doing the deed, Simpson went to a bank and withdrew humongous sums of money put in a briefcase which was thrown in the friend's Bronco that led immediately after to the high speed chase along Los Angeles freeways. This completely eclipses the original facts that O.J. was in or nearly arrived in Chicago when the bodies were first discovered. What the .... beep! is going on. Can the prosecutors really do this, eclipse a whole catalogue of history from their facts and proofs? More to the point, is it possible that the jurists do not know that O.J. was in Chicago, for instance when he cut his hand. I have not payed addictive attention to this saga, until recently when fundamental tenets of thought and belief are now being defied by prosecutor methods in that courtroom in Los Angeles. It's as if allah's law has arrived in America. Whatever someone who represents authority says, is the law, and is the truth, no matter how absurd, no matter how impossible, no matter how fatal to the innocent targeted by fiends at that moment, by allah's laws. Just prior to the prosecutor's startling claim that everything I thought I knew about the history of the case, and O.J's travels, was an hallucination according to prosecutor's rewriting, an O.J. defense laywer stood up to point out that they, the defence, intend to reveal to the jurists why detective Mark Furman pleaded the 5th Amemdment, the defence laywer pointing out that it is contrary to any known reasons of logic that everyone in the world knows why that detective pleaded the 5th Ammendment, in particular in regards to the planting of evidence, now more or less self evident, except the 12 jurists who have to decide on the life or death fate of Simpson. It turns out that most of what we the public at large have seen on TV, has been kept hidden from the jurists, except for all of the prosecutor's claims of proof. The defence counter arguements apparently the jury has not heard through most of it. At least, that is the way it seems, judging by the way things are today and yesterday being said on TV. September 9, 1995, 2:30 PM. Saturday afternoon. Correction on prosecutor intents. It seems that Simpson withdrew the cash moments: according to blazingly important breakthrough news hot on the wire information, ahem: after departing a friend's and deciding to try for a go on the lam after realizing he was being set up to take the entire fall for whoever did it. The fellow (Simpson) has a lot of nobility, something to teach, if you have watched the courtroom and have watched him, he seems to be without guile. There was no struggle. There were no smears of blood. The bodies were dropped commatose and stabbed where they lay left to blead without smears. Only one partial footprint of a running shoe disgraced the unsublime scene. Not a yell or whimper was heard, not one shout, not one cry, no struggle occurred. The prosecutors content that deparate struggles for life continued for 7 to 20 minutes. If so, where was the maniacally barking dog defending its master, her, who was stabbed at once, in total silence. Strange indeed, are the wizardries of prosecutors whose only purposes are personal rewards and self aggrandizement, and whose only motives are to hammer in place Caesar's Law, stamped in iron, and an 'extunk' on their chosen targets (flick of a finger to shoot a loose bit of gook off the table) without a single second given to the big question: 'what would Christ have me do'? The lady who fills the role of chief prosector wears black lipstick and makes herself look exactly like an extra from the 'Rocky Horror Picture Show'. Why is that? Would you deliberately make yourself look like a freak from a hollywood grade B movie. What kind of images of glamor and fame are effecting this woman, the prosecutor. Does she think the 'Dracula's bride' look, makes her look important? I do not want to get into a character analysis of the Assistant District Attorney who appeared on the TV screen yesterday, this fellow seemed as if he was practicing for a bizarre seminar winning points against everyone else in his class in a Masters program at a university, but having prepared for it by reading the back of the book jacket, and faking everything thereafter, importantly. That takes guts of a kind that is without self esteem, self worth, especially when the whole show of the bumbling incompetence is public. Waytago Abner that was a masterful presentation I couldn't understand every single word of it, which I think is exactly what you intended but actually the exact opposite it was you at your best. You see how negative values can be twisted around into claims of greatness. If I was the type who hero worshipped prosecutors his would have been a masterful coup in the courtroom, the point he was making totally obscured by 'ums' and 'ahhs' and half sentences and a lot of paper being shuffled back and forth ceaselessly and waved high in cluttered sheaths in the air. Not a hero worshipper I observed instead a bumbling public idiot. He was grey haired, by the way, which indicates that he has been around for a long time. It was like watching a black magic act, a diabollical magician performing voodoo against truth on stage. Which is why he is an Assistant District Attorney down there in that part of America. Don't forget this is the very same area that not long ago did 30 billion dollars in damages by a people's riot to get rid of one police chief, a man known to be a white supremist. He said it himself, hah hah, it is they, hah ha ha, the defence, who are trying to do voodoo to the jury, by trying to use allah's laws. See what I mean by black magic. That kind of black magic is everywhere. Everywhere. It takes integrity of a deep kind in the character to stay on line in the way of truth and honesty at all times, because the black magic is taken for granted by so many with authority mentalities in the world's population. Here is a countering thought: The only individuals who like a police state mentality are those who have one. Let's stop evading certain issues with politically correct language. The gist of the Simpson trial is a black man who committed the unforgivable sin, according to certain whitey's, of having sex with white females. The gist is the white racist supremists are driven wild with thoughts of what must be happening between a white female and a black man when sex is taking place, something the white supremist can never have happen, so the thoughts drive them to extreme motivations. I do not know that cock size is in fact at issue. I have in my illustrious life seen the 'cocks' of black men (shower rooms at swimming pools) and can honestly say that nothing unusual was witnessed by me. I can remember walking into the main men's washroom at a pavilion building during the Gloustester annual Fair next to Ottawa, and as I walked in, a very black teenager of about 17 years old was standing in the middle of the white tiled place that reeked heavily of urine, pulling up his trousers. As I walked in, he noticed me, and immediately dropped his trousers back to his knees, standing hunched over looking straight at me. The main scene in this story is that his naked dork was sticking out, hanging downward, and as far as I could see in a single glance there was nothing whatsoever about that dork that would drive a while supremist wild. It was totally ordinary. I, of course, simply went straight to the basin attached to the wall, let fly a few seconds of urgent pee, and departed. I believe that that youth standing naked to the knees in the middle of that men's rest room was doing nothing else but hooking. Without revealing the details because of unusual reasons hard to explain but benign, I have also in the past three years seen the dorks of two other black men, both in their early twenties, both six feet tall, both almost black skinned they were so black, one from Jamaica, one from Somalia, and both for a glimpse resulted me to see their dorks in completely sexless circumstances, the gist being that I did happen to see for a glimpse two black men's dorks hanging out as they took leaks and as far as I could tell, the dork sizes were in everyway imaginable normal. The largest dork I have ever seen horking from a man was a French Canadian only 5 foot 4 inches tall, who had stationed himself in the main entrance into the men's and boy's dressing room of a wave pool, and standing there, absolutely nothing on, was the most gigantic dork I have ever seen, looped over the top of a very clustered pair of gigantic hairy balls. There you have it, I have talked for a moment in a way that is NOT politically correct. Be noticed: perverts are happening everywhere in society at the present time. I think of the man who stationed himself naked at the door from the pool to the dressing room of a wave pool and displayed his jolleys to everyone who came in to change, or to use the washroom or the showers. He, though short, had the biggest dork I have ever seen so far in my life. And he was 100% white. Speaking about speaking frank, how many times have you had to fight a phone call ringing, when the head end of your pee stream has just hit the water in the toilet bowl. I had just departed, from typing the last paragraph, to the main floor washroom, when the phone rang just as my pee stream first hit the water in the toilet bowl. Because this phone line is currently on an answering machine that grabs the call after exactly two and a half rings, I squelched the pee, and ran to the phone, snatching up the cradle on exactly two and a half rings. There was no one on the line. I went back to the washroom to finish the piss. On the instant the head of the pee stream hit the water in the toilet bowl the phone rang again. I hitched up in urgent haste and raced to the phone. Again, no one on the line! How many of you have had an asshole setting the phone to redial until it connects with technolgy, again and again, again, redialing again, even if it is a fax, but programmed to connect to a voice line, and the phone rings again and again, nonstop, hour after hour, without relenting, mercy, through the night into the sunrise, until a thankful voice inspired by yes desparation, resolves the problem. I have experienced this ordeal. A long distance call from England that accidentally connected the voice phone to the fax. All night long, every ten minutes, the phone ringing, attempting to connect to the fax, an electronics that was impossible, until finally a puzzled computer software dealer from England, called by voice, in the morning, wondering why his FAX wasn't getting through! At that moment there was no fax in the house to get through to. And that is it, a moment catering to the stuff that sells: salty language and an image or two that does no one any spiritual bong. But the way the thought stream was working today for some reason I wanted to say a few things. It started with the paragraph above regards a prosecutor's remarks about brand new information, just revealed to the judge today, that would finish off Simpson. I got the information wrong on first listen happening to pass the living room door and listening for a moment to the TV. The wrong input set off a bit of a gyration in the mental planes, thoughts that spun off in useless directions. The result was an ontology momentarily stuck on the nature of white supremist hate. That led to some opinions about the size of men's apparatuses, which finished off in the absurd circus of trying to take a leak with the phone ringing the instant the leak started, not once, but twice, with no one on the line both times. Apologies for the salty language, such choice of words and images are not my usual nature. As for any sexual innuendos you may have recieved reading the salty parts, forget it, I am non sexual, I have been completely celebate for over 24 years, and before that, was hetersexual normal. Celebacy, when first tried, was an idea a number of friends were concidering during the height of the hippy era. I gave it a try, and immediately discovered that there is a higher range of perceptions and intelligence that becomes clarified and usable when thoughts of rudimentary sex no longer plagues that part of the imagination. That part becomes expanded and used in a different way for more illumination. I have never had desire to back away from those illuminations. Thus, staying celebate has been one of the easiest of things to do in life. Which reminds me. When I was young, a teenager a year after high school and wanting to be famous, my only ambition abandoned a long time ago, was I was totally absorbed in drumming, this being jazz and other forms, but mainly images of big band big fame plagued me none stop, with the greatest fantasy of all - a drum battle with none other than Gene Krupa, who was very much in the lime light at that time in the late 50's. In fact I was ambitioned to become better than Krupa! The fantasy ended one day in a most direct way. It happened that I had gone to Toronto to 'further my career' and who came to town for a two week gig fronting a band at one of the main downtown bars but Mr. Krupa himself. Now, fortunately, this was a tavern with no cover charge, and my best friend and myself were able to coax together enough cash for a couple of beers each, sipped by the hour as we sat near the back listening to and watching Krupa play. I have to state that seeing the great one live in the flesh was not a major explosion of emotions. Seeing the man in the flesh was nowhere the same as imagining the man play in the fantasies of admiration, with me beating the hell out of my drums rythmically and winning the 'Battle of the Drums'. As my friend and I sat near the back at a table, sipping the bottles of beer looking like busy drinkers so we wouldn't get asked to leave but the beer long since stale, three young men from Germany suddenly came across the gap from behind and clambored right over the top of our table, one of the men using my shoulder as a foot prop to get up onto the next table top, and kept on going table after table toward the front, all the time babbling in broken german/english in their excitement to get to the front to see Gene Krupa alive. It turns out that in Germany, at that time, Gene Krupa the drummer was a number one pop star. (Circ. 1958). I took the lesson from this to heart realizing that as busy as my youthful ambition fantasies were, they were nowhere close to the frenzy of those three germans, literally scrabbling over people's arms and legs akimbo across the table tops in this crowded bar to get to the front row. Moments later it was time for a trip to the washroom, the first bottle of beer having done its work. Up the wide stairs covered with red carpet went I and into one of those men's washrooms from the twilight zone, huge white porcelain cavities in which you stood in front, your toes over the edge of the basin, trying not to totter in while doing the deed, the top of the cavity over the top of your head, and the smell impossible to breath, you held your breath in one of these cavities. Something brushed my arm. I happened to look immediately to the right, and who do you think was standing there, nodding and smiling in a polite way as we two shared a slight embarrassment easily handled because it was only due to the call of nature. It was Gene Krupa, shorter than me. We talked for 10 minutes as if friends then went our separate ways. From that moment on, I never again had a fantasy about being a better drummer than Gene Krupa. I figured if I could stand having a leak beside my hero, he was not a god but human after all. ---------------------------------------------------- The fact of the entire sound image swinging around in the room as I walk around in behind the star array is not new, I used to do many fun tests going back to nearly five years ago playing with the sonics of sound images that were floating right up in the air and that moved around always on the opposite side of the sound generating sources as I walked around exploring this kind of environment. In today's notice, the fidelity itself was noticably improved when I went in behind the star array to the back corner by the TV and the sound image swung around thus to be on the far opposite side of the living room. Such peculiarities of sound were first heard in a totally definative way by me back in 1969 in Vancouver. Now, make no mistake, I am not a Rolling Stones fan, even though acknowledging that every so often an interesting piece of music has come from this group, even if the music itself, as they played it, was the worst kind of raunchy roar and imposition, and often with song titles that begged the occult and devil worship, practices which I without question understand are a total waste of time, in concidering what Cosmic Law and the Law of One have to offer in an instant. In the fall of 1969, the Canada Council had financed a new enterprise for the West Coast, called Intermedia, to get around the problem of most financings going to Toronto and Montreal artists, poets, and art film makers, the West Coast chronically complaining about getting the short shift. The Poetic Galactic Council, for instance, was headquartered by several acting individuals, through the new Intermedia, on the west coast. One day I was pulled aside by the chief of this group who informed me they had decided I was Blake reincarnated. That was a peice of information I put on the back shelf and have left there ever since. I don't think so. Circ. 1969. So Intermedia was set up, to provide facilities (and sometimes materials and supplies) to West Coast artisans, who could participate in a fundworthy way, without having the actual largess of an official Canada Council grant. It worked quite well, for a short while. A large modern facility was leased on 4th Avenue just to the West of Burrard Street in Vancouver, just a couple of blocks to the East of the main hippy district in Vancouver at that time. I was called in one day for a meeting with the director of Intermedia, who made an offer I could not refuse. Though unable to provide funding, he was able to offer workspace, which I badly needed, for a project just beginning to unfold at that time, the initial unfolding taking place on a small kitchen table a few blocks further East up 4th Avenue in a hippy house occupied top to bottom by a very weird assortment of hippies. I was, yes, I admit, sleeping on a mattress on the concrete floor behind the furnace in the basement at that time, for a few weeks, and spreading out work on the kitchen table working every day on a new poem called 'The Proton People'. The offer from Intermedia was just what the doctor ordered, everything was moved into that new work area, a large two story high warehouse of modern construction with an upper deck built entirely around the four walls, the upper deck large enough to accomodate work tables built four feet deep, plus plenty of room to walk around the whole gangwalk. I got about 10 feet on the upper deck near the front entrance, more than enough to do my project. I found a suitable sofa to sleep on, nearby, and spent the next two months, night and day, working on the project, in the Intermedia facility. Circ. 1969. The point of the story is the following. Two or three of the projects taking place under the Intermedia umbrella were sound. That is, one for instance, involved a young fellow who was patching together small bits of stereo recording, and running them forwards and backwards, at different speeds, to comprise new compositions. The interesting thing about him was that he had a lyrical sense and was actually composing new sweetly listenable musics but with methods something akin to National film board sound tracks made by painting dabs on a film's sound track strip. Another fellow turned up from time to time trying Melatron experiments, this (the Melatron) is the same device used by the Moodie Blues and was notoriously difficult to master because of its number of knobs and dials needing to be set in accutely accurate ways just to get any sound worth while from it. Oddly enough, Intermedia at that time did not have many female participants. So 'fellows' are being cited for that reason alone. Another fellow, up from San Francisco, and on multiple grants from both Canada and the United States, involved him using Intermedia's two Sony stereo two-track expensive recorders with echo features, to experiment with echoes and feedbacks to produce new sounds. The problem with him was a lack of resistence in cranking up the Sony's, well past their tolerances, so that both frequently had to go out for repairs. He liked to explore the realms of total high volume distortions, in the middle of the night when the director in charge wasn't around to close down his cost-a-lot experiments. One thing he did do however, while playing with surround sound, something that was more or less brand new in the genre of stereophonics at that time, was in having a number of the Intermedia participants bring their best home stereo speaker sets to Intermedia, which he wired up in an unusual way (for that day and age), and taped looped the opening passage of the Rolling Stones 'Her Satanic Majesty' right up to the point where the Rolling Stones vocals start and the music gets really noisy. Prior to that point, a very distinct haunting opening interlude occurs with British schoolgirls singing in a very long distance background. In Intermedia, the fellow from the states tape looped this opening passage, and played it non-stop at high volume day and night looping over and over again non-stop at concert hall loud volume for the whole weekend in the big inner chamber of the Intermedia premises, people coming from all over town (Vancouver) to hear this astonishing (and pleasurable) piece of music played as an enormous body of sound precursur to surround sound. How he did it, nobody knew, but, the original Rolling Stones recording was somewhat distorted in its opening most listening passage, yet in the surround sound demo the fellow set up for the weekend in Intermedia, the distortion had been overcome, and it was quite a piece of music. The final point of the story being that the best sound of all was gained by standing in one position on the upper deck walkway, at the front of the building. What made me write about this, was in hearing better fidelity in my living room today, by standing by the TV set and listening to the enormous sound image take shape on the far opposite side of the living room. Pursuent to this Intermedia story, is the actual project I had underway, it was a long poem of some 35 panels in which a metaphysicist shrinks the solar system to a dynamic system the size of a kitchen table, and expands a Deuterium atom to the same size, and inhabitants of the atom visit inhabitants of the solar system, and comparable inhabitants of the solar system send pen pal letters to inhabitants of the atom. Ergo, the name; 'The Proton People'. To illustrate passages of the poem I went around collecting pieces of art from over a dozen different Vancouver artists, and collaged them into a series of art panels, with the poetic text typed by hand on a portable Hermes typewriter. The Vancouver Art Gallery heard about the project and called me in with a proposal I could not refuse. It was that the gallery had for over two years secretly been contacting owners of paintings by American impressionist Paul Klees, a fellow who sold most of everything he painted to private collectors, such that a public showing of Klees works had never happened. The Vancouver art gallery was able to secure permission to borrow, with delivery of paintings by couriers to the gallery, of enough paintings, to mount the first ever art gallery showing of Paul Klees, the problem (as explained to me) being that not enough paintings had come in to completely fill the whole art gallery, the largest room was left over, so would I concider filling it with my 'Proton People' project just being finished at Intermedia. I agreed. It seemed like a very good idea. Another fellow, an anethesiast at St. Pauls Hospital, a part time artist, had put together a fiber optics art piece shaped like a large egg with fiber optic ends inside the solid cast plexiglass, the other ends of the optics underneath against different colored lights that were activated by the viewer inserting their forefinger in a galvanized electric skin response sensor mounted on the wall. That, the Egg, in the middle of the large room, and my stuff mounted on the walls completely surrounding the room, comprised the main gallery wing of the Vancouver Art Gallery during the three weeks the Paul Klees display was there before being shipped off to the next gallery for its world tour, originated as a world's first by the Vancouver Art Gallery. I can remember showing up downtown on Georgia Street the second day of the showing, and seeing dozens of school buses lining the street outside. There was a long line to get in. I waited in line. Inside, the line passed slowly through the wing which had my stuff on display from wall to wall, then slowly moved on into the inner galleries where the giant Paul Klees paintings filled big empty spaces on the walls. When the show finished, suddenly the artists were asking for their works back because some that I had used had been concidered the best of their kind by the various artists. So there I was, left with a sheath of broadsheets of artistically typed and layed out poetics with gaps where the art had been. The sheath went into storage along with a small steamer trunk plus a couple of wooden crates of all of my creative output to the middle of 1971, then accidentally got carted to the city dump when the apartment in which the stuff was stored was abruptly vacated by the breakup of a man and women, and everything left behind was carted by workmen to the city dump, including my stuff, by accident. The only record of the piece of work, 'The Proton People' as displayed in the Vancouver Art Gallery in the late spring of 1970, is a set of colored photographs taken by a friend of mine the day the display was set up in the main wing at the front of the Art gallery two days before the show opened. Its true, incidentally, everything, I mean everything, every draft, every unfinished fragment, every published piece of writing, everything of mine including a couple of antique watches from the bit of dust that settled my way from my father's estate, went out the door to the dump that day in mid summer of 1971. All of my childhood and school photographs which I had collected one day from family albums, went along with everything else, to the dump. My creative history officially starts anew in mid summer of 1971, the day I heard the news by a distressed friend who told me the news, that EVERYTHING prior, had been carted to the dump. With no backlog of unfinished projects, no press clippings to cling to, no more articles or daily newspaper columns about 'a moi', no original recordings of poetry and music some released on 33 rpm disks some still in the works, no longer any photographic history, I started brand new that summer, age 32, circ. 1971. On the positive side, none of the activities prior to the start of 1971 had any virtue that was lasting or even assuredly correct, in terms of planetary translation and changes expected for the future, in both short term and long term perspectives. The change in state which was firmly forced as a fact of fate in the summer of 1971 was a major overhaul in all levels of thinking regards Cosmic Law and Earth affairs to a larger enterprise that extends beyond the Universe. The loss of cargo with its clinging past actually was a final solution to changes that started in earnest at the beginning of 1971, and are still continuing. Eastern metaphysics, Tibetan theory, and other old lores have little to add to the new picture now unfolding in progressive stages. Such is the way life can twist and turn toward a long distance finish that does not reveal itself until time unfolds the paths that fate and higher consciousness allow. Meybe what's in store is someday soon some will transform into radiant 4th dimensional beings, moving around the Earth at will being constantly busy, for everyone's benefit, for another 800 years per each radiant being. Hindu phantasmagorias, Catholic craven fears, the emotions of born again christians 'rapture' await, and other such delusions, are nothing more in the thoughts but momentary illusions that come into being when small reversed magnetic polarities originating in yourself snag the planetary magnetic inductions and generates out of thin air (so to speak) all of those thoughts which are random and meaningless. Being transformed into a radiant 4th dimensional being will not be the end to it, other snags will be encountered at new levels and will have to be understood and overcome, but, at least, in the 4th dimensional form, you will be one step closer to full and complete resurrection to higher dimensional everlasting life, and starting in the 4th dimensional radiant being form, the progress will be swifter and far more obvious. MORE MISCELLANIA ------------------------------------ Sept 29, 1995, 11:50 AM Friday morning. This picks up on a short story reported in the prior update dated Sept, 26, 1995. See in full in (missingmass.net/autobio.txt). There were four more incidents at the yogi Camp in the Laurentian Mountains straight north of Montreal Quebec I wish to report, now that I have had time to think about it. First off is that after three months, I was offered a nice big room right off to the left behind the front desk of the main Lodge. This is because someone swiped a day's receipts from the cash drawer, the young French Canadian girl who was in charge of the registration desk, announcing, after everyone had been called together for an emergency meeting, that: 'Tonight I check for the cash but all of the money in the drawer it is missing'. So it was felt someone should be on hand more than before to keep an eye on things, so I was asked in the knowing that it was not me who swiped the cash and I was not capable of committing willful felonies. Thus, presto I had a nice large room with plenty of wall space and a large work table to start a new project, (its entrance to the left right off the main desk behind the counter), which was to explore aspects of the Golden Harmonic Ratio, and numeric permutations, in particular in regard to how these ratios tied in with geometric 5-sided and 6-sided images. I was using for calculations a circular slide rule, a device with inherent limitations as to intrinsic accuracy nevertheless it was possible to follow certain mathematic permutations and ratios with meaningful results. Pentagram magic and Knights Templar were NOT the purpose in THESE explorations. But back to the swami's ashram in the Laurentian mountains north of Montreal in the Province of Quebec, circ. the fall of 1974 and winter of 1975. My intent was to find new aspects that could be concidered a part of Cosmic Law, thus translating the miss-use of 5 sided images and the pentagram out of the realm of promiscuous occulties and black magic esoteric maniacs. The work on the wall gradually unfolded as several months went by, into quite a display of art, in that I used colored art pencils to grace information on each page of small and large sheets of paper, including brown wrapping paper when supplies got short, and knew that I had new information aboard, except it was all lost four years later in a house fire on an executive estate of 10 acres immediately west of Calgary, these colorfully artistic sheets, plus most everything else I had put together and accumulated since the summer of 1971, went up in flames when stored in an attic over the 5 car garage. It was the second time in my life that a major accumulation of creative efforts was lost to mayhem, in that the house fire had been deliberately set by a temporarily derranged former associate of a number of like kinds to myself, who had decided to try and destroy what he could not have, before coming back to his senses, ergo the fire, an event for which no one was charged because it was said by the RCMP to be an act of a group of weirdos who were trying to destroy records. Can you imagine! The very opposite to destroying of our co-creative records was what we (all of us involved) had in mind. We had nothing whatever to do with the fire and those present were desparately trying to put it out. So many years of effort lost to mayhem, and, then, false accusations that made the press. Fortunately, I was out of the main picture at the time so my name never got smeared across Canada, but, unfortunately, some new axioms in plane geometry, worked out in 1976, were lost, the only records I had of these axioms in boxes lost in the fire. One of the axioms could reduce work using the Law of Cosines through 35 steps, to just 7 steps, to solve a complex geometry problem of common kind. I do not to this day know how the axioms worked, since everything had been detailed to the nth degree and the info dropped from mind, since a record existed, whenever needed, but that record lost in the fire the authorities said was self set to keep certain secrets secrets, the secrets being non-existent except in their strangely perverted religious fundamental baptist minds of the Alberta RCMP. The fire was in Alberta, circa 1979, the home province of Bible Bill Eberheart who founded the first back to the bible radio broadcasts and whose chief assistent became the first Socred Premier of Alberta, whose son is, was, the head of the Reform Party of Canada, a party rooted completely in fundamental Baptist tenets which seem to also include stark white supremacy notions. This was the climate in which our place burned, and guess who got the blame, by guess who, you've got it, baptists forming the hard core of the authority structure in that province at that time, including chiefs in the RCMP. Talk about licking wounds and keeping our mouths shut, at that time. Boy, did we stay silent. You didn't know WHERE the police were going to strike from next. There was no moral or other values involved, no crimes or felonies were occurring, none whatsoever. Many fundamentalists in their religions, will KILL to maintain their beliefs. When individuals stand up saying they know NEW inputs from the heavenly realms, inputs that will put to the grave most all of the former fundamentalist religious beliefs, you have a very serious problem to be faced with no thought of escape by those who have been put on Earth in Divine Order, in sacred trust, to broadcast the new inputs into the faces of the masses. Those most in opposition are those most fundamentalist. It stands to reason that they are also heart and parcel of the authority stuctures in most countries in the world, including Canada, a Catholic regime, with serious Baptist understructures rubbing elbows with the Catholics who also hold on tight. Which is why most of Canada's federal political rule comes from the east half of the country, the west half including prairies always complaining about no say. The simple for them in the west, if politics is their first and formost, is to abandon baptist and become catholic. Regards the property on the slope facing the Rocky mountains west of Calgary: when first acquired it was a rental property until the owners an elderly couple, decided to retire to the Kooteney area in the mountains of BC and offered the property at a low price that could not be refused. A deal was struck, money changed hands, then presto out of the woodwork came the secret hidden papers, a third morgage held by their church the Seventh Day Adventists, whose amount boosted the purchase price to full top end of current retail value. It was no bargain at all, but we honored the deal. The problem was that it was against the law for churches in Canada to hold morgages on property which they did not own, and to loan money to individual members of the church, neither felonies seeming to be of the slightest interest to authorities who were all in on their own deals involving churches and religions in the province of Alberta, circa the early 70's. So there was a lot more at stake to this property than just a mere fire. Coverup by official malpractice not the least of its karma. But, back to the story, circ., the fall of 1974, up in the Laurentians north of Montreal, at the 65 acre ashram of swami Vishnu Devananda, a place which had nothing whatever to do with the 10 acre estate in Calgary Alberta. One late afternoon in the late fall, at the ahsram, a tour bus loaded with weekend stayers from New York City arrived to be registered and consolidated at the desk in the main Lodge, all of this taking place with me being called out of my room where I was working on some math, to open the gift shop for one of the new guests who wanted to buy something to take back to friends in New York City. This was a brassy gal of about 35 who was one of the first in America to start teaching sex education to kids in grade school and had a strange abrupt manner about her that precluded the normal give and take of men and women interchanging and exchanging. At this time the gift shop door could only be opened by me, the key had been appointed to me for safekeeping since in weeks past odd things had been disappearing in stealthy ripoffs from the gift shop. Something happened that caused a distraction and we all left the gift shop, me shutting the door. It was 3/4 of an hour later when the dust had settled regards the distraction and I went back to the door of the gift shop to get my keys. The gift shop door's key was still in the lock, more than a dozen other keys hanging from the chain. The key in the door was bent at exactly a full 90 degree angle, the bend so flush to the metal of the lock that I had to pry and pick to extract the remaining key shaft still in the lock. It was the first time that I saw without question metal bend, on its own. I figured the negative static being induced into the room by the persona and being and acts of that women from New York City had to somehow be in the cause. She was no pleasure, and had been making everyone, including her friends, very tense, a sharp contrast to other women who when present seem to have nothing but good things happen around them in their environment. It was negative ionnic static in the frequencies of the room that had caused the metal's bending, or so I think in simple levels of how can metal bend like that, on its own. Perhaps the ionnic static had passed from my fingers when first I opened the door, because at that moment things were tense in the room and all my inner guards were up. Wiffs of black magic were lurking around like real crisps. Ergo the inner shields were up in full operation. (Nowadays things are different. When crisps are lurking around, I tend to drop the shields entirely and let the radiants in full range spectrum on all frequencies move out to push back and to dissolve the lurks and its impositions, so as to do some Cosmic good, to try to help by the invisible factor in translating the situation for First Cause in Reality. No more need to duck and hide, like in the old days now almost forgotten when I was much younger and more unaware, back then). But, back to the story. Now to item two, at the ashram in 1974. Another interesting event occurred around the same time period. It had happened that the swami had decreed a couple of years earlier that since the ashram was on the side of a small mountain it would be ideal as a ski resort to earn extra income during the winter. That first year a large swatch had been cleared of maple trees down the main slope, and a cross country trail hacked through the forests up in the further areas of the property's 65 acres. The following fall, when some well wisher had donated funds sufficient to go ahead and get the slopes and other things ready for installation of ski resort and tow bar ski lift facilities the following year, work again resumed to finish off the main slope. Mainly, it was in getting rid of the main bumps, reducing them to exciting moguls rather than dangerous dips, and so on. One mid afternoon I was coming down through a path weaving through real thick goldenrod that reached over head, and came out into a clearing about half way down the slope. There was a crew of seven people who had been recruited by the camp manager to get rid of a particularly large boulder sitting right in the middle of the main downhill ski path. There were large pieces of lumber lying about, helter skelter, long iron bars and pipes, large blocks of wood, shovels, pulleys, the whole collection, almost like building a pyramid. It turns out the crew had been hard at work since right after breakfast and no matter what was tried, the giant boulder had not budged so much as an iota. It was round, taller than a human (you couldn't see over the top), it sat in a depression wedged in dirt and other rocks that were buried, and couldn't be left there since it was more than big enough for skiers to pancake right into it full stop. The fellow who was supervising the clearing of this boulder was quite frustrated, because even the best levers and pulley arrays and the digs they could muster, had not budged the giant boulder by so much as an inch. So, me, striding up and feeling momentarily as cocky as ever, said let's try something else, and got four eagerly willing guys and girls plus myself to lay shoulders against the boulder, and said, ok, on the count of three, and, then; one, two, three! I let loose a mighty intone, an OOM-EEN AUM-EEN as loud as I could intone. What do you think happened! The giant boulder sailed right up out of the cavity as if becoming weightless, and started to caroom down the mountainside, bouncing faster and faster down the slope, the whole ground trembling so hard we had to plant our feet for balance, huge booms echoing down the ranges. The real problem, was that the giant boulder was heading straight for the swimming pool. I started running down the slope at top speed yelling No! No!. At the last second the boulder hooked a left angle bounce and came to rest about 6 feet off the shallow end of the olympic sized swimming pool, and became an immediate new decoration, sitting there. The crew of seven were amazed to the state of being dumbfounded. I walked away from the mountain side wondering deep inside 'I didn't know I could DO that !', the eerie effect of the giant boulder suddenly becoming as if weightless foremost in mind, and the sudden departure of the boulder's path straight to the center of the pool also in question, in that the ground down there heading straight to the pool, was perfectly flat, covered with thick green grass. P.S. I almost shoved over a horse. There were two horses at the ashram, one a dark young stallion of nice disposition, and the other an old gray mare who had become mean due to the increasingly painful sway of its old back. Occasionally the young stallion liked to get loose and eat the lush thick green grass beside the pool, but the young man and woman assigned to caretake the horses thought this was not allowed, in that in Hindu land, animals were thought to be the opposite products of gods when walking around holy land, unallowed, such as the ashram. So a fuss was always made to get the horse back into the stable. One day I came walking down the mountain side and there was the horse calmly munching the grass rip rip, big mouthfuls at a time. Since no one else was around I became possessed of doing the right thing, and started ordering the horse off the grass. But it would hear nothing of it, just kept head down pulling one rip after another of delicious greenies filling its mouth, munching. So to make the point, I got alongside the horse and hands planted on its side, started shoving. All of a sudden it started to keel over. Had I not quit on the instant it would have toppled right into the swimming pool. I didn't know until then that you could shove over a horse. But also, I decided that that was going to be the last time ever I did some act because of someone else's ideas that were not my own as to what constituted the right thing, to wit, the best long green grass on the property most suitable for horses not allowed for horses because some invisible Hindu god might get upset. That was not my belief at all, yet I had acted against the horse at that moment because of someone else's views of such pre-concieved beliefs. I left the horse to enjoy its respite, and secretly hoped every day after, that it could get free long enough to enjoy a good meal in that long rich green lawn grass, before the snows came. P.S. Again. I noticed one day a porcupine down beside the front steps to the dining hall. Since it did not seem in any hurry to escape I went inside for a plate of hindu food (meat was not allowed there) and offered it to the porcupine. It would not eat from the plate. Instead, it took from my palm, standing up like a cat and with tiny black fingers comprising the paws, slowly pried apart my fingers to get the last food bits. Its quills were strange to stroke, you could only stroke them backwards. The procupine moved always in slow deliberate ways. Most of the members of the ashram kept their distance because after all it was an animal and against the beliefs of their religion to show kindness, but others were in admiration that the porcupine trusted me enough to feed straight from my hand. I was the only one to get near it, and fed it twice a day for several days. Until suddenly no sign of it. A few days later the sad report from up the road, a neighbor had seen a car careening at high speed along the gravel road and take straight aim at the porcupine killing it in an instant. T'was sad to hear. More P.S. There was no blue cow there at the ashram. There was a statue of a blue Krishna, a blue boy playing the flute and many of the ashram members came by every day offering food and flowers to this blue ceramic statue of Krishna playing the flute. More B.S. er P.S. Camp rules required every member of the ashram to be on hand for early morning meditation at least once every three days, if you missed, you were out. So I took to attending meditation every third day. But further, instead of going into a yogi torgue with climped fingertips grounded on splayed knees trapped in a pretzel manner, anus planted hard against the ground short circuiting everything below the Scorpio center, found a comfortable spot at the back wall of the meditation hall where my shoulder blades could fit comfortably between two supports, and so sat upright, legs straight out in front, looking around the whole hour to see what was going on. What I saw going on, for the most part, is everone falling asleep, nodding off, their heads dropping further and further into their chests then suddenly jerking upright, again and again, as the hour progressed, the swami himself falling to sleep the fastest, and jerking upright the most often. One day I started playing with colors. Knowing that thinking PINK can infuse positive spiritual flow and principles of universal Christ love into a container, I usually thought pink during those meditations, but one day started playing with bright purple light, thinking of it, seeing it in mind's eye, having it flow forth, and so on. Just quietly doing it. No big deal. However, when the meditation session ended, the camp manager who had been sitting right in front of the swami, and was also one of the most frequent of sleepy nodders, lept to his feet and came racing back to me wild eyed and breathless as I slowly lumbered stiffly upright, he exclaiming 'Wow! it was the most fantastic thing! you wouldn't believe it! wave after wave of intense pure purple light flooding over him and filling his every innermost visions, because of that, he KNEW! that HINDU! was the BEST religion in the world because of THAT kind of experience! And he's right in the middle of it, SPECIAL!', he finally proclaimed, wild eyed, departing at high speed. And I, staying completely silent about the cause, urgently thought oops, oops, a backfire! I won't try THAT again! If not the right circumstances, such experience can be very misleading to spiritual miscreants and spiritual abusers of Cosmic Law, giving them something that can be used for the wrong thing when intending to pass on something good. The bright purple radiation at that time was supposed to dissolve paranoia in all who happened to percieved it in the room! Not intensify their most paranoic religious beliefs. As you can see, short circuits do happen. P.S. One more story of energies and effects of energies gone awry. Every so often the Hindu community of Montreal would throw a festival upstairs in a big banquet room on the second floor of the YMCA on a saturday afternoon. And certain amongst us trusted enough to drive ashram vehicles and go along as assists would go to Montreal for these festivals. The first one was a major learning curve. Things went fine for the first couple of hours, a great feast present of very tasty foods, nice people of many races and colors including me moving around enjoying the company. Everything was peaceful and calm, until the arrival of another eastern sect group of about a dozen and a half individuals who suddenly arrived in the room. I do not know who they were except within a couple of minutes I was in desparate ways, hurrying out the banquet hall looking to the left then right up the long corridor for a men's rest room. Couldn't find one. Too late, urge came to purge. Helplessly I let loose a mighty hork splashing onto the marble stoop of a big brown wooden door. What a mess. Looking up, there was the sign to the men's washroom, on the door. I had no choice but to go find a janitor and explain that a 'regrettable' had occurred. Then made my way back to the banquet. Shortly after, the new arrivals left. And soon enough things were back to normal. Once again I dived into the food, enjoying every bit of tasty treats that Hindu cooking allowed. Suddenly, again, an attack of strange eerie vibes. A moment later back came the mysterious sect sweeping in through the door. Once again unmistakable inner frequency clash. And there was I, moments later, racing back up the hall toward the men's rest room. Didn't make it. Once again a huge hork spewed onto the carpet. This time not even enough time to focus toward the marble door stoop. This time the mess was much worse, a ghastly pizza covered the thread bare YMCA corridor carpet from wall to wall. So once again, I was back up the hall to the other end looking for the janitor to explain once more what had happened. This time I used my senses. I went outside, and waited in one of the cars, until the others arrived ready to go home back to the ashram. Two others in the car were also ill from the strange vibes in the YMCA banguet room and horks were left along the autoroute highway up into the Laurentians north of Montreal to Val Morin. It wasn't spoiled food otherwise everyone would have been effected and white newspapers and media people would have had a field day pointing to kinds of news that happen to none whites. A third thought provoking incident occurred in the late fall just before the leaves turned to bright colors. A young new arrival had been sent up to the top of the rift being cleared up the slope for the ski lift tow bar, to burn a huge pile of slash and cutup trees and logs up to about a foot and a half in diameter. In the early afternoon I was asked to go up there by the camp manager to check it out, in that no smoke had yet been seen. So up I went. When I got to the top of the climb up the mountainside I found sitting on the ground a young fellow in a deep funk, figuring he was a failure because a fire had not started, no matter his best efforts with newpapers and a small can of kerosene, furthermore, it was starting to rain, not a slight drizzle but a very cold downpour. Up I came, heard his deparate story, said don't worry, where there's a will there's a way, and got busy finding a small cavity under the thick pile of green underbrush where rain was not pouring in, shoved in a few sheets of damp scrunched up newspaper, and since the gas can was empty, used just paper, reached in with a paper match that had caught fire despite being damp, then got a corner of the newspaper lit. The young fellow was not impressed at all. Until ten minutes later when the fire was roaring 50 feet high in the air. All that was left of that soaking wet green underbrush and tangle of logs was a depression of grey ash in the ground. Everything, every bit of the pile, was consumed in the mighty flames. Despite the cold steady downpour of drenching rain. I, of course, had occasional pause to stop and wonder, for years after, as to how I set a soaking wet pile of greens fully aflame. What, actually, had occurred, I wasn't sure. Except that I had spontaneously demonstrated on the spur of the moment to a deeply discouraged spiritual seeking soul that where there's a will there's a way, works! even if it seems impossible because of pre-concieved beliefs that were going unquestioned. Incidentally, at that time, there was a young mexican women up from Mexico City, and her older brother. It seems the family, of conciderable wealth, had sent both up to the ashram in the Laurentians, with the intent of trying to get some sense into the young man's head. She could barely speak English, or rather, she spoke English very well but could barely speak it without an almost undeciferable Spanish accent. He was a very good looking young fellow, a poster bill-board type who could have advertised the most elegent of men's clothing, or after shave lotion, the problem being that he was so good looking he had, it seems, never had to concider his acts, according to his sister, and so had become a CAD of despairing proportions to his family and friends. She on the other hand was the opposite, a heck of a nice person, also very good looking, definately Mexican, who immediately got to work volunteering services with whatever was needed the moment she arrrived at the ashram. He on the other hand declining all invites to do any work, until finally the swami, who was in on the family's deal right from the start, deemed that the only purpose to which the young fellow was suited, for his spiritual path, was to finish festooning the concrete statue of Genish the elephant with bits of broken mirror. This project had been started several years before, and only about 2/3 of Ganish had been festooned in what most worshippers concidered a very boring task. Well, so did the young fellow, he spent most of every day sitting at the base of the large concrete elephant occasionally breaking a piece of mirror into smaller pieces, every so often gluing a piece or two to the statue, and the rest of the time talking a full line of sexual come-ons to every girl who walked by. Ergo, enter his sister. Day after day, I would happen to be walking by this path alongside which sat the elephant, and hear her going at it full intensity trying to set him straight. And very secretely admired her, for everything she said seemed to be just about right on the money when it came to trying to set straight someone's smutty sexual attitudes and misconceptions based on physical good looks and conceits. The two left after about three weeks, and I do from time to time wonder how she made out, what kind of a life she has had, hoping it has been fruitful in a positive creative and constructive way because she did seem to have such penetrating insight into human behavior. I really admired the way she hesitated not, in boring right in on her brother's dilemmas. Love one another, serve one another, is a Law she seemed to have in heart without question. What's more, it didn't seem like she was wasting her time or her life doing this favour which her cad brother had not yet percieved. The point is, if someone becomes a prodigal son, or daughter, you have to let them fall through the cracks on their own, until they come again to their senses. If time is wasted on the impossible, both loose. And finally, it comes to the camp manager, and me, he a former school teacher of 26 from the wealthier jewish section of Montreal, who had come to the ashram not speaking a word of French and 6 months later was the camp manager dealing with French speaking souls all day long in getting co-ordinated things like Hydro 550 volts installation, DC 8 giant CAT bulldozers up into the backside to cut the service road to be used to install the ski tow, negotiating the purchase of a $150,000 dollar snow cat, etc. This machine was concidered such an investment, that only the camp manager and myself were allowed to drive it. I used to take it out and do the run downhill flattening the snow after every snowfall on the cross country ski slope, only he trusted to do the steeper downward runs on the main ski slope. This machine, from Sweden, was quite the toy to drive at times nosing almost straight down, winding amongst trees crawling downhill through a narrow trail that jigged and jagged amongst the tall Sugar Maples and outcrops of rock, as I fought the hissing pissing hydrolics of the steering that moved the double pair of crawling tracker treads. I never have otherwise driven heavy equipment other than a twelve passanger van. PS, the skiing never got opened that year, lack of money stopped the ski tow's erection. But, back to the main story. The camp manager's learning of the French language in such a short time (less than six months) was very impressive. Some of his spiritual and occult beliefs were not. For instance he recruited me to help momentarily in the cutting up of some large felled maple trees, not an easy job since the trees had been felled earlier by a yahoo with no regard as to how to untangle and cut up the trunks. So here we were, planning each move, cut here, cut there, he handling the industrial-sized chain saw, the same as used by loggers. At one point there was an X cross situation that was hard to figure in terms of just what way the logs would tumble after a cut. He said wait, I've got an idea, I'm going to do THIS, and leaned in punching the chain saw to full rev and inserted the blade in at a sharp angle, me reacting in alarm shouting NO! DON'T! because he had inserted the blade directly under me where I was standing bent over studying the situation. Sure enough, the chain saw bucked. At full rev the blade shot up and whambed me with such full force right in the gut that I went sailing backward head over heels from the blow, landing on my back, feet spead-eagled high in the air, thinking nothing but doomsday. The full rev of the chain saw still dying, I willed myself for a looksee down, and NOTHING! My white tee shirt was sliced open across the middle. I yanked the tee shirt up to my neck and looked straight down, eyeballs extending on tubes of a telescope to magnifing the vision, and saw only across my stomach above the navel a scratch exactly as if I had run my fingernail across the skin, and nothing more! I was completely unharmed, even though the chain saw's blade at full rev had hit me so hard it had knocked me several feet backwards off my feet. The strangest thing of all was that seconds before the hit, the last thing spoken by the camp manager was in a completely transformed slow voice, a voice that was unmistakable, the voice of an individual from Vancouver 3 years before who, only 24, had announced that only HE was powerful enough in the world to take over and be in control of all of the world's occult and metaphysical societies, a power he said he had to do this being so complete that nothing, NOTHING would be able to stop him and anyone who got in his way was expendable, a young fellow of 24 who otherwise made his living operating a back hoe he owned. Such are the dillusions of fantasy and ego. Nonetheless, it was HIS voice that spoke seconds before the fully revved chain saw tried to slice me in half up there on the mountainside in the Laurentians north of Montreal. The most obvious thought provoke of that situation being the most obvious: HOW HAD I SURVIVED ? The concept of instantaneous force fields was still not in my ken at that time. Boy, was I puzzled, left deep in thought whenever I thought if it, for months after. One last remark regards that 8 month period of time. I received a telegram in my post box in Val Morin, asking me to make a phone call at 3 PM in the afternoon to a phone in Denver Colorado, on a day that was soon coming two days hence from the day I got the telegram. So I quietly packed everything, took only what was rightfully mine, left everything else behind, returned to the ashram, neatly organized on my cot and work table, and at 2 AM quietly slipped out the front door of the lodge, walked the two miles to the main highway and hitchiked into Montreal. At 2:30 the next afternoon I located a main public lobby of a high rise office tower in Montreal to make the call in annonymity in full view of the public. There were 12 pay phones in a row along the main lobby wall of this huge government building. At the end was a cigarette machine. I was a smoker then, so deciding to pick up an extra pack because the machine had my brand, set my current pack which happened to be in my hand, on top of the machine, bent down, fed coins, got the new pack, reached up to get the other pack, and it was gone! In the few seconds I had been bent over, someone walked past the machine and ripped off my pack sitting on top of it. First interference from the negative. Then it came time for the phone call, me emotionally hyped with enthusiastic expectations, fed coins into the pay phone at the other end of the row of 12, right against the wall, but the party I wanted to reach was not in so I was clued up to be back at that very same phone an hour later and wait for it to ring. After whiling the long hour with a cup of coffee in the nearby restaurant, I went back to the phone to wait for the call. What do you think had happened! The reciever was sitting on top of the PHONE, its torn-loose metal cable dangling in the air with tattered ends sticking out hanging to knee level in front of the metal box. I couldn't BELIEVE IT ! Of all of the times for the negative to strike from the no zone, this was it, one of the worst acts of aweful timing I ever saw. It took several hours of frantic phone calls to the original number to finally re-connect to someone home, and it was decided because of the degree to which the negative was able to home in and peer right over my shoulder, close tracking, that I should wait, keep myself busy in Montreal for another three weeks until conditions were more favorable to try connecting again to Denver. So, at this time, being stone broke only a few dollars in pocket, I holed up in the men's hostle of the Salvation Army overnight and lined up in the labor pool the next morning at 5 AM and 2 hours later was on my way to a job site for the day. The labor pool payed $2.00 dollars an hour, but by the time they deducted what they wanted for expenses, I was taking away somewhere in the range of $12.00 to $13.00 dollars a day for a full day's work, just enough for meals, and an overnight stay at a men's hostle. Three weeks passed, I made phone connection again to Denver, this time the party I was hoping to speak to was on the line, the line having a strange deep long distance echo effect from interdimensional carrier waves to it as we talked, I was instructed to go to the airport and wait until I heard my name called, sleeping overnight upright in a chair in the main cavern of the airport, the next day heard my name called, went to the counter, and a ticket was waiting for a direct flight to Calgary. I was on my way again to a new phase of life. And so, this concludes a few remarks about a few spiritual mysteries, occurring in a brief period of time as one phase of my life. Make of the remarks what you want to make. For me, each of the events caused a change in beliefs, in acceptance of higher Cosmic Law at work effecting all life on this planet. THE FLY CONCERTO ----------------------------------------- Oct. 1, 1995, 2:20 AM Sunday morning. I think I have just officially made friends with one of the flies. Earlier this evening, while sitting watching an Agetha Christi movie on TV with Jessica Langsbury and Geraldine Chaplin, (and also studying the sound stream) a fly landed on my knee. I was wearing a pair of comfortable summer shorts and a sleeveless tee shirt. Thinking this time, instead of get lost, that perhaps this fly was curious and not looking for salt or something. So I let it cruise my knees and legs for a short while, and then, when it was on my big toe exploring, I reached down with an open hand and sure enough the fly hopped onto my hand. I raised my hand to chin level and the fly after exploring the open palm, some fingers, the back of the hand, the front again, hopped onto my chest and began to explore the ranges of my tee shirt, eventually moving down to the shorts area, exploring every part, out to the rim of the shorts on the left leg, across and about the bumps in the middle back and forth, then the other leg of the shorts, then took off. A few moments ago I was sitting again in the chair watching a bit of TV thinking of how that fly had seemed to be intent on exploration and sure enough suddenly I felt a telltale light touch behind my right shoulder. An extensive exploration took place there, then the fly moved down to my left leg, behind where I could not see, but slowly I put my opened hand down there and presto! the fly was sitting on the edge of my thumb. I raised my hand right up to eye level to say hello to the guy what do you guess, without wasting a second it jumped right onto my eyeglasses, right onto the middle of the left lens, took a good look, ran across the lens onto my nose, out to the tip, paused at the tip for a moment, hopped to the right lense, then took off again into the air. Even if I am just an object to it, an item of curiousity without feeling or friendly vibes, nonetheless, there is a form of intelligence operating within this fly. At this moment, there is not a part of myself that has not been carefully explored by it. Plus so far, three times, it has instantly hopped aboard the moment I have offered my open hand. I wonder if they can hear. There is more, once again .... Back in the living room, the moment I sat down the fly appeared on the tile face of the fireplace. Out went my hand, with me whistling three notes to see what would happen. Who knows if the notes had an effect, nonetheless after a moment the fly hopped onto my thumb and there I sat my thumb with fly sitting looking at me not 4 inches from my face, for over two minutes. Then it took off. I am thinking it might be the fly which has been riding the pendulum all these days, because it took off in the direction of the kitchen and instantly encountered another fly in the air in front of the pendulum resulting in several tight mid-air circles then one fly took off and the other landed on the hot spot on the pendulum, did a quick check behind, then back out it came running, to rest, riding again on the pendulum. Since things can happen so fast with these guys I don't know which one of the two, the one that left me, or the other that was homing in on the pendulum, ended up owning the turf. I am convinced enough of 4th dimensional ties to assume that the fly left me because another was thinking to hit the pendulum. Once, five years ago, in the summer, two neighborhood youngsters had stopped by, and in the kitchen in came a hornet. The two young kids 8 and 9 years old started to hop up and down, squeeling about the threat, while I kept saying there was nothing to fear, and moved forth, coaxing the hornet back out the open patio door. A moment later a second hornet flew in, this one heading toward one of the kids and me in the dining area by the kitchen door, the kid making a yelping grab on my arm, definately fear, and I said there really is nothing to worry about, watch! At that second, the hornet did an abrupt U-turn in mid air, and arced straight back out the patio door without an inch of deviation from the glide path. A long silence. How did you do that, the kid asked in a low almost adult voice so much was her intelligence engaged at that moment. When you know how, you won't have to ask, I replied. Well, here now is how. A second of pure thought, thinking nothing else but the hornet heading out the bright sunlit open door of the patio, resulted on the instant in the hornet getting the picture and acting on it. I have sent moths back out the patio door here in Orleans by doing that, knowing the moths don't have a chance, once inside in the house environment. I have had monarch butterflies come to my outstretched hand from a long distance in the woods, and once had a giant sphynx moth investigate my open shirt pocket, and a humming bird once also, but in these cases I was surprised and not doing anything to try and will it. I remember back in 1976 in a house in the south end of Edmonton near the airport a dog had been got, a dalmatian pup of conciderable pep with a fellow volunteered to look after it, a good gesture since this young fellow not 5 years before had stalked the mean Vancouver streets at 2 AM swinging a motor cycle chain on the look for revenge but all it was was a young creative fellow who had temporarily gone sour due to the scene of drugs and 2 years later after he came into his senses, at age 21 had co-supervised the exterior renovations and painting to the mansion of the Governor General of BC, a job so well done that it made press. Now here he was in Edmonton with a number of other young men and women wishing to work together in a humanitarian society with world views its scope, but again starting to feel sorry for himself over a slight upset. Ergo the dog, to help restore his feelings of care and compassion in caring for it. Here was the problem. Downstairs was a workshop set up to make handcrafted colorful leather goods being sold in stores and on strings glittering with watchstraps, purses, pouches, and guitar straps, in the big bars in Edmonton. Downstairs would bound the dog, puppying like crazy for a few moments, then after the buzz, when interference set in, it would be time to send the dog back upstairs. Except one afternoon, the pup would not go up the stairs. The problem was several men and women in their twenties, all in on the act, each giving different instructions to the poor dog and the dog knew not what to do. I finally broke forth and stepped in, since matters were quickly starting to get out of hand with disputes as to who knew best how to command the dog. No one did. I said just a moment there is no problem, and at that instant, the dog turned and bounded right up the stairs, without pause. Many puzzled looks cast my way of course. I said the simple obvious fact, that all I did was hold a pure thought of a picture of the dog bounding up the stairs, in my mind for a second or two, the dog got the glimpse and knew exactly what to do. Sometimes, the simplest of pure thoughts can be the most meaningful of all. The point is, for those thoughts to be so pure, there is not a trace of emotion. Just the will and desire for Action, presented in a pure image that is obvious, in self evident truth. Sound a bit like god to you? In fact much of what constitutes god acts upstairs, are in similar ways totally self evident, even if the reason is not abundantly clear to the outer mental mind of the ego. That wish to know all, mentally, is a short circuit of major kind, a wish that most humans have on this planet, unfortunately, but not predestined or fore ordained. Getting rid of the wishes of the outer ego is hard for most people to grasp, let alone, realize as a concept that needs urgent attention. But concider this, if there are strong emotions attached which change willy nilly, suspect that the ego is right behind the scenes pumping electrical patterns that are causing the emotions to erupt, fueled by inputs and memories gained from the five physical senses, senses which are not active in Cosmic Law. In Cosmic Law there are 110 senses and emotions are replaced by intents and purposes that have feelings and sensations which are stable and constant for long periods of time, for instance hours, rather than the seconds in which the lower emotions change tones randomly out of control. This does not mean being up there on a mountain top alone being one with the universe or becoming something even more ridiculous like a cosmic egg. You can be doing anything in the real world, washing your car, cracking jokes with the neighbors, trying to dig a rut under your tire with a piece of wood to get traction in the deep snow. Anything you do can be done with those same strong constant stable emotions that are also you upstairs in the higher dimensions where the real stuff of life is happening all the time. In fact, the more you put to rest the turbulences of your emotions and random mental thoughts, the more you begin to percieve glimpses of Reality, beyond the veil of the physical 3rd dimensional world. Seekers of ghosts you must not become, let the ghosts sort out their own miseries, they have the chance, just like you. THE PENDULUM FLY ----------------------------------------------------- Oct. 1, 1995, 12 noon Saturday. I realize in reconcidering some of the notes written late last night that some of the remarks regarding friendly flies are very risky, in terms of testing a reader's crediblities, questions, and beliefs. Other remarks regards events of days gone by in previous years still stand, because I have had a lot of time to think about them over the years, short term and long, and the recorded remarks are what I know about the events. There is no need to feel cringe about running risks reporting them. On the other hand there may just be more to the fact than myth regards a friendly fly in the living room. This morning when I came downstairs at 11 AM after writing until 5 AM, and sat down in the chair in front of the TV, seconds later, touch, touch touch, touch, a fly was back on my kneecap and leg. When I looked at it, it flew to the edge of a file drawer lying on the floor in front of the fireplace temporarily as a sort catch for sifting through stacks of computer backup disks. I whistled three short notes and extended my hand. On the instant, the fly lept to my thumb. I lifted it to face level, we studied each other for a moment, then away it went into the living room somewhere. I noticed that at that moment there was no fly riding the pendulum so perhaps we are again dealing with the same guy as was featured last evening as taking stake on the hot spot on the pendulum. Which immediately raises another question, what to do next? It seems the fly is able to percieve sound, if not to actually hear sound. No question that the fly took to my hand the instant I whistled the same three notes tried several times last evening. The problem is, what to do next. If the fly is responding, what next to offer in response without just continuing a pointless game. It comes back to an original problem regards the little brown dog named Quasar when he was a three month old pup who first arrived home to our house from the Humane Society 12 years ago. A month after taking residence, one afternoon in coming home, what had occurred was that every piece of laundry, every piece of clothing, every piece of bedding, had been hauled out and placed in a precise pile in the middle of the hall of our large a-frame house of 4200 square feet on a 3rd of an acre on the shore of the Ridea River South of Ottawa. When I walked in, there was the pup, tail wagging a real boogie, anxious to show off his handy work. After suitable praises and dog pat rewards, the pile was again dissolved and everything returned to its place. Two days later, in coming in the door again in the afternoon middle, the pile was back, even bigger, and this time, two pairs of sneakers were sitting right against the edge in perfect place, left shoe beside the right, toes pointed in to the center of the pile. The consciousness and work it took to place the shoes, one at a time, was unmistakable. I started thinking a great deal about how to help this dog communicate in a higher way. I thought of computers that have big touch keys that form phonetics or words, but could see problems in coaching the dog as to how to touch a key with a toenail or paw, in that this dog all this time has shown a dislike to having a paw held and moved. Furthermore, the cost. I do remember otherwise, one day, the pup still only a few months old, lying on the floor busy on a bone but using a piece of wood (a small stake used off and on as a tuning device in a loudspeaker experiement), using the stake as a tool, propped under an elbow and across the other leg, as a device on which to prop a bone straight upright so he could chew on it without having to twist his head. I watched, It took Quasar the pup about 30 seconds to get the piece of wood propped correctly in place so he could place the bone on it. I have not seen him do such things all that frequently, but often enough, when driving along in the car, he will use my right arm as a prop for leverage for a paw to then torgue into a tight turn to nibble an itchy in a hard to get to spot in his rear areas while I drive. I once tried to teach this dog to count, years ago. We got to number eight, me blinking a number, then another, to count to eight, the dog immediately responding blinking to five, slowing down, by then a delay to each next blink, till finally when he got to eight it was a long delay of several seconds, his eyes a swimmy look of concentration, the lids fluttering, until finally, squeeze, eight! It was a count of five, and then three, by me with eyeblinks, as I said 'five' then 'three' equals eight, which he did, then I just said 'eight' and the new count started, ending as I have just reported. After that, he would sort of give up and walk away as if loosing interest when eight was called, but then a few minutes later he would be back on his own intensly blinking, say, two, then five, then a pause, then seven done slowly in a row with fluttering lids. He continued to do counts by eyeblinks until about seven years old, but always at around five to six maximum. At first he imported great intensity into the act of doing counts but gradually as I realized that this could not continue without full time honor, it faded to where eyeblinks that count don't occur. The same concentration is seen these days when beating his tail to the count of a music on TV or on a tape or radio station in one of my sound tests. He likes swing. Anything of swing sets his tail in motion, staring at me in deep concentration his tail can often fall to just a twitch, until I say such things as 'that's right, wagging your tail', and gesture the beat, and instantly the tail revs into full swing body-wrapping from side to side in strong keep beat. He gets into deep concentration modes. The first time I saw him do three four time was to a waltz on TV, mastered perfectly the first time without help from me. The most interesting beat was once, for Dave Brubek's Take Five, he got the 5/4 time signature right with his tail after a bit of practice and was very happy. Twitch twitch twitch pause .... Twitch twitch twitch pause .... That was how he mastered the 5/4 signature, three beats, and a pause through two more. Basic 3/4 time is fun to watch when the dog does it. Pause twitch twitch pause twitch twitch pause twitch twitch .... The most difficult time beat cooked by his tail was recently this month, in 3/4 time, played by a marching band with a four-four beat also in the music. It happened about two weeks ago he came into the dining room where I was here at the computer and captured my attention, and showed me his tail twitching back, forth like a stiff piece of iron, hesitantly, but correctly, on the three four beat, until I said 'that's right, 3/4 time, and hand gestured the beat, and so he caught the full rhythm in big swing, standing with head cocked slightly down and to the left concentrating, but the tail swinging free in the air in full side to side unhesitant whiplashes. He was, well, proud, of fathoming the beat, in that there were 2 different time signals, the 3/4 he was beating by far the most difficult, for instance from a dancer's point of view concidering, the other a 4/4 beat, the Star Trek Next Generation theme. Oh, well, what to you know. After writing the above about the dog I went back to the opening sentences of this report and started re-reading about this fly who seemed to hear the whistle this morning. Yes, what do you think happened ! Suddenly, touch, here is the fly, sitting on my left arm, here in the dining room! This is the first time a fly has ever lit on me in the dining room. Right now it is on my right shoulder. And now it is gone again. It has been dusting me the whole of this new writing. Here, now, is an instance of a higher dimensional fact. No whistle, or anything, except thought. Last evening at 2:30 AM I was sitting in the living room thinking I might prove to myself that flies could hear if I whistled in the dining room and the fly came in, because a fly has never been on me in the dining room, until this moment. Hmmmm. As has been often said about this modern age of change, Miracles shall follow Miracles for those who have an eye to see and an ear to hear. The world looks different for those who know how to observe. Reality is ever present for those who know how to look. The fly is back, on my right shoulder. Well, well, well. After finishing the last sentence, I got up abruptly, forgetting the fly, and felt it take off my shoulder as I headed into the kitchen, the fly flying in front of me chest high. Oops, I thought. But meybe not. At that moment another fly in the air suddenly became contested and the two flies did twirls in midair for a moment one landing on a nearby open cupboard door, the other on another open cupboard door further away. I stopped in the middle of the kitchen, held out my open hand, and whistled three notes a couple of times. Sure enough the fly on the further door took to the air, into the living room doorway and back into the kitchen to land on my thumb, me standing in the middle of the kitchen with my thumb out, but only for a second, at that moment Quasar the dog came slowly up the hall and around the corner into the kitchen. I immediately left to come back here to write about this! It had heard and responded! It immediately landed on my right shoulder as I began to type this paragraph, and has just now taken off flying past my face. What do we have here, a fly who is a Johnathan Livingstone Seagull? I'd better describe the fly a little more. It is not a blue bottle or that size. It is small, very small dull amber transparant abdomin, tiny white dashes on its faceted eyes which are a dull dusty brown color. I sure don't know the species name, but they are common, think of smelly barns and cattle and these flies. Needless to say this is facinating. In fact I do not know if the fly is responding to the whistles, or to Will Desire and Action in pure thought. There is no question however, that this fly is demonstrating consciousness. Oh, yeah, forgot to mention, I think it is the pendulum fly because during this time no fly has been riding the air on the pendulum. A quick question in intuition tells me that the fly is responding to both whistles and pure thought. I am going to call it the Pendulum Fly. It happened at this moment that my brother came into the room to have me ZIP up a file ready for upload on the BBS to a programmer. I had just told him about the interesting fact that for the last two days I have been playing with a fly and moments before, to my thumb it had come when I whistled in the kitchen. My brother standing at the fridge door in the kitchen, whistled, with hand out, and said, nope, I guess not. But I said yes, here it is, showing him the fly on my left elbow as I stood leaning over the BBS computer. The fly had landed on my elbow just seconds after my brother had whistled. Now we both think there is a Johnathan Livingstone Seagull in presence here in the fly world. I mentioned earlier two flies in the kitchen. The second is still parked on the open cupboard door, it has not moved. The fly let me touch it. I went into the kitchen for a moment and when wandering back the fly was sitting on the edge of my orange colored office chair. I slowly reached forth a finger. Instead of taking flight when the finger was about a quarter of an inch away, the only fly that will do this - the fly stayed put until I touched its leg, then took off. At this moment it is back on my right shoulder. Here is a pledge. I won't diatrab and ad hoc ad lib ad nauseum any longer regards this facinating situation. If something occurs of an extreme nature, I shall report it. Otherwise the Pendulum Fly and myself shall just be private friends. Now the fly is exploring my computer keyboard. Well, ok, here goes. Only a minute has passed. The fly was sitting on the mahogany plywood surface to the right on the work table. I pointed to the lower right corner of the keyboard. The fly lifted and came over landing and running to the keyboard corner, then took off again. At the moment it is on my leg. What do I do next? What is my responsibility, now that I have engaged the friendship? Good lord, talk about spiritual responsibity, being sure that what is being reported to listeners is correct. Now there are TWO flies in the dining room. Does this blow the whole scene. I don't think so. I have just touched both. It comes back to something I learned about spiritual trust, one evening, back in 1982, in the a-frame house on Holburn Avenue on the shore of the Rideau River. It happened that during the winter, field mice had moved in. At first it was not so noticable, a mouse suddenly running between your feet when sitting watching TV. A mouse seen to scurry up the flatstone face of the fireplace to the mantle. A gradually increasing pile of body wastes in the hall closet the mice had chosen as a biffy. The wastes were no problem because every so often I would vacumn the mound of pellets in one corner, and wash the crystallized spread of urine in the other corner. The main center for the mice seemed to be in the basement up under the rear South East corner of the living room. There were sounds there. Half way along the East wall which continued to the dining area at the front of the house, a hole was drilled through the floor to allow quick access straight across the living room to the biffy and the fireplace. The hole was a perfect engineering job, about 1 and 1/2 inches across, drilled through thick carpet, rubber under-mat, and two layers of wood. In the kitchen a hole was drilled against the wall beside the fridge, and on the opposite wall, a hole was drilled beside the hole in the floor for the stove's power cord. I began to notice mice popping up through one of the coils of the stove. The mice were coming up the hole, into the stove, out the top through the coil, taking a foot wide hop across to the counter, then boogying the counter for bits of food and goodstuff. Whenever I happened to step into the kitchen, a mouse sitting on the edge of the stove would let out a shriek and all of the mice on the kitchen counter would take off in bedlam disappearing one by one at top speed into the coil of the stove. I learned, as an observer, that the mice always had one sentry posted by the escape route to sound an alarm! Leap for the moment to the present. Flocks of sparrows, and the pigeons, also have sentrys. When the bird feeder gets filled, the sparrows always back off, some into the higher branches of the tree, others into the shrubs and fences behind the tree, and usually a big flock taking off at high speed straight up the row of back yard fences. Then I wait, back in the patio door, and sure enough a moment later, a sparrow appears on a branch near the feeder. A moment later it lands on the feeder, and a moment later it begins to feed, another sparrow nearby, letting loose a sound that causes other sparrows to immediately start hurring in from hiding in the shrubs and fences toward the feeder. But the pigeons differ. One comes down from the roof of the house, a moment later, another, then moments later the rest, all of this in silence. These pigeons all eat on the ground under the feeder. The sparrows and starlings eat anything. Every so often there is a mighty screetch, and all of the birds take off in bedlam in one direction or another, a mystery at first. Until I learned they flew away opposite to a threat. It happened one day that just as I was ready but not yet out the patio door to fill the feeder, the screetch was heard, and every bird took off at high speed. I continued out to the feeder but immediately heard a loud cry coming from along the fences and sure enough it was a blue jay flying flat out heading straight for the tree, making a heck of a racket. Why the other birds depart the moment a blue jay or two arrives on the scene I don't know, but depart the birds certainly do, every last one of them every time. Once, there was a mighty shriek, and every bird, over a hundred took off in what seemed a blind panic, which instantly caught my attention standing in the living room working on a sound test. I went to the patio door to look out but saw nothing, until a moment later a hawk glided in over the tree, past me at the door, then lifted up in the air currents to disappear over a house two doors away. Boy, I sure knew that day why the birds had instantly vanished. But, back to the story of the mice in paradise, on the shore of the Rideau River back in the winter of 1982 Late one night while working in the dining room on mathematics and geometry my single minded concentration was gradually absorbed by something else happening in the background. It was a puzzling commotion sound coming from the kitchen. I got up to take a look. Not yet reaching the doorway to the kitchen, I saw over two dozen mice racing back, forth having a great party on the kitchen counter, the foodstuffs and edible bits in great supply still left over from dinner. But, they weren't eating or hauling away cargo. It was a mouse carnival underway on the counter, mice racing each other, dancing together, like a carnival. I saw the sentry, standing up by the coil on the stove. I waved to it, a gesture, just indicating that all was ok. The mouse sat down and didn't shriek. So into the kitchen came I very quietly, and so for a couple of hours marvelled over this new situation at times standing right over the counter watching the mice at play running back and forth right under my face sometimes less than a foot away from mice at play. Once I arrived on the scene they began to chatter loudly and openly, all pretense of furtiveness and stealth completely abandoned. What a party! An element of complete trust had entered. It was a sad dilemma because I knew it was an impossible situation. During the recents nights I had been woken up several times by a sudden sharp spear of pain on a fingertip while lying asleep, and once, the spear brought a drop of blood. So I knew mice were nibbling, but had no idea until that night just how many mice. The next day the first of the mouse traps was set with cheese beside the hole beside the fridge. Snap. An hour later another snap. A few minutes later another snap. Into the third day. On the third day juveniles began to appear in the trap beside the fridge and that was the saddest of all. And then finally, no more mice. How I wished there had been some way of keeping this mutual occupation of the same evironment intact, without the risk of sanitary and health complications. Back to the present. The fly who has learned to land on my hand when I whistle is called Louie. In the kitchen for a moment, while I was standing there, suddenly two flies were on the edge of the open cupboard door about a foot away from where I was at a standstill. Each fly let my finger approach, one took off before, the other letting me touch a wing, then both were twirling in tight circles less than an inch apart in the air about a dozen times then both landing again less than a foot apart on the edge of the open cupboard door. I held up my hand and whistled three times. One took off and disappeared. The smaller came straight to my thumb. This, the smaller one, I am going to call Louie. I think I am going to call the larger one Hortense, in that I am assuming now she is a female of the species. Whoah! A bird has just flown up the divide between houses from the back yard to the dining room window in front of me, fluttered hovering in the air a few seconds facing in the window, at eye level staring straight at me, then did an abrupt U-turn flying back to the back yard. It happened so fast I don't know if it was a sparrow or a starling. This has not ever happened before. Something is going on! P.S. It is being said by choice sources since the early 70's, that as the human consciousness is being raised from within in the fast lanes in the re-awakening to higher dimensional Realiity so too shall the animal kingdom's conscousness and intelligence also raise up. The first clear cut indication of this I saw that left me without doubt was in hearing sometime during the 70's a report in the daily media that Bears in a region in the Eastern United States had learned how to understand the shooting season, the locality on the join of three states. When shooting season on Bears opened in one state, for a couple of days before, Bears were hurrying across a bridge to another state night and day, until the second state's hunting season opened, and the Bears hurried across another bridge into the third state, to wait it out until open season occurred there, then the Bears all returned to the original state. This was not just a few Bears. And the phenomena so unusual, so unexplainable by science, that it made the international press as a definative piece of news. P.S. there hasn't been a sign of any fly in the dining room for over half an hour. Oops I spoke too soon, one just went by at a 100 miles an hour past my eyeballs. They must be able to percieve thought. Actually I lied. The bigger one has been sitting by the screen of the monitor for the in-house creative BBS for over an hour, it is still there. It was LOUIE who just did the fly by, ahem. Actually, if you want to know what is REALLY happening, the flies are buzzing in my higher frequency, a fact of safety for them in that they sense perfectly the absence of malevolency but just love in the radiations my higher frequency is imparting into the enviroment. Thus, you have just had, a hint of what Triune beings can do in the meely teeming world of a third dimensional planet. ODYSSEY ----------------------------------------------------------- Oct. 1, 1995, 4:25 PM. Sunday afternoon. The odyssey to the illumination of the flies actually began several days ago, after an occurance that had stewed away in the background of thought for a couple of months due to an unmistakable anomaly, then re-enforced by the act of initially making friends with a fly riding the pendulum in the doorway to the kitchen, and finding it respond. What had happened earlier is that during the summer there were no where near the number of flies about at the height of summer, nor mosquitoes. Flies in particular though were not abundant, so few that the 2nd yellow fly swatter had hung unused on a hook under the kitchen sink until one day a number of flies in the living room decided to hit on me all at the same time, it seemed. Touch touch touch, pester pester pester, until finally I got annoyed enough to issue fair warning, and when the grace period in the warning was used up, swatted two flies. From that second on, not a single fly landed on me. Days went by and many flies streaked and landed around the room, but not one more had become a pester. Why? Then not too many days ago a dismaying thought occurred to me, causing a slight twinge of guilt. It was: what if the flies were trying to be friendly. If so, I had knocked off two of them for entirely the wrong reasons, due to preconcieved beliefs. So, that is what set in motion the motivation to find out more about flies and just what they were conscious of doing. If they in fact wanted to be friends, not pests, then, so did I. The result of that simple decision is what you are reading now, described above for the past few days. How much further this can go, who knows. The fact is, Louie has just flown in, swinging back and forth several times in close short haul in the air not an inch from my eyes, touched base on by shoulder, and is off again exploring the dining room. How many times have you had a fly deliberately buzz your eyeballs, causing a slight zig zig sensation to your perceptions. This was done deliberately by that fly, not necessary intending to cause a teeny bit of brain chatter, but the fact of saying HERE I AM in such a precise concrete way. THAT was an act of consciousness. Now, the fly is on my knee, sitting there. I do not regard this in any way a pester. It is Louie, I can tell now, by its smaller abdomin. Oho, Hortense has arrived, for a second she was sitting on the other side of my knee, both there on my bare knee as I typed thinking them nothing but simple good wishes and welcome. Yes, there is love and honest pleasure to share in the animal kingdom, even among flies. Now, let's try to extrapolate that back to all humans. Hmmm. It should be possible, and could be done. All that is needed is for those humans who know who they are, not to be pesters any longer, especially pesters who are lethal, for the wrong reasons, due to preconcieved beliefs. - Finis - As you now know after perhaps suspecting for awhile, there is a purpose to every one of these short stories, and moment by moment diary expressions. They are like parables, each makes a point that sets the reader up for an illumination, and then more story and diary details, then another point is made, and more illumination occurs. Even if the reader assumes everything written in these Updates is fiction, it is still unlike any fiction anyone has read, assuming they like the writing style. If instead the reader takes it to heart that the stories and descriptions are REAL, then it is a whole different substance. A reader can not go through these Updates, particularly the last two, without being changed forever in consciousness. The reason is that most of the points made are exceedingly not verbal and have main communication in the form of analogy and metaphor, further, if the points were made just as statements of fact or declaration, who would care?, who would understand. Well, mostly, no one. For good reason. Reality cannot be taught through books, but only by experience, and inner direct illuminations and awarenesses in expanding perceptions. The stories can point the way to share similar insights and awarenesses of self in each reader. But, as said, the writing itself cannot open the door to Reality like a roadmap that does not change once printed on paper. Hence, all of this work, writing, is no easy task, particularly when you concider language and the limitations of English to describe things that are otherwise understood in a 10th of a second, in self evident truths, by each individual, in their own spiritually correct inner higher frequency ways. That, above, points to the main fault of the Bible, the old testimate records which seem to be historical fact, perhaps not. These bible stories were of events that effected kingdoms and nations and most of its study has been concentrated on the establishment of facts to prove the insights, not the best way to go in this day and age in that no two nations can agree on anything for the most part, and there are hardly any individuals who can agree on all things without conflicts. But mostly, the Biblical accounts are now ancient. The stories in the above writings called the Updates effect only each individual who happens to read them, and do not try to include nations as metaphorical facts, in the purposes of the individual stories. The reason behind the scenes is that this writing brings Higher Cause right home to each individual, where Reality is found within, nearer than your hands and feet. It's a starting point. You cannot be a part of a vast inter Galactic Cosmic Family and progressively evolving system and outwork if you do not know how to be a part of your self, in Divine Order, which is pure and without illusion or deciet. Forget the scare shrieks of alien abductions and alien takeovers. A few tin cans and rust buckets creeking their way here from the aftermath of the Luciferian Rebellion, do not REALITY make. They are like you, marooned and stranded at a partially sealed planet hoping for the statics and corruptions and the misconstrued thoughts of the rebellion to rub off, so these pests too can come back to their senses. Sound and sensation that is pure, is a holy grail of everyone everywhere. Did you know that every thought you have, and emotion, is a sensation. Yes it is a pure and simple fact. Lousy sensations are NOT a part of First Cause. It is as simple as that. Strong sensations ARE, when you become inner dimensionally strong enough to handle commands and effects strong enough to rock your whole body like an earthquake, except from within. Elements of change and clearing. When you become strong enough to endure THAT kind of intensity, you also become strong enough to help change the planetary frequency to where it should be in preparations for things to come involving the new age, which in fact, involves not just lakes and continents, but Galaxies. I can't say certain things, because Higher Cause is monitoring every word. So everything written has to be willfully interpreted into English enough not to lead people astray or the writing become messianic, leading to followers. No way. I can't say anything more to make things plainer at the moment, without ranting. Lets go in peace. NOT GUILTY ------------------------------------------------------------- Oct. 3, 1995, 1:15 PM. Tuesday afternoon. I have just sat and watched the fury er jury's reactions, er, results in the O.J.Simpson trial, and when hearing not quilty across the board was moved to slight tears, so intense the relief. Not huge wracking sobs, just relief from the building stress coming out in a slight flush of bad amino acids in the brain flushing out through the tear ducks, and I did not mind at all, tears dripped down my cheeks and I was VERY relieved. It started when the white bronco was being pursued along Los Angeles freeways, gunboat helicopters swooping in and around in the air, urgent shouts of 'get in for a clear shot' and other commands seeming to be the intent, with O.J. in the backseat and a desparate friend driving, his life also completely on the line in an instant doing this heroic act to help, a voice almost undescribable in despair speaking through the car phone, describing that O.J. was in the back, a gun to his head, O.J. annunciating only a single clear thought, that if he could make it back to his estate he might be safe. The unmistakable urgent intuitive thought suddenly struck me with unquestioned import, the question was: What if O.J was INNOCENT. From that moment on I saw innocent only, and for me it was very easy to see conciet and manipulation take place in the court room as one sample of blood after another was paraded into view, analyzed to the nth degree by experts, the presence of O.J. blood in the DNA's without doubt, O.J's blood seeming to spread creeping across about 1/3 of America before the last samples were called in as evidence, the entire question being how did the O.J blood get there? Every step of the way it was easy to see malpractice as to how the blood samples got there, without preconcieved beliefs. I noted the cracks in the holes about the integrety of the blood, rather than that it was his blood in evidence, which so many American's seem to be taking for granted without question, due to their intense brain-locked pre-concieved beliefs which have nothing to do whatever with Reality. I had not the slightest doubt that the justice system was capable of doing what it wanted to, to, or for, anyone it wanted, there in the states, the final question being could a jury also take the bait and do what the negatives most wanted. Luckily, it seems not, right then. Let's hope it stays that way, and that further change toward positive points of view prevail, so that someday, soon, the mass consciousness really begings to understand that Reality exists above and beyond all other perceptions, including beyond all and any pre-concieved beliefs. NOT GUILTY ------------------------------------------------------------- Oct. 3, 1995, 1:15 PM. Tuesday afternoon. I have just sat and watched the fury er jury's reactions, er, results in the O.J.Simpson trial, and when hearing not quilty across the board was moved to slight tears, so intense the relief. Not huge wracking sobs, just relief from the building stress coming out in a slight flush of bad amino acids in the brain flushing out through the tear ducks, and I did not mind at all, tears trickled down my cheeks and I was VERY relieved. It started when the white bronco was being pursued along Los Angeles freeways, gunboat helicopters swooping in and around in the air, urgent shouts of 'get in for a clear shot' and other commands seeming to be the intent, with O.J. in the backseat and a desparate friend driving, his life also completely on the line in an instant doing this heroic act to help, a voice almost undescribable in despair speaking through the car phone, describing that O.J. was in the back, a gun to his head, O.J. annunciating only a single clear thought, that if he could make it back to his estate he might be safe. The unmistakable urgent intuitive thought suddenly struck me with unquestioned import, the question was: What if O.J was INNOCENT. From that moment on I saw innocent only, and for me it was very easy to see conciet and manipulation take place in the court room as one sample of blood after another was paraded into view, analyzed to the nth degree by experts, the presence of O.J. blood in the DNA's without doubt, O.J's blood seeming to spread creeping across about 1/3 of America before the last samples were called in as evidence, the entire question being how did the O.J blood get there? Every step of the way it was easy to see malpractice as to how the blood samples got there, without preconcieved beliefs. I noted the cracks in the holes about the integrety of the blood, rather than that it was his blood in evidence, which so many American's seem to be taking for granted without question, due to their intense brain-locked pre-concieved beliefs which have nothing to do whatever with Reality. There was no blood to begin with, two tiny dark dots in the stairwell driver side of the white bronco, scrapped into a baggy by detective Furman holding up the baggy, announcing this was the evidence that was going to send Simpson to the electric chair, the two scraps later turning out to be two drops of dried coffee but by that time blood had appeared in the passenger side then on the dash and finally it covered the front of the white bronco the blood growing like a sin in quantities as the trial progressed. And everyone seemed to lap it up, see he's guilty look at all that BLOOD! I had not the slightest doubt that the justice system was capable of doing what it wanted to, to, or for, anyone it wanted, there in the states, the final question being could a jury also take the bait and do what the negatives most wanted. Luckily, it seems not, anymore. Let's hope it stays that way, and that further change toward positive points of view prevail, so that someday, soon, the mass consciousness really begings to understand that REALITY exists above and beyond all other perceptions, including beyond all and any pre-concieved beliefs. No wonder I felt tears of relief, I was so happy that righteous justice had won a big round. (insert) Then the sucker punch. The dad of the lost son, described in the court room again and again with dad pushing air through closed tight taurus center as the finest son a dad could have in the world today - the son elsewhere described as a bottom feeding addict of homosexual persuation who delt dope for a living. After the jury acquittal, dad and henchment immediately got to work pressing a 'wrongful dismissal suit', the fact such a smack immediately getting accorded in the american justice system, dad won, ever cent OJ now had be handed over to dad by a judge's court order, which apparently could not be appealed, even OJ's heiseman trophy for being the best yards runner in the history of US professional sport, was seized and turned over to dad, who publically boasted of it being melted to slag thus ending the existence of a black man US sports hero, dad and the weird negative overplus seeming setting the stage for a later complete take over of a US presidential election by courtroom means circ year 2000 which completely circumvented the voting procedure while using those voting procedures to make the run end into a takeover. (end insert) CLOSE TRACKING INDEED ---------------------------------------- One of the most close tracked occurrences of unique events so un-coincidental as to be seriously concidered supernatural, occurred in the summer of 1959. It had happened that I had gone back to high school that year to finish grade twelve ready for university entrance, having dropped out of high school two years earlier a few weeks before final exams to pursue a yearn and interest in modern drumming as a would be musician. (Liked some of the music but didn't like the life style so abandoned that (my one and only career) after four years). But, back to the summer of 1959. I had worked part time during that year as a driver and assistent for a small dry cleaner in Kerrisdale district where I was living at home, 'interesting' things about the dry cleaner being a Hungarian husband and wife who ran the place, who mentioned that their only son, a piano player, had become a famous musician named Freddy Martin, of the Freddy Martin Trio, and it was true, Freddy Martin's recording of 'The Flight Of The Bumble Bee' still gets played on the air. Back to the summer of '59, I had frittered away parts of that school year due to lack of interest so needed a couple of summer suplimentals to get passed to the level of university entrance. I could not get it on, not a book was opened, and after a few weeks into the summer decided to make some quick cash and hitchhiked into the interior of BC behind Kamloops to the area called Merrit where a big forest fire had broken out. I spent three weeks up on the lines with a spade, and carrying a back pack of water with a handpump in crews putting out spot fires after the big blazes had passed through. But the advent of summer supplimental exams was creeping up to where I had no choice but depart. The forestry handed me a check of astonishing amount, I got paid for 24 hours a day due to reasons of where we had to go each day to fight the fire, etc., so with the large-dollar check in pocket but not so much as a dime in cash, hitchhiked out from Merrit to the main Fraser Canyon highway heading south, and got stranded. All the rest of the day, and into sunset, I stood at the side of the road in increasing despair. Just as the last run of sunlight was fading a grey van passing at high speed suddenly hit the breaks with a high pitched squeel and smoking tires, skidding to a halt sideways, the van backing up to me and in I hopped, the driver explaining that he NEVER, repeat NEVER picked up hitchhikers but when he hurtled by and saw me standing there, reponded with a oops and came to a stop. Yes, he was in fact heading to Vancouver hallelulia my big problems were solved. In the middle of the night we reached the outskirts of town and suddenly realized it was time to determine just where we were going, me in particular, what part of town was I going to so he could get to the most favorable spot to drop me off. I said I was going to the interesection of 43rd and McDonald in Kerrisdale. There was a long silence. Then he said in a mystified voice, but, I'm going to the intersection of 45th and McDonald. Sure enough, I was heading for one house off the intersection, he was heading for the corner house facing 45th, on the intersection. So here were the two of us, deep in thought, driving through Vancouver in the middle of the night, he having driven non-stop from Prince George, except for the moment it took to pick me up stranded all day on the side of the road up there on the highway at Spencer's Bridge, a 3 week beard growth, and face and clothes grimy and black from soot and no baths fighting the fire. It was a most unusual co-incidence. Some cross talk had occurred upstairs in certain telephone lines in order for him to have hit the breaks spontaneously in a completely uncharacteristic way to pick up a hitch hiker who was heading into the big city to a home address only two blocks away from his own home address. Neato. It is nice when Reality can connect on the physical plane as precisely as that. No questions asked. Nor any problems. That was in 1959. People who want me to come to terms with the bible need a lot more help than I do, I can guarantee that. 2000 years since its last update. 2000 years at its newest the content it heralded is changing today at a pace measurable in days not weeks or eons. The legacy the bible holds is less than 100th of a percent of what it took to get us here at the present time. If I cannot recite from the pressures of mind power every passing king james author or code comprising learned bible terms, I guarantee that I do not miss it, yes. People who rely solely on the bible for higher power input that can be touch and tasted, (some have tried eating the bible to see if eating increases their contact with lord power) are ignoring their own potent potential inputs from the inside upstairs in higher frequencies in which personal favors personal praises are not freely given in slow motion word forms. The bible is an assist and aid it does in moments that are good but no good when others are cruel punished for not bowing and scraping at another's command using the bible for authority to make others cringe and bow in the bible whappers desparate seeking ways which cannot work correctly in the outer world physical surface planet. Yes, I guarantee I do not cringe when standing away from misuses of the bible. I do what I can to help them, even if silent, at a distance, in frequencies which sift and sort constantly night and day without end within in the higher consciousness, which we all have and which it is planned and hoped someday everyone will know how to work with it, within. -done- Greydie/ greydie@look.com