Plan for Healing – will it work?

I have a new intention to promote my healing – helped along, it seems, by all the experiences I’ve posted about in the last few days and the support I’ve experienced from you all.

I believe this plan is better thought-through than previous intentions – though I’m aware of one major weakness, for which I’ll welcome suggestions and thoughts.

First, I plan to make myself open to my inner wisdom in a mediation walk every day.  (I’ve never yet been consistent with intentions to sit still, so I’ll now go walking and get my exercise while I’m at it.)  How I’ll keep this intention, I’ll explain in the last part.

Second, I plan to keep a single journal – only one, not different ones and random sheets of paper, but one, to represent my unified mind, and to facilitate greater awareness and my alters coming together.

Third, I’ll do self-hypnotherapy or other inner exploration a couple/few times a week, sometimes with my partner’s assistance, and document it.

The fourth aspect – the part that will assure I don’t slack on the other three parts – is to end my isolation by posting my progress for an audience who will be expecting to hear from me.  I hope this will hold me to greater accountability than I’ve ever sustained before.  You’ll recognize – and I’ll recognize – if I’m not doing my work!

But the major flaw, I’m sure most of you will recognize, is the problem of reprogramming.  How do I assure that that doesn’t happen?  Especially when I post my progress.

A naive person would say that I’ll learn my command cues right away and thereafter be protected from them, but we know it’s not that easy.   There are multiple command cues, and each one comes with trauma that – it seems – must be remembered or experienced in some manner for the cue to be recognized.  To recognize all the cues at once would require experiencing all the trauma at once – which no psyche could do – why we remain split.

So, how did I convince myself that this plan would work?  How did I think I’d escape reprogramming?  Was it just denial and hope, with which I pulled myself out of my funk and got back to functioning – and now that I’m functioning again, I have the strength to realize that my plan is seriously flawed?

Maybe.  But let’s think about it.

I’m going to brainstorm all the ways in which I could be protected while I do this work.

1) Don’t leave the house until the work is done.  Don’t answer the door.  Don’t answer the phone.  Don’t go on-line.  But that doesn’t protect one from energetic transmissions, which I have felt, moved away from, felt them as if searching for me, moved again, and went to bed, where they found me again and then, needing to sleep, I just lay in bed and accepted that there was no escape.  So, this seems out (for me).

2) Depend on my spirit help, my cosmic family.  I am ashamed to say that I’ve been inconsistent with my trust in them – probably programmed to be inconsistent.  If I could make this a major part of my work, with reminders surrounding me, with my partner to remind me and pray with me, with a circle of friends supporting me – I think this is the best hope I have.

3) Be my own spiritual protection, a warrior for myself like I’ve never been before, with all the visual and friend reminders I need surrounding me, keeping me constant, not flagging half the time, to overcome whatever programming I have against that.  Well, just because I’ve failed in this and trusting in my Help in the past, doesn’t mean I’ll continue to fail.  If we keep trying, I believe that we can find the key, so I will keep this intention strong also.

4) Move into a protected space?  Someone recommended a Vipassana meditation retreat, which I looked into despite my initial suspicions.  I concluded I’m still suspicious or at least untrusting that the place would be safe.  There’s every possibility that another programmer could be inside, either as staff or another participant.  So, that doesn’t work for me.

5) That reminded of Colin Ross’ healing centers, specifically for MK subjects.  Has anyone heard of anyone going through one?  It would seem that they would know everything about this and be the perfect place – if one had the money.  But, shoot, they could be infiltrated by now as well.  Anyone heard anything?  It seems that, for there being three of their centers in the US, someone would be talking about them if they worked.

6) Any other suggestions?

For now, I’m left with 2 and 3 being my only protection – and I don’t mean “only” in a diminishing way.   Our spiritual help can work miracles, I believe, as can we, when we are fully in our power.

But for me to be fully in my power will take more willpower and intention than I’ve yet rallied for myself in all these years of desiring healing.

Of course, I’ve been mostly alone or not ready this last decade.  And now I have a wonderfully supportive partner and a more complete understanding of the seriousness of this situation, having tried and failed enough, I guess.

So, today’s the first day.  I just returned from my walking meditation.  The details of my prayers I’ll keep to myself, but will post the broader picture of the week at the end of the week.

You all have given me new courage that I’d lost in isolation.  Thank you.  Your gift is huge.  I do believe we could be helping save each others’ lives.

Let’s keep on.

Peace, love, and healing ~

Jean

In Denial about My Healing

I think I’ve been just a little naive about how far along I’ve been in my healing.

Just because life seemed okay, and I’d had a number of amazing experiences of alters recognizing each other, and I recognized a controller in the community, and recognized other people to avoid, I thought I was on the way, and doing pretty dang good.

That was the thinking of a fractured part of me, who makes her way fairly well in the day-to-day world.

And sure, she does okay (though she has a hard time recognizing people sometimes).  She does okay because she doesn’t have a very good memory, so with everything so spotty, things feel alright.

So I could go on the radio and talk about healing (as “a person in healing,” I said), but I didn’t have the understanding last week that I have today: that I have lots more healing to do.  What I shared on the radio and outlined in a blog, “Suggestions for Healing from Mind Control,” was a very good foundation, I’d say, to get one strong and supported for the real work ahead.

The realization of the harder work came about when I went through my “anomaly journal” to create a table with dates and categories to tabulate.

I noticed repeating patterns, counted them, and realized some significant trends in my life, which I detailed in my “Summary of 18 Months of MK events” blog  and my “MK Summary” video.

From those summaries, I further summarize:

1) The largest amount of mysterious stuff going on feels very negative.  (Or do I only write down the negative?)

2) Only a small amount of metaphysical stuff going on feels like it supports my soul.  (Or maybe I should make sure that I’m noting this good stuff.)

3) I still forget a lot, and I forget to pray, even though I know it’s a sabotaging alter telling me to wait or quit being so formal or something else dismissive.

4) When I look at it all together, I’m amazed that it makes such a clear pattern – which I failed to see.

What am I to make of this?  

Shame for having been in denial?  Let’s not waste the energy.

Denial has been an important part of my survival, as it is for many.

So maybe our path is to acknowledge just as much as we can, and no more – a little at a time, and more and more, enough to work on, and not too much to overwhelm.

So, here I am, pushing myself, teaching myself, healing myself, breaking into another realization that there is yet more I must do.

What do I want to do?

Recognize and break my command cues.

I don’t know that I’ve followed any commands in at least a year, maybe two – but every bruise on my body could have entailed a command that I just don’t remember.

I don’t know, but I suspect so.  Maybe they’re testing me all the time, and I just don’t notice.

I know I’ll feel more confident about my freedom when I consciously recognize a command cue and don’t obey.

Do we ever know?  How, if we don’t recall amnesic events?

Have others woken up to recognize their cues?

Is everyone more aware than I am?

Or are we all struggling on this level?

Or am I the kindergartener here?

Tired of This

I don’t know how I’ve made it through the last 18 months.

I think it has to do with my mind being fractured, so if I don’t have a summarizing list in front of me all at once, I only remember bits of this, and life seems doable.

My mind has a lot of compartments, I guess, so memories of one alter can hide from other alters, so each part of me only remembers a little, which makes it not so overwhelming.  (I do have a hard time, though, remembering people – not a good quality for business competence.)

But when all my parts see all the events together, we all remember, and it’s a lot of stuff.  I’m pretty overwhelmed right now by what I posted yesterday.

(And what irony that I just did a radio interview last week, about healing.  At least I was honest and called myself “in the process of healing.”  And what a process it is.)

So, even though I’m chronically forgetful, I work, stay happy, sing, do good things in my community, and enjoy a constellation of friends who either don’t know about this stuff or have heard it and dismissed it – I don’t know.  No one asks me about it.  Maybe no one reads it.  Maybe my blogs go nowhere, or into an Internet black hole, controlled by who-knows-who.  Or maybe everyone is as forgetful as me – ?  We forget what we want to forget.  Culture certainly encourages us to forget.

But now, having blown my mind with everything summarized from the 18-month journal, I’ve begun remembering quite a few things that didn’t get in the journal in the first place – probably because it was lost for awhile, or I was too busy or distracted to write everything down, certain I wouldn’t forget….  But I did.

Things I forgot to count:  the two scoop marks just a few days ago (!), April 9, 2012 (three posts earlier).  I also didn’t count a freak-out I had last week about a recollection of a law enforcement officer who once arrested me for civil disobedience and who used to be an FBI agent, in whose jail I remember being in a very weird state of mind.  (I’d always known and said that I’d gone into an “altered state,” but I never wondered about it till last week.)  I also didn’t count all the times I’ve discovered the top of my head is really painful, like today, as if someone drug me around by a handful of hair.

My partner asked me what group I think is behind all this.  I think it is probably a few different groups or individuals.  I just read about “piggybacking”: a hypnotic subject can be hypnotized and used by people other than their first controller, with subsequent controllers “piggybacking” their control on top of the original person’s or group’s.  And I also understand that MK’ers often work in collaboration, passing subjects back and forth between them for various purposes.

One group is very high-tech, weilding beams of electronic bliss which make me unconscious.

Another type is fairly low tech, requiring someone to break my door lock to get in, and using phone tap technology with bugs that sometimes let me hear it (purposefully, to upset me?), so I  once heard a recording, ordering a “re-recording.”

Another type, I assume, is my multi-dimensional help – unless they’re the high-tech ones.

So, at least two, if not three or more, individuals or groups seem to be involved.

I put all the dates on a blank calendar and didn’t see any correlation to Satanic ritual dates  (beyond a few that are likely simple coincidence), so assume they’re not involved (though many people with similar experiences do have these correlations).  Probably it’s CIA.  Maybe some payback from the FBI for my media releases during the Judi Bari trial.  Maybe some secret “Greek” society payback for the few things I’ve published.  Maybe Mormon payback for the things I write about them.  Maybe some payback from the developer who lost over a million dollars when I spearheaded a fight that stopped his project (rightly), who looked at me with eyes that said he would do something evil to me, and I shivered as he glared, and worried for my children.

Could be anyone, or everyone (in a sense), little factions, gangs of psychopathic rich people, employing the underworld, doing experiments with their scientist buddies, doing the powerful’s version of cruising on weekends for kicks, blackmailing those they want to control, granting sexual favors to friends, practicing their MK skills – things like that.

Or maybe they all fancy themselves as cutting edge scientists.

In any case, they feel to me like psychopathic gangs with a variety of interests, from harems of ancient days, and Caligula’s court, to what we’ve seen in Eyes Wide Shut, Manchurian Candidate, The Truman Show, and more – many variations throughout time, flying under the names of research, slavery, national security, etc.

What I need to do is go after my programming, to disable it. I’ve been trying to position and strengthen myself to have it happen – or come to me – naturally, organically, but I keep finding myself “too busy” to sit still and do the meditation or self-hypnotherapy.  I know I have alters that stop me or divert my attention.

I need, somehow, to make a commitment and keep it.

I am so tired of this.  I’m nearly 60.  There have been times when I thought they were leaving me alone, sorta putting me out to pasture in my old age, giving the old woman a break.

And of course there have been times when I thought I was healed because I became conscious of some significant program or part.  I’ve had break-through’s, have felt alters come together, begin to knit and recognize each other, and have generally felt more conscious.  But it seems there’s always more work to do.  Or else, they renew my programming as soon as I begin to undo it.

Sometimes I get a reprieve, like last summer when Greg and I got together – thank goodness, as he got to see me functioning at my best, my normal best (though I warned him about this).

Now, I’m starting to stagger again.  I accomplished next to nothing this week, except to work with my emotions around the new scoop marks, then review these 18 months of anomalies, and finally get around to studying them as I’ve been meaning to for a year.  I guess that’s productive in a way – hugely productive, but it won’t make my living.

But now, seeing all that has gone on in 18 months, this realization doesn’t seem like much accomplishment for the almost-ten years I’ve been dealing with it.  I really don’t know how long I can keep accepting this as my reality – if I don’t make serious progress soon.

Some people call it “being gang stalked.”  Being stalked at all is horrifying enough, but gang stalked!  And none can be explained to the police.  So there’s nothing I can do, except wonder when the next shit is going to happen.

I’ve made a plea for the nation to formally acknowledge that mind control is still being done, and to, in every way possible, protect the victims and support their healing.

But no one wants to hear about it.  No one in this community has ever broached the subject with me.  I understand.  I probably wouldn’t either, if it weren’t happening to me.

Sometimes I feel like a rat in a cage, poked, shocked, toyed with, and tortured, psychologically, physically, and emotionally.  And I’m only one of many.

But maybe that’s all it is:  We’re not subjects of evil beings, just experimental subjects of mad researchers, doing nothing different than what we do to other animals in research cages.  Not comforting, but less personal, less intentionally “evil” (in a sense).

The theory gives me hope that, one day, when we quit experimenting on animals, maybe we human subjects will be freed at the same time, from our invisible cages.

I am very ready to leave this dimension.  I won’t do anything to hasten it, but, believe me, if my cosmic family sees fit to take me from here anytime soon, celebrate for me.  Today, I’m sick and tired and exhausted from this.

But if the past is any indicator of the future, then I’ll be out there, back in the world, acting like we have hope for our future, acting like we can change things, offering to design someone’s passive solar addition, demonstrating solar ovens, building a solar water heater, gardening, walking, singing, acting like we have a chance.  I pray this is so.  And I’m doing my very best to make it so.  For all of us.

You can see me talk about this on my YouTube channel:  https://www.youtube.com/user/ParadigmSalonVideo?feature=mhee  Look below the feature at top for “MK Summary” and “MK Summary pt 2.”

Summary of 18 Months as an MK Subject

I just created a log of all my anomalous experiences of the last 18 months and discovered the following:
1) I’ve had 98 experiences, some of them with as many as 5 clustered in a larger event, but most of them single. Some of them have had long-lasting effects, though counted only once.
2) 12 experiences left visual, photographable marks on my body.
3) 21 left pain or other sensation.
4) 11 involved physical changes in my home (not including four computer anomalies).
5) 13 involved other people, ten of which felt definitely negative.
6) 13 involved extreme exhaustion (and many more exhausted days, I believe, were not noted because of my exhaustion).
7) 3 times I experienced unusual positive energy.
8) 15 had no explanation I could think of that was not negative.
9) 80 I could imagine a positive or neutral explanation for, even if it involved a dislocated vertebrae or other major pain or grief (trying to not judge mysteries “negative”).
10) 3 felt clearly positive.
11) Monthly, the number of events ranged from 0 to 17.
12) My worst short stretch of time involved 13 experiences in nine days.

The “highlights”  (Described on YouTube)
dsc013571) I woke up Tazer-burned, exhausted, and sick with anxiety, November 28, 2010.  (See “Photo History.”)
2) Old high school classmate called, Jan 16, 2011; told me he had written a story about me as Mormon mind-controlled assassin; remembered me in sexual event, whereas I don’t remember even dating him.
3) 2 scoop marks in finger; cut high inside/beside my clitoris; portable door lock broken, all Feb 8, 2011.   (See “Photo History.”)
4) 2 evil-feeling people come into my life; one had bad sexual vibes toward a child, March 5-7, 2011.
5) 4 “mind fk” communications in 8 days: 1 public accusation, 1 spiritually accusatory email threatening my life (took to police), and 2 anonymous: one email warning me that my partner is CIA, and one postal letter telling me how to spiritually protect myself, but warning me that it might not be possible, that my soul might be lost, all between Sept 7-14, 2011.
6) Many physical injuries, including a displaced C2 vertebrae, Oct 22, 2011, which continues to be a problem in April 2012.
7) Amazing 1 1/4″ perfectly spherical, beautiful blob of strange non-mucous falls from my sinus into my mouth, Jan 25, 2012, and is followed by a lung infection for over two months.
8) Something too personal to share, but which seems the worst of all.
9) Overall: lots of physical pain and exhaustion, 18 months of ringing ears, and an apparent neck injury.
10) And a few dozen other “lesser” events, but weird….

You can see me talk about this on my YouTube channel:  https://www.youtube.com/user/ParadigmSalonVideo?feature=mhee  (Look below the feature at top for “MK Summary” and “MK Summary pt 2.”)

Sometimes I wonder how I keep going.

As you can imagine, I’m stressing.  I hope you’re better.  I’ll be in prayer.
Love,
Jean

Some of this is detailed in my “Photo History” page, tabbed at the top.

Suggestions for Healing from Mind Control

Recently, I was interviewed by Tami Urbanek (http://webtalkradio.net/shows/journey-for-truth/) about healing from mind control.  (Two interviews should be there, the second specifically about healing, the other about mind control.)

For those without an hour to spend listening, I’d like to outline my suggestions here – after I disclaim any idea that I am fully healed.

I am still very much in healing, though the “events” that might cause problems with normal social functioning and earning a living are very few; sometimes I do experience them, but they’re rare.

Why I think I have anything to offer is this:  Almost everyone in our culture is mind controlled to some degree, but most of it is subtle and seductive and people don’t want to see it; so it requires someone with a more extreme experience to see it clearly, and someone not too totally messed up to be able to talk about it, and someone with “nothing left to lose” to have the guts to talk about it.  Here I am.

What I’ll share here is what I’ve done to get as far as I have – bits and pieces of good advice given me, mixed with things I discovered intuitively and now know was essential to my healing.

1. Use paid counselors (psychiatrists and other therapists) wisely.  They have a lot to offer for help with depression, grief, strengthening “boundaries,” neuroses, relationship issues, assertiveness, etc., but they will be worthless or worse if you are in denial about something outside our culturally- accepted “reality,” such as having been a subject of mind controllers or having experienced “alien” beings, in which case, they’ll encourage your denial.

If you choose to use them, please ask about whether they use a “client-centered approach” with you, and then read about it yourself, so you understand your role, your power in that approach, and then use that role to begin directing your own healing with their help.  If they say they’re doing that, but they’re not, leave.

Remember that your healing work is huge, and an hour or two or three a week will not be enough.  And it will be costly, and insurance is not likely to cover it.  So use them when needed, but plan to do most of your work on your own.

You may also be encouraged to take pharmaceuticals if they try to pass you off to a psychiatrist.  Avoid that if you can!  Psychiatrists have bought into a system that was at the very heart of mind control in the first place.  One of the worst perpetrators, Ewen Cameron, was the President of both the American Psychiatric Institute and the World Psychiatric Institute, and neither of those organizations have disclaimed him.

Having said that, I’ll admit that I once used Zoloft for a short time when depression had me unable to get out of bed and my partner begged me to consider it.  I used a fraction of what was prescribed and discovered that suddenly I could get out of bed again and be hopeful about life and my healing.  One day, I realized the pills were making me “too happy,” so I cut them in half and then took the half dose only every other day, and kept reducing my dose until I was off them and functioning again.  That was back in the mid-90s, and I’ve been prescription-free ever since.

I also saw a psychiatrist last year, mostly to make an official record of my wounds (I was pissed off at the government, and wanted to tell them so).  At the time, I had wanted to apply for disability, as I was having a very hard time functioning at my work.  He called me paranoid and delusional and wanted to put me on pharmaceuticals, which I refused.  However, the mind controllers seemed to let up on me, so maybe it was a good decision.  But it may have also been dangerous, and I don’t recommend it, unless you get a strong intuitive hit to do so.  But avoid their drugs.

I had a friend kill herself a couple years ago when she was trying to remember her childhood abuse and her psychiatrist was over-medicating her.  Her grief had been compounded by the fact that the drugs were making it difficult for her to remember how to operate her computer or even wake up with three alarms going off full blast.  Whether she intended to drive off the highway or just fell asleep at the wheel from her medications, we’ll never know.

Avoid numbing drugs, please.

Another warning about the shrinks:  Even though some I must credit with keeping me alive and sane, others may be mind controllers themselves.  I believe that in the past I have submitted to them and paid them hundreds of dollars.  (Got away before it turned into thousands.)

If you ever distrust them, don’t tell them everything.  If you’re not sure you trust them, pay attention to your body; it knows.

Use the same precautions with support groups and with friends.  This is the beginning of developing some natural human capacity that was nearly destroyed (to a great extent but not totally) by your mind control.  Deciding who to trust is one of your first steps to healing.

2. Take care of your physical body and space.

Eat the healthiest food you can, then learn more about nutrition and continue to improve it as long as you’re alive.  Learn about organic food, raw foods, seaweeds, allergies to wheat, etc., and keep learning more.  Nutritional Healing is an excellent resource (but I take the supplements advice with a grain of salt – they’re expensive; I spend my money on organic food).

Protect your sleep.

Protect yourself from anyone dangerous (physically or emotionally) to you, including family.  Move, if necessary, aiming for peace.

Protect yourself from unnecessary noise.  Enjoy quiet whenever you can.  Radio “news” is so unnecessary.  I used to produce it, and I no longer believe it is necessary for civic functioning; it may be detrimental.  Shut it off, unless you really want to escape your mind; but remember that whatever is in our minds is what we’re needing to work on.

Protect yourself from unnecessary light.  Do you know that unnatural light and too much constant light messes with our minds and bodies?  When I was a hermit, one of the most amazing things I discovered was regaining my circadian rhythms with the slow quieting of light in late day and slow regaining of light each morning.  Now, I’m back in a town, but I use lights very sparingly, and it is soothing.  When I go to others’ homes, constantly lit, it feels weird.

Ditto all the electronic gadgets and radiation in our environment.  I’ve added switches to everything electronic in my home, so everything can be turned off.  It not only saves money, but quiets the energetic environment.

If you feel like being a hermit, as I was, consider it seriously.  I think it was the smartest thing I did for myself.  I went for years without listening to music or anything else on the radio, and was able to indulge in paying attention to myself, my spiritual connections, my dreams, etc.

I thought I would stay a hermit forever, but I returned to society when I was ready.  Leaving was perfect.  Returning was perfect.

Get exercise, get into nature, do yoga (it helps heal the rift in our body-knowing).

Clear your physical space.  If you need, “pretend” you’re aiming to have a “zen” environment – actually, that is a great goal, but just pretend, if you need a push to get started.  Clutter can be an outward manifestation of the disorganization of our minds.

Recruit a friend if you need help.  Read books about it.  Check out Oprah’s videos on it, and get going.  I needed help.  Another friend of mine took years to get started, but she’s 80 percent through sorting all her possessions.  You can do it.

Changing your physical space will remind you you’re on a healing, clarifying journey.  One friend has a beautiful piece of art on her wall that says, “Breathe.”  Use whatever you need to make your home a nurturing space.

Remember to breathe.  I once took a class in breathing!  It un-stuck some memories and freed my body to more properly breathe and provide me oxygen!  Essential.

3. Take care of your emotions.

Accept that your healing will take time.  Our wounding is complicated; MK is like a machine and is probably best removed one piece at a time, though sometimes big sections may be disassembled at once.  Be patient.  We think we want to magically, immediately become “normal” or free, but it might be too much of a shock, and then we’d only be rescued, but not learn anything.

On the other hand, be ready for big changes to happen spontaneously!  Sometimes they do, and then we sit back, in awe, in gratitude, so amazed at the perfection of life, which can change our grief into wisdom and make us so glad we’re here.

Every healing will be different, your own unique path to your own unique wisdom.  Yours will contain its own metaphors, and lead you toward your own soul’s goals, and no one can give you a map.  It’s your own unique process of discovery, which will make you the wise one you’re on the way to becoming.

To get there, be ready to have your worldview shattered.  John Mack calls it “ontological shock” – shock in having everything we thought was real suddenly shift.  It’s okay.  It’s the path of everyone who gains wisdom, to realize that this crazy world is not what we think it is.

Remember that the trip gets better and easier.  There are ups and downs, certainly, but for the most part, the path is upward if you focus there.  Keep your focus on what’s positive.

Know that you are very strong to have gotten as far as you have – even if you’ve considered “opting out.”  So have I.  I have a friend who once said that he didn’t believe that anyone was truly committed to being alive if they hadn’t considered the alternative.

I’ll also admit that many times I have not been fully committed to living, but only staying here because I didn’t want to hurt my children.  But thank goodness, they kept me here!  Eventually, after slogging through deep depression, I remembered the joy, found a purpose, and then discovered it was a profoundly important journey I was on, to discover who I was beneath all the programming and to develop my soul’s wisdom and strength.

Focus on those possibilities.  See yourself as a warrior, destined to break through each block placed before you, and make the development of the necessary warrior skills for each battle your main goal in life, before all else.

Honor that vision.  The world needs more warriors now.  And those of us who’ve seen and experienced the darkness up close and personal, we understand the other side better than anyone.  Even if we don’t know what to do about it now, we are still important resources of information on this planet.  Honor your place.

“Timely retreat is an important skill of the warrior” – or something like that – from The Book of Runes, by Ralph Blum.  Sometimes we’ll be brave; sometimes we’ll take care of ourselves and back off.  Use your intuition, and honor that impulse as well.  It’s a warrior’s skill.

Know you’re not alone.  There are many in this struggle.  At least 20,000 children are estimated to have been used as we were.  One day we’ll be written of in history, like the Tuskeegee victims and radiation-injected children and many, many other victims of our sometimes insane world.

The point?  I’m not sure beyond what I’ve said already.  But just don’t fool yourself that you’re alone.  You’re not.

Consider that your journey is like that of any Hero, questing after something for which the Hero is willing to risk his or her life.  In some cases, it’s literally true, and it has felt that way often enough to me.

Our quest may be essential for our collective destiny and evolution.  Honor it, even when it’s painful.

Figuring things out, even “only” inside our own heads, may be the most important thing we ever do in this life, more important that just about anything, other than caring for our children – or maybe sometimes more important than even that.  I’ve certainly put it ahead of my “retirement,” for instance.

Practice compassion always.  Many “crazy people” may be multiples, not doing as well as we are.

Practicing compassion also extends to yourself.

Select your friends carefully.

Select carefully the physical things you choose to put in your environment.  Recognize what colors please you, what sorts of things, and put away or give away everything else.  Get rid of junk; everything has energy and affects us.  I once burned 20 years worth of journals!  They carried too much bad energy.

Create time to sit quietly every day.

4. Develop your spiritual life with prayer or meditation.

I do believe we have tremendous help in the other dimensions.  They may be angels or gods, but I don’t use those words for them; in fact, I try to avoid using words for them at all, except their names have power.  I feel they are my family, who have cared for me since I was born here.  Sometimes I call them “spirit help,” but lately I’ve begun to call them “my cosmic family” or “cosmic tribe.”

Strengthen whatever connections you have by, at least, “checking in” daily.  Some of us, because of ritual abuse, have serious problems with prayer or petitions or anything ritualistic.  I’ve struggled with it a lot.  But when I check in with my help (cosmic family), I make more consistent progress, have greater peace and confidence that I’m on the right track.

I made a self-hypnosis recording to help me sit still – only 12 minutes long – which directs the listener in a manner that supports self-direction.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SvMan6q2L60&list=UUSiwW3DHxWECeTlQoW0PY3Q&index=5&feature=plcp  Others might find it a useful tool.

(I meant to post in the notes below it the entire text of the session, but realize I haven’t yet.  I intend to do that soon.  If I don’t, please remind me.)

Our resistance to ritual is understandable, and I still avoid ritual situations.  Go beyond ritual; communicate from your heart and express your feelings in whatever manner feels true to you.  Sometimes they will be gestures or actions that seem ritualistic, and that’s okay if it comes from your heart.  The point is honest communication.

Beware spiritual imposters.  The spiritual realms are filled with beings, intelligent, ascended, un-evolved, tricksters, and more.  “Discerning the spirits” is an important spiritual exercise – sometimes I think the very most important.

Then learn to protect yourself.  I find that focusing on my own good heart and my positive spiritual contacts is far more successful than putting up shields or protection against the others.

Ask specific questions, and learn to listen.  Ask more questions, if necessary, then act on the answers you’ve been given.

You may want to record the answers to your petitions, to hold yourself accountable and later check the advice in hindsight.

Be open to spontaneous healing and other amazing events.  Make time for them.

Read about spiritual practice, if you feel drawn to it, but let your journey be self-directed.

Use meditation to move your focus away from all the craziness of our world and toward your self-identity:  your values, the goodness in yourself and others, your energy (calming), and your emotions (balanced), and your help.  Know that this is real.

Meditation has been the primary consciousness tool used throughout all cultures known through history; it will support your prayers and your healing.

5. Write to learn and focus.

Keep a journal, at least a brief one, so you can remember what you’ve learned.  It will amaze you as the years go by and give you a sense of direction, responsibility, and accomplishment.

Writing will also assist your own psychotherapy, by helping you recognize what are your issues.

If you need help knowing how to begin, there are books about keeping journals and probably articles online.

I’ve also used audio- and video-recording lately, which may be easier for some.

6. Try self-hypnosis.

I became a certified Transpersonal Hypnotherapist, and though I have not worked with clients for years, I respect the possibilities, but think it is far more important that people learn to do this for themselves.

Carla Emery’s Secret, Don’t Tell: The Encyclopedia of Hypnotism has an excellent section on using self-hypnosis to understand and undo the effects of mind control.

(It also has an excellent summary of CIA mind control and other examples of unethical hypnosis used in Europe and the United States in the last hundred-plus years.  It is an excellent compendium.  If you want to buy it, please buy it from Carla’s widow at http://www.hypnotism.org.  Not Amazon, please.  Addall.com is a great alternative.  Avoid Amazon.)

Keep in mind the primary goal of breaking the amnesic block, disabling the hypnotic key/control, and disabling all programming.

Remember:  Go for the feelings; they are the clue to everything (not the ideas that pop up in the mind, which can be programmed).

Remember:  You don’t have to be afraid of remembering too much; you can control that.  You can ask to remember at whatever pace your inner wise one knows will allow you to heal most swiftly and comfortably.

Techniques can include working alone (with your inner wise one) or with a trusted friend.  Begin with a goal to understand an event, a feeling, or a symbol.  Use your rational mind to debate both sides, but ultimately go for the feeling meaning.

If images are frightening, don’t confront or avoid; use visualization to change it, even if only little by little over time.

Use self-hypnosis to envision yourself in a healed state.

7. Educate yourself with books and videos.

I used to read a great deal about this, then became saturated and quit.  My list may not be the most current, but these are titles I’ve appreciated a great deal and recommend, followed by videos:

DC Hammond, “The Greenbaum Speech” (not real title, but what everyone calls it), online here:  http://www.empty-memories.nl/science/greenbaum.pdf

Colin Ross, CIA Mind Control Doctors and Military Mind Control

Carla Emery, Secret, Don’t Tell

John Mack, Abductions and Passport to the Cosmos – for those with alien experiences  (John Mack has the outlook that things blowing our minds is a necessary experience for opening consciousness; alien cruelty may be accidental, not intentional.)

Ann Diamond, A Certain Girl

Svali, online, both print and video

Peter Levine, Waking the Tiger, Healing Trauma

Alison Miller, Healing the Unimaginable: Treating Ritual Abuse and Mind Control

Check your medical library for literature on multiple personality, now called DID, Dissociative Identity Disorder.
There’s also a lot of literature for the lay person on MPD with a focus on healing, including many biographies, some written by compassionate MD’s.  Very interesting.
Videos:
The Sleep Room on DVD
The Franklin Scandal – search online for the title and the word video.  It’s a bootleg copy of an almost-final cut of a History Channel video that was squashed before airing.  It is sometimes removed, then replaced elsewhere.
The Manchurian Candidate – both the Frank Sinatra and Denzel Washington versions depict mind control done to adults.
Men Who Stare at Goats – this somewhat-comedy contains elements of truth which explain a few motivations.
Also search online for government mind control, and watch my collection on You Tube/ParadigmSalonVideo:  http://www.youtube.com/user/ParadigmSalonVideo?feature=watch
Final warning:  Too much reading and video-watching may not be healthy.  It’s scary stuff and better not to focus on it too much.  Read/watch just enough to understand.  You can always return later.  Too much of anything can be toxic.
My last words:  Recovering from mind control is a very serious challenge for survival of body and soul.
In more inspiring terms, I see it as a challenge to deeply consider the state of one’s consciousness, because that’s what’s required, and that’s what might be the gift in all this horror.
Almost everyone has been given this challenge, though most got it easier than us.  But we have received more information and have more potential.

Now we just have to do the work, our own unique work to reclaim our minds.

It’s the holiest grail….

And every day I’m grateful.

The struggle to regain consciousness and integration is difficult, but it can be done, and the reward is greater than you can know:  to gain the prize, we must first develop subtle skills, intuition and strength, and that in itself is fantastic:  we deepen our souls like others can’t even imagine.  So keep the faith….

#

New Scoop Marks

April 9, 2012, I discovered two new scoop marks, slightly smaller than the scoops in my finger last year (See “Photo History” page), plus a scrape above one, which I photographed as soon as I was conscious of them, in the evening.

Curiously, as soon as I discovered it in the evening, I recalled having scratched it in the morning as I was walking toward the open front door of my house and thinking, “Oh…that...” as if recalling some event.  But I have not been able to recall what might have made the marks or what I was thinking when I said “Oh that.”

It feels like one of those mysterious times when I’ve been made amnesic, but have bits of memory bleed through.

You can see that the round scabs are slightly misshapen, with the cut above one, but with no other gouge effects or rips or tears of the skin, that might indicate they came about by some sort of minor accident.

And they are nearly identical in size and even their slightly imperfect shapes are very similar, as though made by the same tool.  While there is a slight redness around the one on the left, there is no swelling or other sign of infection or histamine reaction which might indicate a bug bite, though these do itch slightly now and then.

I’d love to remember how they were made, or even come up with a logical explanation other than this mystery.  (I’ve been making excuses for weird bruises and marks on my body all my life.)

We could theorize, for instance, that since I have dissociative events that I might have done it in any number of ways and I just can’t remember – a decent theory, except that I don’t have dissociative events, except when I’m intentionally triggered to have them.  My life is not that chaotic.

Whoever does this to me (a professional mind controller, I presume) is apparently trying to keep it “quiet” and manageable for me, and they (courteously?) plan their work for times when I’m “free”; I do not have dissociative events just any time.  And most of the time, the amnesic events are at night when I usually don’t notice the discrepancy between the time slept and any sleep deprivation – though I often do notice, especially when I also wake with body marks like these.

So, I don’t believe it was a random mark left during a natural dissociative event – though it’s a reasonable theory and one I considered, but dismissed.

I definitely believe it’s a waste of my energy to get emotional over these mysteries, because they’re only mysteries right now, not threatening in any way that I understand.  Of course, I’d like to understand, but until I do, I’m just getting on with my life – but documenting.

I talk about the emotional part of this in my video about it, “New Scoop Marks to Document,” beneath the feature video:  http://www.youtube.com/user/ParadigmSalonVideo?feature=watch

Old Bits from Whitley Strieber and Jacques Vallee

Recently reading a few “old” books has brought interesting new tidbits into my life – which I thought I’d share here.

The first is from a blog by Whitley Strieber, which I printed and put in a folder back in 2006, linking alien contact with mind control research:

“I think that my experience of the Capture House goes back to childhood, and that it is the foundation of all of my life at the edge of reality, and that I am presently in the process of rediscovering it, and perhaps learning how to link my lives in different realities so that I can have a single, integrated set of memories that includes everything that I have done and known in the years of my life.”  [my italics – I feel I’m still struggling to link my lives.]

A couple of pages later, he goes on:

“Recently, the Central Intelligence Agency released another 18,000 declassified documents about its mind control experiments, which included an attempt to induce multiple personalities in two 19-year old girls.

“Before the 1973 Congressional Investigation that led to the disclosure of the CIA’s notorious MK-ULTRA mind control project, DCIA Richard Helms destroyed thousands of documents.  My belief is that what he destroyed was documentary evidence of such experiments being performed on much younger children.”  [He’s not the only one to think this.]

I’ve also re-discovered Jacques Vallee, the French scientist-philosopher who was one of the earliest scientists to speak out extensively about alien races on Earth and “UFO’s.”   He also seemed to have a natural understanding of multidimensional realities.  In Forbidden Science:  Journals 1957-1969, he wrote:

“Our scientists, romantics of the Sputnik era, may speak eloquently about the future, but they fail to see the mysteries buried in the present; infinity brushing against us in the anonymity of crowds, galactic trapdoors at the street corner….”

Galactic trapdoors at the street corner?!  There’s a man who might understand my life!

When he was young and just married, he wrote about his relationship with his wife:

“It is as if we were marching towards another world, and as if we knew that other individuals throughout the Earth are going in the same direction to meet us there.  Perhaps we are going towards Paul Eluard’s ‘other universe’ which, as he says so eloquently, ‘lies within this one.'”

Ah, yes!  Other realities right here.

One of my favorite passages in his book is a quote from a psychology professor at the Sorbonne, Rene Zazzo:

“Nothing is obscure except through our ignorance; nothing is fantastic except through our terror.  It is by refining our reason that we will discover the laws and rhythms of those things that are still hidden, not by some indescribable experience, some vague ecstatic intuition, some Dionysiac drunkenness….”

…to which I add:  but our refined reason may indeed verify those indescribable experiences and ecstatic intuitions (maybe first experienced in some Dionysiac drunkenness).

Vallee responded to Zazzo:  “But our terror is a force that propels us forward.  This new terror may be the most dynamic, generous attribute we have, and the only thing about us which is still pure.”

Most generous attribute?  I don’t know about “generous.”  But it does propel us.

He also quoted the French philosopher-psychologist Aime Michel:

“Any progress of mind consists in gradually stripping away the preconceived ideas, the systems you have inherited.  You are right to stir all that up.  But do not expect to find the idea that will reassure you, “the Truth” if you will.  Above all, Truth means understanding why we don’t understand.  Wisdom is to be able to measure what is certain and what is uncertain in science, a feat most so-called ‘scientists’ are incapable of accomplishing.”

Vallee described growing up in France during World War II and how it prepared him for his work in revealing truths others tried to ignore:

“For a five-year-old child, the spectacle of war was a fantastic game, a splendid education in the unreliability of the world.  I remember the [railroad] rails being thrown up in the air like matchsticks.”

And my final favorite quote:

“It is very important to refuse to take any of the predetermined paths society offers us.  There are no predetermined paths in nature, only relativity of directions and goals.  True initiation deals with the Whole, and with Love.”

Disinformation Specialists

When “intelligence agencies” first began officially in the US (FBI/BOI in 1908), their stated purpose was to discredit, misdirect, and diminish the effectiveness of the early labor activists – though later they would cloak their intentions in loftier language.

At least by the 50s and on, they were targeting all sorts of activists, including civil rights, anti-war, and environmental – anyone who threatened corporate profits or the status quo. Tactics, even today, include assassination, but most often subtler techniques, which former agents have written about – usually on their deathbeds.

I read one of those memoirs (Wes Swearingen’s), and I have seen the tactics played out against activists I’ve known (Judi Bari and Darryl Cherney, who were almost assassinated – I watched the trial and wrote about it almost daily for six weeks – the feds were found guilty), and I’ve experienced the tactics played against me.

Why me? Who the hell am I?

Well, after I sent media releases around the world about the FBI for those six weeks, I realized I’d been a mind control subject in my childhood and was still under some degree of control. It scared the sh*t out of me, but when I recovered somewhat from that, I turned my activist work to exposing the CIA’s mind control programs. I knew it was a dangerous job, but “someone had to do it,” and it seemed I was in the perfect position (healed enough and a writer/activist), so, like it or not, I took up the task.

Today, I’m one of only, I’d guess, maybe a dozen or fewer across the nation speaking out and having somewhat of an impact, though I’m very ambivalent about taking a high profile or speaking out much in my local community. Most of my work (admittedly sporadic) is online, via YouTube and my blog, speaking around the Southwest, and continuing to sell my memoir.

Is this enough to make me worth harassing or discrediting? I don’t know what’s at stake for those guys. But I have regularly found my home broken into, my body bruised in odd places, once my arm with a two-prong electrical burn (Taser, I assume), and a great deal of other very clear physical evidence that something weird is going on. I’ve documented much of this with photographs given to my doctor and, because last year I felt the need for one, a counselor.

When I learn about weird things being told about me in my community, I know some of it is simply my own human failings mixed with other human’s misunderstandings, but not all of it. Some of it, because of the other stuff in my life, I have to believe originates with Disinformation Specialists, because some of it has been just too weird.

If you are interested, do your own research on COINTELPRO (Wikipedia documents it well). But what I learned is that they have their operatives (witting or unwitting) in various social circles whom they use to plant false information about their targets. Their witting or unwitting operatives pass on the information and, if it’s juicy, it spreads.

Just thought I’d let ya’all know.

I’ve believed lies about other people, and I feel real bad for having believed some of it for years.

It’s part of our cultural mind control. Any of us can be subtly tricked, especially in a culture where we communicate so much via words on a screen and too little face-to-face, where we can pick up vibes and know who we want to trust.

In the “old days,” these agents went to a lot of trouble to create false communications, for instance, filing typewriter keys to match a particular person’s typewriter and practicing another handwriting style. This was often used to drive a wedge between activist colleagues, to make each think the other was a jerk, or racist, or hated them, or might actually be a spy, so their work would be sidetracked or totally derailed. This is all documented.

Today, with the Internet, how easy do you think it would be to intercept communications and change them before sending them on, creating great trouble for activists?

They certainly have the budget. Intelligence agencies expanded their budgets four-fold in one decade I happened to track, and that didn’t include the Black Budget which dwarfs the entire “regular” military and intelligence budgets.

Their motives have not changed, so there’s no reason to believe they don’t still do this, especially when it’s now so easy.

To conclude: We need to be careful, so our judgments are not manipulated by those with destructive intentions.

We need to reclaim our human communications – increase our face-to-face time, maybe even reduce online time except when necessary. (I’m trying to do this.)

I don’t know what else to do, but say, Let’s be cautious about negative “news.” Check it out.

“Gossip” is usually thought of in its most negative sense, and it often operates that way, but it can also be used positively, when we check primary sources and then pass that along.

Good day and good luck!


Riding the Balance between Denial and Obsession

“And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”  

— Friedrich Nietzsche

Two weeks ago, I gazed too long into Nietzsche’s abyss, and it gazed back at me.  But after the incapacitating pain and suicidal thoughts, I broke though again into “normalcy” – and better!

The Hard Two Weeks

I’d compiled a summary of my anomalous experiences of the last 18 months – so much it was a severe shock to my psyche – and I hadn’t even remembered all the events.

Before the first week was over, I discovered a new strange bruise on my arm, which I ignored, but later it faded to two little dots, like the Taser burn dots.

That week, I also got X-ray results, indicating numerous degenerative issues with my spine.  I remembered a technician and a doctor surprised that I’ve never been in a serious accident.  I couldn’t tell them that I just wake up in pain some days, with no reason to be hurt, but learn that my C7 or C2 is out of place – different directions on different days, oddly – or that my C1 is shoved up under my occiput (skull) – all for no apparent reason.  I feel like a very poorly-treated lab animal, and often think that is exactly what I am.

Earth Day began horribly.  I’d been trapped, for hours it seemed, in a nightmare in which someone was trying to come in the house, and I kept trying to scream, but could make no sound – for hours.  And another dream of a family member in shock, having had a gruesome accident.  Then an adopted cat woke me by jumping on the bed right in front of my face.

My brain and body were miserable from the hours of trying to scream, but I went to Earth Day and did my best to be cheerful while demonstrating solar ovens.

That night, I journaled that I didn’t see the point in living anymore, and made lists of reasons why leaving is a good idea (#1:  I may be programmed, still, to do things I don’t want to do), and made a list of things I should do before I die.

Suggestion for my epitaph:  “Part of her tried damn hard.”

That night, I prayed to be healed, and implied that if something wasn’t done soon or immediately, I might not believe anymore in any Help (Wow:  contradicting my #1 rule articulated just four days ago!) or any moral reason to keep on living under my circumstances.

The Break-Through

The next morning, Greg asked how I felt (dreading my answer, I’m sure), and I described feeling somewhat free of “the stuff,” but that it was still nearby, and I was simply choosing not to look at it.

Since a friend was coming over to sing, I rallied myself again.  He’s a folk music historian and banjo/guitar player who has performed for his living for decades – and suggested that we see how we sing together, as he’d like to put together a Woody Guthrie show with us.

I love that Woody “spoke truth to power” and thought this would be a wonderful change for me – from written word to song; from lonely, quiet work to singing with friends for an immediate audience; from personal confession to songs for everyone.

To our delight, our singing together was next thing to magical.  Spontaneously, we all decided to take a few songs to Open Mike, where I had the most relaxed and successful performance of my life – and my partners, both professional musicians, were as excited as I was.

This was significant!  My performance fears, I believe, have always been related to my sexual abuse on stage as a child.  So, to feel totally relaxed onstage felt absolutely like a healing.

A local photographer, a regular at these events, posted this photo of me on Facebook (that’s concentration and passion – I was happy and “totally into it”):

The next day, my partner and I spent the afternoon at the river, where I articulated the purpose of this essay:

We in healing must ride a fine balance between denial – which keeps us from awareness and healing – and obsession – which can overcome us with grief.

I haven’t yet done much work around the things that I let into my awareness two weeks ago (except for grieving) – or the things I continue to remember that aren’t even on the list yet, or the years of stuff that preceded this list – but they’re not brushed under the rug.  I will continue to try to understand them and not forget them.

My second point:  My deepest despair is usually followed by a break-through.

I guess my prayer was partly answered – though someone else might suggest that my decision to “not look” (right then) was the cause for the end of my two weeks of horror.  Maybe it’s all a slow process, and my not looking temporarily was part of the answered prayer.

Future

I still have this 18-month list (and more memories surfacing almost daily) and am not sure of my responsibility to it.  I have assumed that I need to look at it, suss out the patterns, draw conclusions, and do something to heal!

Meantime, an acquaintance in town, who shared with me similar stuff about a year ago, has emailed to say he’s remembering things that he thinks I need to know.  Opening another can of worms….  I will probably talk with him, in time, in a safe environment, not alone, when I have the energy.  Whew, this stuff never seems to end.

My last report on healing concluded with these two commitments/suggestions: know your spiritual help and know your energetic body.  Obviously, I tested my relationship with my spiritual Help, and it seems that they responded.  And singing has always been a test of my ease within my energetic body, which also tested positively this week.

Soon, I’ll begin my first energy awareness/healing sessions with a professional and friend.  Hopefully, it’ll help me have strength and clarity to look at that list and know what to do about it.

Ride the balance, everyone.  It’s turbulent sometimes.  But when things settle down, something is usually healed.  It feels like painfully slow going, but now and then a break-through gives us hope for more.

Now, I’m going to sing….

In Defense of Gossip

Maybe there should be another word for it, but I don’t believe “gossip” is necessarily a negative thing – and I know I’m the subject of it often enough.   That’s okay.   I think gossip is necessary in today’s society.

Humans are tribal animals, and today we have not only lost our tribal campfire, where we used to know the significant facts of each others’ lives, but we’ve also lost the “commons,” which used to be central in every community – where we’d meet, share news, and trade.

Social networking on the Internet promises to fill this gap, but it poses more problems than solutions (which I’ll not address today).

The best place for sharing personal information today might be the local cafe or bar, but there’s only so much restaurant food I want to eat, and coffee, beer and wine I want to drink, and only so much I can afford.

Thank goodness for small downtown shops where I really need to go spend money anyway, where I have chance meetings that send me home with a smile on my face and story to tell – someone’s sick or broken up from a partner, someone’s healing and happy again, someone’s moving, someone’s helping someone else lay a brick floor, someone has tomato plants to share, someone learned how to make sausage and says I should try it, or someone inspired me to get my water harvesting tanks in place.

Often these interactions include information about other people – and sometimes what others would call negative information – but I still wouldn’t call this gossip, in the old sense of the word, but rather an essential human effort to replace the lost campfire; it’s almost the only way we have of being known and knowing one other (short of telling the entirety of our stories every time we see each other).

So I say:  if you’re my friend or reader of my writings, you have every right to talk about me when you think it’s of interest, whether I’m in crisis or on top of things.  I trust you’ll do your best to speak the truth, and if you get it wrong, I hope the other person, if it’s a serious thing they heard, will pick up the phone or come visit and ask.  Then I can correct it or add context I think important.

Even the errors are okay:  they’re human.  And they teach us a little about each other and ourselves, when we’re the ones who got something wrong.  And they can always be corrected – but only if people talk.

Today, because many people have been so well taught to “never pass on anything negative,” the few doing that include the most unconscious, sometimes malicious types – and that’s what’s dangerous – letting them control the information flow.

The best solution, it seems to me, is for each person to accept personal responsibility for our part in the community’s social information flow – both passing on and checking the information – so we can evolve beyond the networks of bland pleasantries and Internet-mediated “sharing.”

As it is, gossip of the worst sort happens already; so if good people will allow themselves to repeat the “negative” stuff they might hear, there’s a chance for it to be corrected and rebalance what already exists.

Our lost tribal campfire and commons probably is affecting more than just our individual sense of isolation.  I’m sure it plays a role in racism, ageism, classism, and overall social justice, or lack of it – not to mention our political ineffectiveness.

So, I’m urging people to rethink our platitudes about not passing on negative information.  Consider checking it out instead and sending it back through its channels and forward.

“Gossip” as we know it is not the answer, but – done properly – it could be a small step out of our collective social isolation (whether we recognize we suffer from it, or not), toward something new, something healthier, something more human and real.

Face to face is getting too rare.  Let’s not be afraid of common speech; let’s reclaim it.  Other social mores respected, of course.

Criminal Hypnosis: the case of Palle Hardrup/Hardwick

Thanks to the arrogant bragging of a criminal hypnotist Bjorn Nielsen, his manipulation of Palle Hardrup (also Hardwick) in Denmark in the 1940s to rob a bank and murder a teller and bank manager was witnessed by numerous people and corroborated by a police investigator, resulting in Palle’s acquittal – unfortunately, only temporary.

Nielsen was a street-smart, self-taught con man who bragged in prison about having developed a “perfect” crime, in which someone else would take the fall.

Palle Hardrup had been a serious, spiritually-minded teenager when he was recruited – for three months which he said ruined his life – into the Nazi party and then was sent to prison after the occupation along with other Nazis.  There, he was recognized by prison staff as a “polite…well-behaved…young idealist,” though Palle wrote in his journal about his depression and despair over his relationship with God.

Nielsen befriended Palle with stories of his spiritual mastery and, because Nielsen had daily access to Palle on the prison workforce, he was able to slowly convince him to let him be his teacher, though Palle initially resisted.  Yoga and meditation exercises eventually led, when they became cellmates, to trance states and hypnosis.  After daily contact for most of two years, Palle and Nielsen were both released.

Nielsen was able to convince Palle to marry a woman he did not love in order to get him out of his parents’ home, and then tried, less successfully, to make his wife another hypnotic subject, but he didn’t spend as much time with her.

He also filled Palle with ideas of a national revolution for which Palle would be the instigator, and for which Nielsen had Palle draw up organizational charts and badges for members while he was under hypnosis, to support a story he’d have Palle tell as an explanation for why he needed the money, should he be caught.

After two more years of hypnotic conditioning, Palle robbed the first bank and gave all the money to Nielsen, but felt confused when his wife asked him questions that hadn’t been covered by his hypnotic instructions.  His phone calls to Nielsen calmed him but aroused his wife’s suspicions.

Two years later, when Nielsen’s money was running out, he tapped Palle again for another robbery.  This time, the teller hesitated and Palle, in hypnotic trance, shot the teller and the bank manager dead.

When an alarm went off, which had not been covered by hypnotic suggestion, Palle became suddenly wide awake, confused, and panic-stricken.  Nevertheless, when he was captured, he followed his programming and claimed to have robbed the bank entirely alone without any accomplice.  Nielsen had chosen to be out of the country at the time.

When news of the robberies and murders was published, fellow prisoners began to come forward, including one who told investigators that Nielsen had made Palle “virtually a slave, giving up all his personal possessions and even much of his prison food to him.  The code, or trigger sign which always sent Hardrup into a deep trance, was the sign of an X, and Nielsen had so conditioned his subject that whenever this sign was made, he went straight into a state of somnambulance.  The informer insisted that although Hardrup had carried out the raid, Nielsen’s was certainly the mind controlling him at the time.”  (police investigator notes)  Released prisoners and those still in prison all told authorities the same thing:  Palle was Nielsen’s hypno-puppet.

Palle, however, continued to protect Nielsen, claiming to have committed the robberies and murders to fund his revolution, and the first doctor to see him diagnosed him as having a “psychotic-like condition” caused by subjection to prolonged, intensive hypnotraining.

Police decided to question Palle again with Nielsen in the room, during which they noticed that Nielsen sat “forward with elbows on knees, arms crossed and hands on his shoulders, thus making a clear X sign.  When told to sit properly, he changed his position for a more upright one, but immediately crossed his legs.  For the duration of the interrogation, a matter of some three hours, he stared intently into Hardrup’s eyes.  It was observed that whenever Nielsen made an X sign, Hardrup renewed his own confessions and protestations of Nielsen’s innocence.”

While Palle was in jail, Nielsen sent him daily letters with innocuous content, always signed with an X.  Another prisoner told authorities that Nielsen had paid him to draw X marks on walls where Palle was sure to see them.

Nielsen was defended in court by the best attorneys money could buy, while the police called in Dr. Paul Reiter, one of Denmark’s foremost hypnosis experts, a lecturer at the University of Copenhagen on psychotherapy and psychosomatic medicine, and an expert on criminal psychiatry.  Until meeting Palle, he did not believe that criminal hypnosis was possible.

Over a period of months, Reiter was able to break through Nielsen’s programming to program Palle instead to begin chronicling his relationship with Nielsen over the years, in careful detail, only what he knew was absolutely true with no embellishment.  With Nielsen’s communications broken, Palle began to write about and finally come to understand his four years of hypno-programming by Nielsen.

In court, the police seated Nielsen and Palle next to each other, and witnesses claimed to overhear Nielsen remind Palle of his duty to X, after which it took Reiter ten days to return their hypnotic rapport to what it had been.

Unfortunately, Nielsen’s defense team was able to have Palle’s attorney dismissed from the case and replaced by a new attorney who had only two weeks to prepare to argue one of the most technically unfamiliar and complex legal cases to ever enter the Danish court system.

At trial, Palle and Nielsen were again seated next to each other, where Nielsen murmured about what X wanted.

Toward the end of the trial, both Nielsen and Palle were given one week to read Reiter’s report on Palle, and Reiter was not allowed to see Palle during this time.

Reiter’s report reflected his clinical strategies, tightly focused on winning the case by proving that Palle could indeed be hypno-programmed – but it was not written with what might have been a therapist’s concern for a client’s sensibilities on reading about his own victimization.  Despite the fact that Palle had written down memories of what Nielsen had done to him, he had not yet fully processed the emotions.

Reiter pleaded with the court to delay this move, to let him prepare Palle for the shock of what was in the report and its clinical and legal style, but that request was rejected, as Nielsen’s lawyers were demanding the report immediately.  The court denied Reiter permission to see Palle until two days before the next court date.

So Palle was handed Reiter’s report and told he had a week to read it.  Until he read it, Palle had believed his autobiography had been his own idea, he hadn’t remembered much of his sessions with Reiter, and he had believed he’d fallen in love with his wife on his own and had allowed Nielsen to have sex with her of his own will – for which he had felt terribly guilty, and now was filled with grief and anger.  He writhed in shame as he read the clinical report and had no one to talk to about it.  Crafted for the judge and jury, of course, the report didn’t give any impression that Reiter even liked him.  Palle’s lack of sleep and mental distress led to nightmares about X.

Two days prior to trial, Reiter was able, with effort, to reestablish his benevolent control over Palle and suggested that Palle have no more nightmares, which worked the first night, but not the second.

When Palle appeared for court, he was exhausted and very ill-at-ease.  Reiter needed to demonstrate that Palle could be hypnotized (defense asserted that he could not be) and then demonstrate that Palle’s obedience to X was really obedience to Nielsen.  Palle, in a hypnotic state induced for the court audience, struggled against a dark angel who threatened to throw him in the abyss for his disobedience, which distracted Palle from Reiter’s attempts at demonstration.  As Palle fell into his imaginary hell, he was on the verge of healing himself from all hypnotic spells, during which he saw X and Reiter come together into one!  Both had indeed forced their way into his susceptible mind; both had made him do things he was not aware of; and in that moment there was no difference to Palle.  And in that moment he woke up – on his own accord, and then burst into violent sobs.

When Reiter tried to induce him again, it did not work.  Instead, he jumped up with such agitation that two guards immediately jumped forward to protect Reiter, followed by six more.  Palle could not be restrained and broke away from all eight officers, but paused in the hallway and allowed Reiter to calm him.  Reiter sedated Palle on the stand, where he demonstrated that even with the narcotic, he was no longer hypnotizable.  Palle explained to the court the edge of the abyss of damnation he’d been on, his struggle with X, his falling, and the merger of the X and Reiter figures.

Reiter, at first, could not believe it and asked Palle to agree it was not logical.  Palle agreed.  “It’s not logic but my soul that’s speaking, my soul which is in shreds.  It is my unconscious part…and that has nothing to do with logic.”  Dr. Reiter could never hypnotize Palle again.

This was only the trial preliminaries.  Palle’s new lawyer stayed on the case for the next two years, during which time Nielsens’s defense team set out to prove that Palle was insane and/or a liar, and they worked to deprive Palle of legal and psychiatric aid.

Even though Nielsen’s attorney’s employed a medical expert witness who asserted the dogma of “moral integrity,” stating that no one will do anything against their will under hypnosis, the judge and jury found Nielsen guilty of robbery, attempted robbery, and manslaughter – having determined that serious criminal acts could be caused by a criminal hypnotist’s manipulations of a somnambulist subject.

Unfortunately, the jury also found Palle guilty and sentenced him to life in an institution for the criminally insane.

Palle began writing another autobiography, often expressing grief for the sorrow he caused his parents and wife and child:  “what a blight it must have cast over their life…to see how I slowly drifted away from them in a strange way that they could neither understand nor do anything about.”

Reiter negotiated to have Palle released from the institution for the insane to a regular hospital, but two days before he had the confirmation, Nielsen’s attorneys  submitted new information to open the case.

Rather than face another trial, Palle, not knowing he was soon to be a “free man,” secretly sent a letter to Nielsen’s attorneys, admitting to all crimes and denying that Nielsen had anything to do with them.  Then he sent a letter to his own attorney asking that the word hypnosis be removed entirely from the case.

Palle’s lawyer asked the court to once again provide a psychiatric hypnosis specialist, which so infuriated Palle that his attorney quit.  The new lawyer meekly accepted Palle’s new request.

The appeals court now had to determine which of Palle’s three confessions was the true one.  Nielsen, too, began writing letters to the court, referring to the “poor psychotic fellow” and writing letters again to Palle, which the court allowed!

Palle appeared on the stand “aggressive, cynical, impudent, reticent, dishonest.”  Reiter, an observer now, wrote, “His artificially created secondary personality was now plainly dominant.”

Dr. Sturup, the head doctor at the Institution for Psychopaths, where Palle was confined testified that at the hospital Palle was well-behaved, always quiet and appropriate, and curiously different from his courtroom behavior.  He also said that Palle rarely spoke of his case, but when he did, it contradicted his statements in court.  For instance, in the hospital he told the doctor, “Of course, hypnosis played a part” in what was going on, and “Anyone ought to be able to see all that is in Reiter’s report can’t be wrong.”  He and many other observers noticed the affect Nielsen’s presence had on Palle and his continuous making of X gestures.

After calling Reiter to testify (but still not allowed to speak with Palle), the court agreed to stop communication between Nielsen and Palle, but another prisoner had just previously been brought in to Palle’s unit who began giving Palle instructions from X, resulting in Palle turning over his parents’ full inheritance to this new resident, who escaped, was captured, and confessed all.

The Court of Appeals issued a preliminary report in May 1957, evaluating Palle’s mental state as “an artificially established, induced psychosis, created and developed through the influence of another person…making use of all the ways and means at his disposal…including hypnosis.”  It concluded that “induced impulses (post-hypnotic suggestions) had been used by Nielsen to exploit his control over Palle with criminal intent.”

Unfortunately, a month later, the same court concluded that Palle’s second confession best matched the evidence, finding him guilty, and refused further appeals.  Mercifully, he only spent a few more years in prison.

Nielsen’s attorneys, however, appealed to the European Court of Human Rights, which decided in Nielsen’s favor.

Reiter’s book about the case also reviewed expert research and opinion from the 8th and 19th century European hypnotists.

This case is usually misrepresented by American writers, especially by Aaron Moss, ironically an expert on disguised hypnotic induction!  Several American research hypnotists have quoted Moss as being the final word on Palle’s case.

Reiter has opined that these strident denials of the possibility of unethical hypnosis in the face of so much evidence amount to simple dogma:  “… the growth of this dogma was due to very human motives, not the least on the part of a number of professional hypnotizers…who understandably enough wished to reassure a public likely to be alarmed by the dangerous potentialities of hypnotism.”  (Reiter, 1958, pp 38-39.)

This article is a summary of “Case History:  Palle Hardwick,” a chapter from Secret, Don’t Tell: The Encyclopedia of Hypnotism, by Carla Emery, which covers five cases which made world history, a partial history of CIA mind control research, trance phenomena, induction methods, and legal and therapy issues in criminal hypnosis.  Carla Emery is most known for her classic Encylcopedia of Country Living, a best-seller since the 1960s.

When I spoke with Carla before she died, she told me that she’d been motivated to do this research when a friend began to struggle to understand and heal her government mind control programming.   I hope to summarize more from the book.

If you want to buy it, please do not buy from Amazon, but from http://www.hypnotism.org – a small bookstore site operated by her former husband with old-fashioned checks in the postal mail.  Alternatively, go to Addall.com if you need to purchase online.

Three New Videos

I’ve just added three new video essays – all shorties – to my YouTube channel (Paradigm Salon Video):   http://www.youtube.com/user/ParadigmSalonVideo?feature=mhee

The first, “Alien Terminology,” 3 minutes long, discusses the terms alienET, and extra-dimensional, and the problems with their usage.

The second, “Aliens and Mind Control,” 7 minutes, gives a quick overview of the evidence for alien involvement in mind control from history, religion, and contemporary testimony.

The third, “Cultural Mind Control,” also 7 minutes, discusses seven ways that our culture is, intrinsically, mind controlling.  Of course, by being aware of these dynamics, by avoiding these elements of culture, one can become more conscious of one’s consciousness!

Since we all have been subject to these consciousness-dampening effects, awareness can only help.

If you’d like to be notified of future short video essays, please subscribe on my YouTube channel.  Thanks!

Empowering “Daily Intentions” Self-Hypnotherapy

Hypnotherapy and mind control do have history together, regardless that the profession often denies it.  Instances of unethical, even criminal, hypnosis have been recorded by US and European courts and medical authorities for over a century.  And CIA mind control researchers published extensively in the field of hypnosis in the 40s and 50s particularly.

So, why would I participate in this profession?  Because the tool of hypnosis is useful, like a knife or a vehicle, and can therefore be empowering.  It can help one understand the depth and power of one’s own consciousness, unconscious, and subconscious.  It can also impress one of the need to protect one’s mind from cultural and other programming – which are ubiquitous.

I also want to explore the potential for using self-hypnosis to protect oneself from cultural and other programming and possibly help one de-program oneself – or work with another to accomplish that.

Therefore, I renewed last week my “Transpersonal Hypnotherapy” (TM) certification.  I had been trained and certified in this spirit-acknowledging modality over six years ago, and I had a very successful first year, helping friends with various issues, for which I received immensely encouraging feedback, such as “This was the most important therapy of my life – and I’ve had lots! – because you helped me get in touch with my Inner Wise One!”

I just created my first new “Daily Intentions” self-hypnosis recording, which I’d like to share with others.  It is non-specific, leaving space for you to fill in your daily intentions, with spirit guidance and protection.  Please read the script (below) and mentally make any adjustments that you need.

http://www.youtube.com/user/ParadigmSalonVideo?feature=mhee#p/a/u/1/SvMan6q2L60

Also, I want to strongly encourage anyone considering hypnosis to choose a professional who 1) uses “formal induction,” 2) works with you to create a script with all the elements that work specifically for you, and 3) records your session and lets you take it home immediately.  I’ll write more about these issues in a later post.

Meantime, here is the script for this session I originally created for myself.  Please read it first, and only use the recording (above) if you feel it is in your highest interest.

This is a “Daily Intentions” Self-Hypnosis by Jean Eisenhower.

Do not listen to this recording while driving.  Also know that you are free to accept or reject or amend all suggestions in this recording.

It’s time now to get into a comfortable position.  Uncross your arms and legs, and take a few deep, relaxing breaths.  Invite your spirit family to be with you now.

With each breath, notice how your whole body begins to naturally relax.  Any tension just begins to float away, like mist, and you release your breath in the same soft way.

Remember a time when, after a day of inspired, physical labor, you finally relaxed, allowing yourself to sit or lie down with no demands at all.  Your limbs are gratefully relaxed, and you feel that gratitude throughout your body, grateful for healthful rest.

Focus on your relaxation:  so easy… so natural… becoming more relaxed with each slow, deep breath – connected to your spirit family.

If you happen to relax so much that you fall asleep, you will hear the word “Now” and wake up just enough to focus again intently on your   intentions.

With every word, you are becoming more deeply relaxed and focused, with your mind intent on every aspect of your vision of change, evolution, growth.

Now, as you continue to breathe and relax, you find yourself able to focus intently on the vision you’ve created and for which you’ve asked for help and support of your spirit family.

Any sound besides my voice, such as footsteps, a doorbell, or siren, will only remind you that you can relax even more deeply, unless there is need to do otherwise.  Any unnecessary noises besides my voice will help you to relax more deeply, and more deeply.

Now….  This state of relaxation is so easy, so natural, it is fascinating to you to become more focused on your skill, appreciating that it also feels so good, is so good for you – physically, mentally, and spiritually – and you know that you can return to this state anytime, easily.  It is such a gift to give yourself, to be in such a beautiful state of healing rest, yet focused mentally, alert to your body and mind and your  spirit, all evolving toward your vision.

Now sense now the energy field that surrounds and encompasses your body.  Sense – or imagine – the connection between your body and the highest, most loving intelligence in the cosmos.  Now sense – or imagine – the connection between your body and the Earth.  See yourself as a beautiful energy stream, flowing from the Source of Loving Intelligence to this material plane which is this Earth, and back again.

You are a wonderful flow of intelligent, creative energy from Source to Earth and back.

Now….  the Source of Loving Intelligence shines a special light of protection through you – and around you.  Enjoy this beautiful, comforting, loving light.

And now….  Your spirit family focuses protection on you, freeing you from all old programming or new programming that does not serve your highest purpose.  Only those members of your spirit family who work in your best interest have any ability to direct or encourage your actions.

Now, any attempts by old programming, or any attempts by new programming, even cultural programming, from any source, will only make you aware of it, able to easily reject the commands and better understand your own independence and free will.

All old karma is now released.  You are free to act in accordance with only your own personal intention and the guidance of your spirit family.

Now, to reach the deepest levels of your knowing, we’re going to count from 5 to 1, and when we reach 1, you will be in your   deepest state of relaxation, open to the highest vision you have for yourself, open to the help of your spirit family who loves you and desires to fully support your highest visions.

Now, 5, relax just a little more deeply into your very focused attention, allowing the tiniest bits of unnecessary energy to float to away from you, allowing you to focus more and more your mind more clearly….

4 – You can relax now a little bit more, knowing that you are discovering your very wisest self, very much at ease.

3 – This deep relaxation and focused attention is so fascinating and feels so good, it relaxes you even more to realize, with gratitude, that you have the power to go to this deep, calm place of inner wisdom.

2 – In this deeply relaxed state now, supported by and protected by your spirit family, you have access to infinite wisdom to direct and empower your life for the Highest Good of yourself and others you care for.

1 – You are now in the magic place of intention, vision, and creation.

You have dreams and visions of what is the highest good for your life.  Take a moment now, and describe those dreams as they are now evolving and as you see them taking place in the future for the good of all.

Have confidence that your family, your spirit family, wants to hear your highest dreams, wants you to commit to them yourself with words – even if you might not see the entire picture, even if you would humbly prefer that they make these decisions.

If your spirit family’s perspective is larger and might not quite fit your vision, you are confident that they will lovingly incorporate aspects of your heart’s desire into the plan they know will help you best unfold your dreams, allowing you to see  the larger picture when the time comes and make adaptations.  This is the purpose of your daily meditation time with your spirit family.

Imagine your dreams coming true now.  Invite your spirit family to dialog with you.  Open your heart to receive what they have to offer.

Speak your dreams of accomplishment, power, love, joy, satisfaction, and service to self and others.  We’ll take some time now.

[pause 40 seconds]

You are grateful.

And now, it is time to bring your vision… your knowing… your perfect inspiration… gently, quietly maybe, really into your everyday world.

I will count now from 5 to 1 now to allow you to draw this vision back into tangible reality.

5 – you will remember everything you’ve heard, felt, and experienced here.

4 – you are satisfied, and gratified, to have felt and experienced the reality of your dreams, supported

3 – you are more in touch with the room now – and know that your dreams can be manifest in this world

2 – you are feeling more aware of everything around you, feeling your hands and feet, maybe wiggling them

1 – you are wide   awake again, your consciousness focused on your dreams evolving into our material world, this fantastic place of creation.  You are confident and feeling wonderful!

Solitude

Being social. I doubt natural humans had a concept for “social.” I believe it just was.

Not today. Now ties of family and tribe are stressed or broken, and we are “civilized,” made part of artificial groups, brought together through economic class, school, and workplace. There are advantages that have come with these changes, for certain individuals as well as to all, but I want to look at on particular cost, to see if it might be mitigated.

My first experience of life, like most everyone I know, was changing pairs of rubber gloved-hands which soon placed me in an “isolette” – isolated from germs, I suppose, but also from my mother.

If that harmed me, I know it also harmed her, and it hurt me again when they kept my children from me for days after their births except every two hours and then just long enough for nursing.

All this, I’m sure, prepared us for the world to come, in which we’d be more easily convinced to sacrifice things of the heart for the needs of industry.

I got extra treatment, but that story is not necessary to make my point today: we’ve all been mind controlled to some degree. Baby boys, uniformly for decades, were sexually mutilated at birth for a totally bogus reason, which might explain the violence, including sexual violence, in our culture, as well as our nation’s ability to raise troops to go so readily to war: we have generations of men who have to prove something, because once they were totally powerless to stop a profound psychic pain, something to do with their manhood, but they can’t quite figure it out, so they need to act it out.

This massive change in human consciousness, called “civilization,” has been resisted throughout time, from the heathens and pagans (literally, heath dwellers and forest dwellers) who were murdered as part of Europe’s economic machinations to move people into the cities to worship in cathedrals, to the Sixties’ recognition of the mind-numbing state of the nuclear family – or was it just the family in front of the TV?

And now the human connection, citified into what we call a “social life” is becoming even less so, and we don’t even mind the descriptor “virtual,” which means, “almost, but not quite.”

Am I satisfied with virtual? Not at all.

And yet, as a writer, it’s my medium.

And I’ve complained about this plenty. I know I’ve lived other lives far more satisfying – connected – than this one. And I don’t blame myself or anyone; it’s just what we have become as a people (directed by whom is the salient question), and some of us have harder experiences than others.

As one of those getting harsher treatment, I believe it’s my role to holler. And I can’t really see that it’s my role to do anything else, even if no one wants to hear. Tough. It’s what pain cells do, and the human body does well to listen to those signals.

Even though I was not raised to be social, I give it the old college try. Each year, more of my parts pull together, and I do better and better at socializing, so much that some people, catching me on a good day, would never believe how hard socializing can be for me at other times.

A successful night out to dinner, for instance, requires the focused attention of I-don’t-know-how-many parts of me, after which I feel an energy lag while all the experiences of the other evening are brought back to the rest of me and revisited, like a girl going home to her sick sister to tell her what she’d missed at the dance.  Of course, the sister has thoughts and feelings about it and and needs to do a little reliving, imagining, or opining – and that takes time. If I’m too busy, I may suffer with a sense of disintegration and must stay home, sometimes, for weeks at a time.

I love my solitude (thankfully), though I use it – ironically – for the even-more removed version of social-ness – the virtual world – so I can rail against our loss of human connection, destroyed in favor of human resource extraction.

I don’t see clearly the way to change things, but I believe if more people would acknowledge that we are mind controlled, and it pervades our culture from birth on, together we have a chance.

Personally, I work in the system when I see a chance to inoculate it with better ideas that might spur change, I invest energy in new ideas like Permaculture, and I invest myself in understanding the other dimensions and gaining facility in communicating with helpful energies.

Since I’m a recovering mind-control subject, everything I do needs to be judged. It’s everyone’s responsibility.  But not only with me – with everyone. We are all mind-controlled to some degree, some of us more insidiously than others.  Mind control is the biggest threat to human consciousness – the foundation of our ability to perceive clearly and act rationally, individually and collectively.

The damage to us has not been an accident, but is an intentional, ubiquitous, historical practice, now refined to great power, and not to be ignored.  It underlies everything.

So I keep yappin’, telling of my experiences, asking others to let me know if they think I should consider other explanations for my perception of reality.

I believe we live in a multi-dimensional cosmos, far more amazing than most of us acknowledge, with a complex history of which human evolution and manipulation are only a chapter, maybe just a footnote, though it’s everything to us.

Sometimes I think we’re like the patient on the table with everyone praying and weeping for us to wake up.  The hospital is in a war zone, but they’ll save those details till we’re more awake.

Other times it seems our cocoon is cracking and about to break open, and it’ll be a beautiful and amazing day.

Often events are a tangle or dance of things greatly opposed.  And it works.

Crashing waves against the cliff.

The bramble and the vine.

Compost and new shoots.

My Story

Ah, meditation today began with the vision of a blue and white energetic stream, the color of crystalline mountain water and bands of white clouds, flowing upward from my heart like a twisting waft of smoke, curling next downward, and looping like a playful thing – such a surprise after my intense effort yesterday to repair my aura.

Last night, I wrote “my story” in super-short form, telling who I believe I am, based on experiences I’ve had which did not at all fit my construct of reality, but which I could never, over the course of decades, convince myself were not real.

So I think it’s time to publicly admit my beliefs, regardless that they embarrass me somewhat – embarrass me because I’ve sneered at others who’ve written or spoken things like these.  But I must tell this story, as information for others trying to assess the nature of reality and as a step in my process of becoming a more-coherent human being.

My Story

I’ve had at least six lives on Earth that I can recall and a long life, or series of lives, somewhere in the Pleiades, which when I left was the only life I knew or at least had been familiar with for a long time.  It quieted me to see the star cluster withdraw and know it would be another “long time” (if ever) before I would see the place again.  (And now, my heart feels as though it is absolutely not in my chest when I remember this.)

On Earth I remember lives only as women:  a sensuous tree-dwelling pygmy, a frightened three-year-old in some feudal state, a European country girl in love, a gypsy with a friend in traditional bangles and scarves, a recently deceased Anglo pioneer hovering on the Earth plane near her Native husband as he was drug to his death behind a wagon so that our daughter would not be raised by him or his tribe, a member of Cochise’s tribe when we lost our land and freedom, and a Native American college student arriving home to spend time with her loving family.

I am also connected to beings in a nearby dimension who feel like family – far more than my parents or siblings do.  A few of these beings seem like people I’ve read about or heard of in our history, and I’ve had a very strange aversion to reading certain books, as though I already know the history and reading this version might upset me.  Some of the figures I’ve met in other dimensions I realize later seem like mythological characters often depicted as cartoons in our culture or in some other limiting way, so I hesitate to identify them as such.

There are also beings on the other realms whom I work to avoid, though it most often feels that my life’s current destiny is to be engaged with them for some reason I assume is either good for me or good for all.  Those other unpleasant entities seem the result of my having been a mind control subject as a child.  (Documentation is elsewhere.)

I was born into a family on the edge (I assume) of the Elites:  Eisenhower means iron hewer, a metal worker.  These people were masters of a craft kept secret in a guild society controlled by royalty.  Members of this lineage are tested for loyalty, given many advantages, and groomed for service in secret societies still.  I was seduced to the door, walked in, was initiated, then changed my mind a month later and bailed.  Mysteriously, my memory of the initiation ceremony has disappeared except for a one-second peek.  Then I ran away from home (at age nineteen), broke some of my programming (how much I don’t know), and have been struggling ever after to fully free my mind.  Sometimes I seem to do very well in life, often when I’m engaged in mainstream business.  Most often, I struggle.

Ever since my nervous breakdown (essential for healing, and in my case probably part of my programming break-down) in 1993, I’ve been increasingly aware of things going on behind the mediated scenes.  I’ve twice consciously experienced my own body’s in-the-moment manipulation for a few minutes while my consciousness screamed No.  

I also sometimes experience healing events and other Carlos Castaneda-type events which I can’t yet judge as good or bad.  Sometimes I feel as though I just returned from somewhere else, sometimes I feel like I’m encased in a healing vibrational cocoon, and sometimes I feel hit by an energetic something with which I struggle mightily.  Sometimes, mysterious things leave bruises or scars on me, which I sometimes photograph and post.

Did I choose this life?  (It used to piss me off royally when people told me that we all chose our lives or, worse, that I have created this through my own thinking it, and I could make it disappear if I would quit.)  We could say it was just the luck of the draw – someone had to be born into the heart of darkness – and maybe that was it.  Perhaps it’s karma; I hate to think I earned this….

My choice of explanation is that I was strong enough to do this, and someone had to go in, like a cosmic spy, and relay back to the rest of my warrior tribe reports on the psyches of the Elites who have created our war-making, children-torturing, money-driven System, so that it could be disabled.  My birth into the darkest heart gave my tribe an inside view to help it more fully understand the System and help devise a plan to transform it.

While I’ve gone through my spasms of pain and paranoia, fear, grief, terror, despair and  suicidal urges, my tribe on the other dimensions has been regularly healing me, energizing me, blocking my awareness when I was too young to understand, and basically helping me get through, while also using what they learned to help turn the tide or execute some other plan for Earth.

And if that’s not the case, and if this is all just a story (an amazingly grandiose story, it might be called), then at least it offers me hope for my soul and hope for our transformation.

Both the light and the dark have been very active in my life – and up to fairly recently.  Every day I hope to never confront the dark ones again, but it’s clear that the polarity on Earth is still active, and someone has to be in the interface – the space between the white and black paisleys of the yin-yang symbol.  And even though I often feel that the energy pouring down on me is so positive and strong that I think we’ve already turned the corner and entered Heaven, I assume nothing.  Activists are those on the interface; I’m an activist, so here I am.

I’m here to testify that we Earth humans are not alone, either in the cosmos or here on Earth.  There are many, many technologies employed by the Elites to keep us passive and, yes, mind controlled.  A few people see it; far fewer, I fear, act in ways that will serve their survival when mind control is increased.

I struggle regularly with this apparent destiny, which seems to be to live in awareness of the darkness and to shine light on it.  Few live through the experience of it and maintain the ability to speak.  How am able?  I assume it’s my help on the other dimensions, as I’m not that personally strong.  (Ask anyone who knows me.)

Also, I think they don’t crush me because I do such a lousy job.  I sabotage my work frequently.

Sometimes I wonder if the existence of this soul-enslaving system is a figment of my imagination, but I believe this enslavement has been the number-one fact of human history, from ancient Sumer until this day, and it’s time we woke up to the fact that our luxury comes at the enslavement of others, many others.  Some, like Ayn Rand, will justify that; others might want to decide, but we can’t if we don’t acknowledge it.

And now our destiny hangs in the balance while the prophesies talk about the end of an age.  I’m putting my stock there, in change, in which I believe we must participate consciously.  Toward that end, I remind myself of these things:

* Change has always happened, and big change is prophesied.

* Powerful systems are often brought down from within.

* Earth’s powerful system today depends on the cooperation of minions who have little loyalty to it.

* The minions know that at some point they’ll be expendable, and at some point they can change the game.

* It is in their ultimate best interest to help change it.

Besides changing things on Earth, I also have hope in other realms as an escape.  Perhaps some of us will disappear like the Anasazi.  Or the others will disappear as in the Hopi prediction (told to their children, so I’ve heard) that “one day, the bad people will all just be gone” – opposite the Christian story, in which the righteous will be the ones “raptured.”  This apparent contradiction might be reconciled by another prediction with which I’ve resonated, that there’ll be a dimensional/vibrational rift, in which the Earth will move into two or more different future time-lines, where leaving and staying have no meaning.

Every year, the river of my life brings me amazing experiences of bliss, challenge, and everything in between.  As a child, tortured, I was pushed through the veil, where I saw that this realm was not the only one.  Today, I am sometimes granted healing and visions, and sometimes I dance with the devil.  I’ve written a lot about the latter, so it’s only proper now that I tell more of my story.

One of my demons has been the fact that my mind has been fractured by trauma-based mind control.   There are actually, sometimes, advantages to being multiple (psychological survival, for one, and a “diversified portfolio” of skills), and I hope to learn more ways to consciously make my condition more useful, but so far it’s often been a disability.

For instance, I go to the store, and an alter (alternate personality) comes out who’s great at making small talk, but she has little to do with the rest of me.  Some other part of me might have shared a personal story with someone the day before, who’s now at the store, but the alter yesterday is not out now, and the one who’s shopping doesn’t remember much about this friend when she says hi.  I struggle to cycle though a few “files” of personalities before I can retrieve the memory, but often the critical moment is lost and I might never have the chance to explain my struggle to the friend – very disappointing and often almost convinces me that I should remain a hermit.

But my destiny doesn’t seem to be in hermitage, and my extra-dimensional help keeps coming to my rescue – sometimes not soon enough, I think – but I keep on going anyway.

When my extra-dimensional help does take care of me, it’s beyond anything I could have imagined.  It clears me to my very soul and convinces me that I will not die and I don’t want to.

Because I’ve written a lot about the dark events, and people remember those best, I am probably known to a lot of people as the woman who’s all about “that stuff.”  When I occasionally write about the Light, I imagine it is difficult for many to reconcile in our culturally encouraged, black-and-white thinking.

So something moved me to summarize my whole complex story and remind folks that things are rarely static black or white:  I was born into a very dark situation, my mind became fractured, I’ve healed with extra-dimensional help, and I’m in a sometimes-daily battle to keep steady and nurture my dreams for myself and the whole of us.

I’ve seen the enemy, and it is not only us.  It’s partly us, but it’s also way beyond us.  It’s our ancestor’s patterns of abuse, which have been hidden from us, and which we’re called to transform.  The task is huge, but we’re not alone.  Everyone with a concept of Self as a sentient being connected to the powers of Creation needs to be sure to tap into those Other Powers and see what they need to be doing right now.  I’m here to testify that this is not a picnic.

If my life and my teetering on the edge of it, suffering sometimes beyond what I thought I could bear, has had any purpose, I think it’s to say this:  Our place in history is not meant to be a picnic, an indulgence in whatever we might enjoy.  Enjoyment is lovely, and I want more of it also, but we have work to do.

For over a year (am I right?) Bradley Manning suffered in solitary confinement for trying to get you the information you now get over Facebook and in your email; Congress is right now trying to take that freedom from you.  Many activists, like Leonard Peltier, Mumia Abu Jamal, and Judi Bari, are in prison for life, or dead, for telling truths that someone desperately needed for them to expose but the Elites wanted to repress.  Some like me are waking up with their bodies Taser-burned and no memory of what happened to them, but a dreadful feeling.

This battle is not a civilized one; it is brutal and involves far worse than what I’ve written here today.  If you have the liberty to visit your Congress person to talk about American human rights, please do.  If you can feed someone who is hungry, please do.  If you can give energy to any project that serves your community, please do, and thank you.  And if you can offer compassion to someone like me who seems sometimes to be crazy, please do.  We’ve all got stories, and I do believe we’re, most of us, trying our best to make sense of a world that is for the most part hidden from nice people like you.

If the Earth does go through any cataclysms, from environmental poisoning to pole shift, I know that we, as souls, will eventually continue on somewhere, learning, evolving, transforming.  But I believe the next life will be easier if we do this work now to transform what we can of this situation here on Earth, particularly to work for justice.

Some say the coming Earth changes will trigger our transformation to the next new evolutionary state.  I don’t know.  But I’m open to the possibility of expanding my soul into something less trapped on this plane.  My experiences in the other dimensions have been so much nicer than most of what I experience here.

In any case, I’m inspired by the possibilities – which are infinite.  We have help on other realms, but we also need to do the work today.

Dawn Healing: To Know Myself

About dawn this morning in front of the fire, I discovered a new, simple meditation posture in which I – surprisingly – easily experienced my energy field and felt it connected to other realms.

Then I was disturbed to sense my aura behind me entirely collapsed (interesting, since I’ve had my neck and back out of whack since October 22, and two chiropractors either couldn’t repair it or it slipped back while I was driving home).  I tried, with intention, to repair my crushed aura but couldn’t.

Then I turned my attention to the other-dimensional beings who have contacted me in the past and who feel like guides and/or members of my cosmic tribe.  For some reason, it was easy connecting today, though it hasn’t been for many months.

With the first being, I realized a crippling sense of (it’s embarrassing to say this) unworthiness and sobbed out loud for a moment until she said, “That’s your programming.  You can let it go.”  I understood, felt it deeply, let it go, and then sensed my inner core brighten, expand, and strengthen.

Turning to my second guide or friend, a writer in a past life, we briefly noted writing as a positive consciousness tool which can also become an unnecessary and distracting obsession (she wrote obsessively also in a past life).  We agreed that writing about “everything” might be useful for healing, but publishing “everything” is not.  I’ve known that, but it was good to have it come more fully into my consciousness, and it eased a lot of pressure I’d been feeling.

With two other cosmic connections, I felt and acknowledged that my understanding of them has been twisted by cultural caricatures, as they are “famous” people.  I tried to perceive beyond those caricatures but got the message that we’ll deal with this block on another day.

Silently, I enjoyed the energies around me – except for the back of my aura which still felt crushed.  I tried different intentions and eventually was able to lift away a whole battery of attachments that seemed to be programs, especially programs to keep myself intensely busy (a life-long habit).

Even though I often wrestle long and hard with spiritual challenges, these fell off easily as I expanded my energy field behind me.  Then I scooped them together, saw them melt down, gave them to spirit help to dispose of, and announced to the room, “I replace these programs with my own programs to spend enough time to know myself.”

I sat for a while longer, feeling amazingly well.

Later in the day, I caught up on my sleep.  And in the evening, my partner and I did the most heavenly harmonizing for hours.

I am grateful.

My Million-dollar Question

Yesterday, I posted that I intended to blog only about spiritual power and ignore any dark stuff that intruded into my life.

Before I could post  it, however, I experienced my first obvious harassment of the season, then succumbed to my usual desire to “shine light on the darkness,” and posted two more blogs and notified friends on Facebook before crashing into bed, exhausted.

I was ambivalent, however, about those last two posts, which I explained to my partner (for at least an hour this morning), and it all boils down to this:

Is posting, what I think of as “shining the light in the darkness,” really a courageous favor to all souls trying to understand the often-dark realities of this material plane, or is it merely a personal spiritual error to focus on the dark?  

And now I’ve risen, copied those posts to my computer, and deleted them here.  A waste of time?  No, a process.  I had to think this thing through carefully.

For at least five years in a row, I’ve had weird things – very weird things – happen to me every winter:  manipulative people came into my life, extremely clear proofs of mind control were done to me, obvious and strange marks appeared on my body (bruises, burns and scoops of removed skin), and my home was repeatedly broken into, including broken locks.  Last year, I posted everything (consolidated under the heading at the top of this blog, titled “Harassment”), and it was a very difficult winter.

Recently, I couldn’t help but recognize that “the season” was rolling around again, and I began to wonder if the cycle of weirdness would repeat.  So I decided to only post about spiritual power and see whether I could positively affect, as the common New Age platitudes tell us, the reality of my life.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t prepared well enough for things to get truly crazy that very day, and I was caught off-guard and fell into my usual pattern of writing and publishing to cope and hopefully “protect myself.”

But I’ve slept on it and thought it all through (again), and here’s my plan.

First, even though the weirdness usually involves people I think of as the CIA (well-documented reasons will be found elsewhere), my experiment is not meant to influence them, at least not directly.   My experiment is spiritual.

My renewed intention is to post, as I wrote yesterday, only about spiritual power.

If weird things happen, I’ll write about them in my own journals, but I’ll refrain from posting them for now.  (If anyone wants to be on a mailing list to hear about events as they happen, perhaps I can forward my journals to a few friends who also experience this sort of thing, but I will not spend hours crafting the language carefully for broadcast publication.)

That way I’ll deal with my psychological need to document and be heard by someone, but won’t spend too much time on it.

I’m “testing the spirits” here.  If I turn more of my attention to my spiritual help, will that protect me more than posting about the dark?  That’s my million dollar question restated.

If things don’t change this winter, perhaps I’ll return to posting.

If things do change this winter, I’ll consider it an excellent scientific experiment, proof enough for me, that we can indeed change the nature of our reality by changing the focus of our attention.

We all need badly for this world’s reality to change.  And some of us really, personally need it to change.  Let’s see if I can do it.  Prayers of support welcome.

Nature Spirits Described Through History

“Each person possesses within himself [and herself] the powers and latent faculties necessary to become aware of a multi-dimensional universe.”  — Paracelsus

Rebel Western scientists Paracelsus and Rudolph Steiner were included in a fascinating book published in 1997 by Peter Tompkins, titled The Secret Life of Nature: Living in Harmony with the Hidden World of Nature Spirits from Fairies to Quarks.[1]  

Paracelsus was born in the Swiss canton of Schwyz in 1490, where he was given the impressive (and maybe to those with Western sensibilities humorous) birth name Phillipus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim.  A contemporary of Martin Luther, he became an alchemist, which means he was born into a family of means, as alchemy was taught only within a secret society, pledged to keep those secrets within the structure of power. Paracelsus broke from at least part of that structure.

According to Tompkins, Paracelsus may have been a greater reformer than Martin Luther, as he tackled not only religion but medicine and physics as well.  In his society, academic writing was done exclusively in Latin, for one’s fellow academicians to approve or disapprove, with no involvement of common people.  Paracelsus flaunted this tradition and wrote a treatise on nature spirits in the common German vernacular used by his local community, making his thoughts available to all.  For centuries afterward, his work was used as a primary source for innumerable writings by others.

Paracelsus gathered his data by going straight to his source, nature, in which he steeped himself deeply.  Then he asked non-academicians such as herbalists, faith healers, gypsies, hermits, witches and anyone else who claimed knowledge of the healing arts – aside from doctors – what they knew.  He discovered that their lore had a form and structure which matched his own experiences with intelligent forces in nature.

The rebel alchemist defined these spiritual intelligences as “elementals,” which he divided into beings working in the categories of earth (gnomes), water (sprites), air (sylphs) and fire (salamanders).  They all perform the tasks that we in the “First World” today call “forces of nature” and primitive people and other mystics call spirits of mountain, sea, storm, etc.

If these ideas weren’t radical enough, Paracelsus publicly burned the books of Galen, whose writings had held the course of medicine in a highly rational track for over twelve-hundred years, and the works of Avicenna, a Persian physician whose textbook was a standard in Europe for the previous couple hundred years.  He further scandalized his fellow doctors and academicians by telling them that “each person possesses within himself the powers and latent faculties necessary to become aware of a multi-dimensional universe.”

This radical truth, that humans have the potential to perceive a multi-dimensional universe, we still wrestle with today – at least in First World cultures.

Four hundred years after Paracelsus, in the same Swiss canton of Schwyz, Rudolph Steiner expanded Paracelsus’ work with lectures on the role of nature intelligences in the growth and development of all the kingdoms of nature:  mineral, vegetable, animal, and human.

Steiner was born in 1847, in Croatia, a village so remote that nature was a powerful force for him as a child.  He became highly clairvoyant in his young years and convinced of a world beyond that which his parents could conceive.  To master both worlds and communicate about the one to the other, he trained himself thoroughly at the Technical University of Vienna in physics, mathematics, biology, chemistry, optics, botany, and anatomy, and then gained a doctoral degree in philosophy.  His doctoral thesis was that clairvoyance – the practice of seeing into other realms – would have to be integrated into the scientific approach if “the half-truths of materialism were not to drag the world into a materialist and mechanistic disaster.”  (Tompkins 111)

Steiner continued writing prolifically about the spiritual realms and defining a “spiritual science,” in which nature beings conduct the symphony of life, which includes everything in creation, including humans and their psychic powers.  Everything flows according to patterns passed down by higher intelligent beings – everything a manifestation of the Creation.

According to Steiner, if we ignore the nature beings connected to the higher beings, we cut ourselves off from understanding anything real, including our own health and how to heal.  Alternatively, understanding our relationship to the other realms, Steiner encourages, will assure our individual and collective survival.

Steiner explained that information moves through everything alive, including things Western science defines as “not alive,” such as rocks, rivers and sky.  Communication between the upper and lower worlds, he said, is conveyed by nature beings through leaves, petals, trunks and roots to beings who live underground, sometimes called gnomes, who traverse that realm as freely as we move through air.

Specifically, in spring and summer, plants gather secrets from the “extra-terrestrial” universe and sink them deep into the ground of the Earth, where they are absorbed by the spirits living there.  In autumn and winter, gnomes, in particular, carry in full consciousness the ideas of the cosmos and translate them to every rock and mineral in the earth and to the roots of plants.

Any element of nature can convey the extra-terrestrial wisdom to humans, including gnomes, though those beings, in particular, don’t have the greatest respect for humans and often laugh at us, stuck as we are in our rational concepts which frame and limit what we can perceive.

Today, our culture struggles with the concept of beings and vehicles outside our accepted paradigm, because we’ve been trained, since long before Galen, since Hippocrates, to perceive only the materialistic world, authorized by Science, and to deny all else.

According to Steiner, mankind’s “Fall” came about when we denied our ability to communicate with nature intelligences, which communicate with extra-terrestrial wisdom, and thereby cut off our communication with the highest intelligence of Creation.  Our destiny, though, he claimed, was to expand our minds beyond contact with nature beings, to the intelligences above them, after which we would begin to take responsibility for managing and designing material life on this plane.

Of course, many in the halls of Science and Academia would say that this is exactly what they are about; and they would deny any role in cutting us off from wisdom.  It was their materialistic “half truths,” though, that Paracelsus warned would lead us to disaster.

Arrogantly, Western science today labels “primitive” any contemporary or ancient culture which contends that spirits exist throughout the natural world and can communicate with humans.  So when Harvard psychiatrist John E. Mack, working with experiencers of alien contact, dared to consider the worldviews of shamans from the jungles of Africa and rainforests of South America to help him understand a phenomenon that had shattered his worldview, he was met with formidable hostility and ridicule, particularly from Harvard.  The shamans, on the other hand, told him, “We were wondering when you white people would begin to get it.”

As someone who has experienced the profoundly destructive ways of science (as a CIA mind control subject as a child) and who has also experienced the healing powers of nature in a “shamanic initiation” (which also included apparently alien contact), I can’t help but ask the next hottest contemporary questions:  What about the stuff we call evil?  Are some of the spiritual hierarchies not working for our best interests?  Are some of the aliens “good guys” and others “bad guys”?

My inclination for the last few years has been to assume that alien beings are trans-dimensional (aka spiritual) beings, some of them working in our best interests, and some of them seeming to work against us.  And it’s our very important work today to discern which is which.

How they look might not help with discernment.  According to Paracelsus and Steiner, and all the mystics they consulted and who’ve followed them through the centuries, these beings can take any form they want, often choosing a pattern pre-existing in the mind of the person who views them.

I’ve always understood that, so I was keenly interested to see what else Rudolph Steiner had to say on this key question of discernment.  Like many other spiritual philosophers, Steiner refused to categorize things we call evil as evil.  Rather, he said, certain hierarchies of intelligence above us, called angels in the Western world, devas in the Hindu, chose to deviate from the program of perfection by which they’d always been limited and allow themselves free will and thereby allow humans this possibility too.  It opened up transformative possibilities for Creation, but with a risk.  And we’ve seen this risk played out nearly to completion, it seems, in today’s world of nuclear bombs, multiple wars, ongoing slavery, global child sex industries, mind control, global economic thievery, and more.

It is into this world, beginning quite clearly with the advent of atomic bombs, that these apparently trans-dimensional vehicles and beings have suddenly come in great numbers into human awareness.  The question in my mind has always been:  Are they responding to the horrors we’ve unleashed, hoping to mitigate or correct them, or are they orchestrating them?

The execution of wide-spread death, according to the rational Western mind, might be depicted as the ultimate evil.  But death, to Steiner’s mind, is only a recycling of soul back to higher life forms, providing the souls powerful instruction, with no need to name anything evil.

The shamans who came to Mack were also ambivalent about the nature of ET beings.  For instance, the mantindane (African name for grays) were often seen as unwelcome “troublemakers,” but essential for waking up an individual in a shamanic initiation.  So, if we also can accept a less polarizing view of trouble, death, and suffering, we might also perceive our contemporary experience as Mack did:  a “wake-up call to humanity,” or a “consciousness program for the spiritually impaired.”

Many cultures throughout time have told stories of spiritual beings who were liars or “tricksters” – the Celtic Loki, Native American Heyoka, Greek Cupid.  These spirits and all the rest, according to the Greek Dionysus, student of Plato, fill space in “realm upon realm.”  One of Dionysus’ students, Paul of Tarsus, told his followers, and it is now recorded in the New Testament, “You must learn to discern the spirits.”

Steiner might say we must learn to discern the subtle aspects of nature and science, those hidden since Hippocrates’ words were deemed the only truth, with all else relegated to old wives’ tales and superstition:  we must learn to discern the intelligences manifesting in and thereby creating and maintaining every aspect of life from storms to daisies to human life with its glories of music and dance and art and love and wars and all else – far too much intelligence to ignore.

Today, as we watch the world unfold in dramas few want to believe, strange shapes appear in they sky, change colors and morph into different forms.  People from every walk of life, from Peruvian tribes to American Presidents, pilots, police officers and movie stars, report things we’ve come to call flying saucers and alien beings.

Hippocrates put a lid on this for well over two millennia, and now that lid just won’t stay down.  Gardeners in Findhorn have been talking to devas for decades, churches spring up around old teachings of Swedenborg and Blavatsky, books by Blake and Goethe enjoy a renaissance, and Christians reconsider Jesus’ response to his followers amazement at his miracles, that we would “do all these things and more.”

Multi-dimensional reality is forcing itself into the minds of Earth inhabitants, perhaps contrary to the wishes of those in Earthly “rational” structures of power.  Books like The Secret Life of Nature help blow the lid off things, along with those beings we call alien.

Are some of the aliens in league with structures of power, such as our governments?  Undoubtedly.  Are others trying to wake us out of our educated and entertained enchantment?  I’m sure of this also.

But it’s far more nuanced than a simple good-versus-evil drama.  Our personal, spiritual and collective work is to discern these elements – elemental beings, if you will, and all the dynamics between them, between them and us, around us and including us.  Whether they are tricksters and liars, or purely helpers, or both, they challenge us to wake up, discern, and dodge or dance with them into our next evolution.


[1] Tompkins is also author of the #1 New York Times Bestseller The Secret Life of Plants.

Favorite Quote From Rob Brezny

From Pronoia is the Antidote for Paranoia (the next-to-the-last passage in my book):

This is a perfect moment…because you and I are waking up from our sleepwalking, thumbsucking, dunb-clucking collusion with the masters of illusion and destruction.  Thanks to them, from whom the painful blessings flow, we are waking up….

As heaven and earth come together, as the dreamtime and daytime merge, we register the shockingly exhilarating fact that we are in charge of creating a brand new world….

As we stand on this brink,as we dance on this verge, we can’t let the ruling fools of the dying world sustain their curses. We have to rise up and fight their insane logic; defy, resist, and prevent their tragic magic; unleash our sacred rage and supercharge it….

In the new world we’re gestating, we need to be suffused with lusty compassion and ecstatic duty, ingenious love and insurrectionary beauty.

Words of Wisdom by Terrence McKenna

“It is this that I am concerned to communicate:

both the nearness and the strangeness

of uncharted realms

of risk and beauty

full of promise.”

Terrence McKenna

Inspiration from Whitley Strieber

I love this excerpt from Whitley Strieber’s upcoming book,
What is to Come: The Solution to the Communion Enigma,
which I transcribed from his audio recording on his website:
http://www.unknowncountry.com/special/whitley-strieber-reads-mind-control-chapter-what-come

“[W]hat happened to me did not have an exclusively negative impact on my life.
In shattering the mirror of expectation for me,
it opened my mind to a hidden reality that has greatly enriched me.

“Had I not as a child been brutalized by whomever this was,
I don’t think I would have even been able to perceive the Visitors.
I would never have had the chance to do the impossible,
which is to have formed a relationship with them.

“Because I was so shocked in my childhood,
I lost my belief in the stability of the ordinary world.
I live in a permanent state of unease.
But also a permanent state of wonder.

“Ask any close encounter witness what is real.
They will tell you at once it isn’t what you see around you.
This world of pretense in which we live is just like a shattered childhood
— a very different place than it appears.

“We smile and pretend that all is well. But all is not well.”

I was also recently greatly supported
by listening again (twice!) to Whitley reading his book
Secret School, which can be heard in its entirety here, for free, beginning with part 1 of 18:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yq1jvEKsNfI

Inspiration from Carlos Castaneda

Last night I was both blown away and comforted by these words,
which cast the unsettling (and sometimes terrifying) fact
of not being able to remember what has happened
– when it is clear something happened
into a context of ancient wisdom teaching
(though it might also have been highjacked,
or highjacking is often attempted,
by modern government technologies):

“Don Juan explained that in a state of heightened awareness
apprentices can behave almost as naturally as in everyday life,
but can bring their minds to focus on anything
with uncommon force and clarity.

“Yet, an inherent quality of heightened awareness is that
it is not susceptible to normal recall.
What transpires in such a state becomes part of
the apprentice’s everyday awareness
only through a staggering effort of recovery.”
[my emphasis]

I know that “staggering effort!”
Thanks, Carlos.

He goes on to eventually quote Don Juan:
“Every time I entered into heightened awareness
I could not cease marveling at the difference between my two sides.
I always felt as if a veil had been lifted from my eyes,
as if I had been blind before and now I could see.

“The freedom, the sheer joy that used to possess me on those occasions cannot be compared with anything else I have ever experienced.
Yet at the same time,
there was a frightening feeling of sadness and longing
that went hand in hand with that freedom and joy.

“Don Juan had told me that there is no completeness
without sadness and longing,
for without them there is no sobriety, no kindness.
Wisdom without kindness, he said,
and knowledge without sobriety are useless.”

Everyone is mind controlled to some degree

Here’s a brilliant film – “Human Resources” – about mind control and economy,
from behaviorism (“Give me a baby, and I can make any kind of man”)
through industrialism to MKULTRA….
with music by Phillip Glass, Mozart, and Dylan…artful in every way…
astounding in the depth and breadth of truth conveyed and connections made.

http://cryptogon.com/?p=19116

(Bookmark it if you don’t have time, and make a note to go back.)

What it feels like to heal “multiple personalities”

It’s pretty trippy.

First, there was the recognition that I was multiple (though I believe everyone is, to some degree, so this “diagnosis” is relatively benign, though still something interesting to work with, to deepen one’s self-understanding). That came to me the summer of 1994, the evening of the last day of my first year in the Creative Writing Master of Fine Arts program at the University of Arizona. I’d only gone back to school because I needed the income that student loans could provide, because I couldn’t work after my son had been diagnosed with cancer, my husband and I agreed to divorce, I’d been designated the one to move – with my teenage children, who became very bitter – my health insurance company had declared bankruptcy, and my daughter had acted hatefully to me for the first time ever, calling me selfish for making them move.

I’d wanted to work. I loved my work, and the business owner (I was his only employee) had just offered me the plum of a lifetime: ownership of his $3-4 million business – 200 birdwatching tours every year to every continent, including Antarctica – for a percentage of profits, no money down. I felt perfectly capable of taking it, though not sure I wanted to be tied down to any business, regardless of how attractive it was. I’d been written up along with three other women a few years previous as a Supermom – I didn’t recommend it – in a major Tucson, Arizona, newspaper. But now I couldn’t work. I went to work, I stayed all day, but noticed my energy was extremely slow, and then I began waking up at my desk, wondering why I was looking at the wall sideways and realized I’d laid my head down on my desk, but didn’t recall it. And this happened day after day.

It never occurred to me to ask for help. A couple months earlier, I’d won a literary prize for a short story I’d written and had been invited by one of the judges into the University of Arizona’s writing program. For the first time, I considered going back to school and realized it would be perfect: Someone would “pay” me to write and read, both of which would be excellent therapy that I might not be able to afford otherwise. I worried about taking my fragile self into the university environment, but didn’t see any choice.

I had my nervous breakdown before a callous young, witty audience. Humbling beyond belief.

I won’t describe the first year. I wrote about it in RattleSnake Fire. But the night after my last class of the year, an evening class that ended at nine, I rode home through the hot Tucson summer air, coasting downhill toward the dry Rio Santa Cruz, my path occasionally sloping down through a wash where the cold air layered, and I enjoyed the exhilaration of the coolness on my sweaty skin and the physicality of pushing on pedals and making myself move!

The semester was done, and it had been damn hard, all that humiliation, but I’d borne it with dignity, I thought, and it was only half my fault, the difficulty of it all; the rest was the other students’ and their age – and even that wasn’t their fault. This was just one of those accidents of nature: culture had created a lifestyle including the pressure of Supermoms (not sustainable), which cripples people like myself, we are hurt, and everyone has been isolated, communities fractured, no one left able to respond, and humor is one way of dealing, sometimes hurting others’ feelings, or worse, and it happens all around us all the time. This had been the clear, stark, in-my-face reality everyday, and I was the one in the net, laughed at. Because my children needed me, I didn’t kill myself.

Two weeks earlier, I’d come home one afternoon, dropped my backpack onto my bed, and saw a vision of myself from inside, as if I were small and standing inside a big, dark human-shaped barn old enough to have gaps of between the boards which let in the only light. I was amazed and thought, “This thing’s not standing much longer.” Then, a support beam hidden in the darkness dropped from its position, and I knew the barn was coming down soon.

“Okay,” I answered, “but let me get through these last two weeks of school.” The crazy instabilities I’d been experiencing in ever quickening cycles suddenly stopped, and I finished the semester in relative peace.

And now it was over. I had the entire summer to myself, essentially: I would take an independent study, meaning I could continue to get student loans while writing whatever I wanted on whatever schedule suited me.

The idea of three whole months with nothing to do but the writing I’d do anyway was astounding, and I realized this was the first time in my life since my childhood that I didn’t have a schedule. Things had been nearly bursting my seams, and now I’d have time to let them out, thoughtfully, and have time to recover from whatever emotion I was sure would flow. What a gift. Time. I’d never had it in my life.

The summer night was beautiful on my skin and in my lungs as I cruised down side streets and wound along bike paths toward our little apartment complex, our new home. Historic, brick, with the Virgen de Guadalupe painted on the wall near the front gate into the courtyard, where I lived in a little one-room efficiency with a fig tree at my front door. I’d long loved fig trees, since I sat in one at my grandmother’s house and felt truly loved in its arms. So this tree was a sign of good things, and they’d had been happening, slowly. For one, my son’s cancer was gone.

My kids, sixteen and seventeen, each had their own un-rehabilitated apartment, illegal and without water, but they loved being on their own, and they could come to my place to use the kitchen and bathroom, and sometimes we’d have meals together.

Exhilarated by all the goodness, the most beautiful evening weather in Tucson, my sweet little apartment, and the promise of an empty summer, I eagerly set up my writing situation: My writing chair and matching ottoman I’d purchased for sixty dollars (an extravagant amount) at a thrift store many years earlier. The cream and gold brocade was frail, just beginning to pull apart in a few places, but still looked nice. Beside the chair, I placed a cup of hot herbal tea and a quart jar of pure, room-temperature water, along with my journal, pens, pipe and smoking mix, and the little lap desk I’d bought for my son, thinking he’d enjoy writing in bed (“Oh, Mom…” he’d said scornfully, either because he thought it was truly a dorky idea or else it was the little blue teddy bears covering the pellet-filled pillow which made the desk comfortable on the lap.) Maybe I also poured a little wine, or got myself a snack. But I remember thinking that everything was perfect. And after all I’d been through in the last year, I was newly happy about living, mostly happy that this was the first free moment of what would be three whole months of nothing to do, an unbelievable, amazing gift, for which I was infinitely grateful.

Just as some might sit down to indulge in a delectable meal, I paused before sitting down and admired the picture: The reading lamp shown on the brocade, everything I might need right beside me. The Holographic Universe by Michael Talbot was there – delicious reading, though at times it bent my mind. I’d begin the evening by reading and see what writing was triggered.

My psychotherapist had told me that I really needed to practice making purchases for myself, because I’d never done it. I’d only acquired things that were cheap or free, except for gifts I gave to others. With his urging, I’d bought myself an India print bed spread in blues, purples and greens, very mystical, and the spread in the uneven glow of my reading lamp caused an upwelling of love and gratitude to flow through my body. Life was good.

Sitting down, I faced the front wall, beyond which was my Black Mission fig, and studied up near the ceiling the crumbling brick wall exposed where plaster had fallen away. The colors were beautiful.

Eventually, I read. Fascinated, pages turned for a while until I hit a sentence that confused me – not unusual, as this was material that sometimes needed to be read twice, but this was confusing in a different way. Something was wrong. I had read the sentence a few times, and I had no idea what I’d read. It was as if someone had removed a snippet of my life completely, erased every word and concept that had flowed. I read it again. Again, I could remember nothing. Fully conscious. And boggled. I’m sure I shook my head. And when it happened again, I realized I had to think of some way to trick myself to get around whatever was going on. I read the sentence aloud, and then remembered.

The sentence mentioned that one famous clinician of people with Multiple Personality Disorder believed that many of them looked far younger than their ages. Immediately, I knew why I’d gone blank. I was often mistaken to be twenty years younger than I was. As for being a multiple, that was freakish, abhorrent, and I rejected it, but also recognized that something else inside was speaking up, saying, “Yes, we are….”

In the moment that I yielded, accepted that maybe it could be true, and a reasonable person should look at the evidence and just consider it, it was as if a lifetime dis-ease had shifted, giving promise of relief. I remembered times of amnesia, and a childhood friend who’d screamed at me that I was a “split personality.”

“This would explain a lot of things,” I thought.  Suddenly, I felt my body ripple as if made of water with a slight electric charge, then the sensation was gone and I felt normal again, except that it seemed my body had been rewired on the cellular level, and energy flowed through me in the most perfect patterns of harmony and health.

I was also aware of the presence of a woman in me, or rather like a three-dimensional covering over my skin, holding all my parts together; and knew that she was the one who would oversee my reintegration. The words, “the integrating woman” came to mind. I couldn’t see her, though, as I “saw” from my left, while she was looking slightly to the right. Somehow, I felt hopeful.

The next morning, I went to the University Medical Library and spent a few hours reviewing all the literature on MPD. When I walked out the door, I actually felt happy. Rather than insanity and hopeless cases (I was ready to be the famous exception), I read that MPD is often caused by childhood trauma (my experience), is often accompanied by high intelligence (my experience), and is considered by some to be fairly common; some researchers even believe that everyone is multiple to some degree. Finally, I learned that, unlike most mental illnesses, once diagnosed, it is relatively easy to cure.

I strode out of the hospital, buoyant at the promise of new life after I healed my alters.

To be continued….

Life is a Series of Breakthroughs

I’ve often said, “Life is nothing if not a series of breakthroughs.”

Just hours after writing my last post, telling friends it was here and that I needed help, I had yet another major breakthrough of my life.

Computer turned off, I sat on my sofa, first feeling alone, but trusting, then imagined streams of light stretching out across the nation between myself and whomever might be praying for me.  And realized that we are a powerful network for each other!

Over these last decades, I’ve had many conscious experiences of my Spirit Help, which have amazed me, changed me, and made me think I’d never feel disconnected from them.  Yet, often I have felt disconnected, unable to find my way back.  I’ve often imagined my Spirit Help “out there,” unwilling or unable – perhaps prevented by spiritual adversaries – to come in close and connect with me again.

After my post, with you in support, I experienced my Spirit Help suddenly close again, actually inside my aura, inside my heart, in various places around me, depending on who they are.  Yeshua I felt literally in my heart.  Other powerful beings in his command reside elsewhere around me.  I spent quite awhile acknowledging everyone and checking in with what exactly is our relationship and how they are here to assist me.

When I lay in bed that night to sleep, surrounded by my cosmic tribe, our auras co-mingling comfortably, we seemed like a litter of spirit kittens, content, warm, fed, cuddling in ultimate comfort and security.  In “reality” (whatever that is!), it may be more true that I am like the single kitten in the comfort of many mothers, but in any case, I slept with a very sweet sense of security I’ve not often felt.  And it has stayed with me all week.  So, thank you, thank you, thank you all.

I’ve continued to pray nightly for all of you who wrote to say you were praying for me.  I love the image of our overlapping prayers wrapping light around our world as I drift into the Dreamtime.

Chapter 6: Rock ‘n’ Rollin’ Reporter

We are star dust
We are golden…
And we’ve got to get ourselves
back to the garden —
Joni Mitchell

To shake off my overwhelming sadness, I danced four nights a week in rock ‘n’ roll bars. Disclaiming I was “not a groupie,” I cherished my friendships especially with the members of Los Lasers and their fans, and eventually produced an award-winning rock video for them.

I dressed like what my parents would have called “a tart,” but in my mind I was helping all women of our culture reclaim the right to dress comfortably (without a bra). Only years later would I begin to understand I was probably also reclaiming my sexuality, extremely naïvely. I don’t like admitting how I acted back then, but this was my reality for many who knew me then.
Even though I didn’t own a TV, I worked toward a Bachelor of Arts in Radio and Television. I reasoned that these were the most powerful forces framing our culture, and I wanted to play a role in changing what was broadcast over the nation’s airwaves. I was a dedicated student, twice given scholarships, once when I didn’t even apply.
One afternoon, riding home on the city bus from the restaurant where I waited tables on the lunch shift, I saw a woman dressed in a cheap brown skirt and pale blue blouse, both clean and pressed, but unattractive and uncomfortable-looking, with her thin hair brushing the tops of her bony shoulders. She looked so sad it broke my heart, and I ached to do something simple – even just smile – to encourage her, if she would meet my eye.
Then suddenly I felt the reality of the millions of people in the world with sad stories. It wasn’t just me. Out the bus window, I saw rows upon rows of rooftops of middle class homes and thought of the families inside them, fighting, accusing, or lonely, mothers seeing no way out, children alone and frightened.
The world seemed so filled with sorrow, I felt a kinship with it all.
And a mission. The simple act of being nice to another person was profound, and something I could do at any time, even then, rather than focus on my own sad life. I looked behind me and saw a few Mexican women who, I surmised, might have just cleaned some rich people’s homes, judging by the route we were on, their clothes, and their tired and bored faces. The men had on uniforms with names on patches over their pockets. Only one woman met my gaze and returned a questioning smile.
My stop was coming up and I really wanted to meet the gaze of the woman in the pale blue blouse. As I moved to the front, I tried to meet her eyes, but she stared out the window instead.
An image came to mind of little boats in the dark, on a choppy, cold ocean, and the words “We’re all in this together” came to mind.
I wanted desperately to convey to others in this dark lifeboat that I was dedicated to helping us all. I wanted to make a difference, not just in their situations, but in their hearts. I wanted to make them feel peaceful, if only for a moment, and for them to know there was still love and gentleness in this world. But I didn’t want to embarrass us all. Since the one woman was still looking out the window, I consoled myself that another time would come.
I stepped off the bus onto the hard-packed dirt between the street and sidewalk. My sense of mission was filling me up, and I lifted my arms in exultation, inhaling deeply as if the air were pure and I were standing by the ocean. As the bus rumbled away and I began my walk home, I noticed an energy buzzing all around my body, that moved with me, that hovered around my arms no matter how I moved them, that moved with my legs as I walked. It was my aura!
I’d never sensed it before, and I loved it. I felt more alive than I’d ever felt, and I stepped brightly, almost laughing with my love for all the world.
At my apartment, I fell on my bed, waved my arms above me and experimented with how my aura felt as I moved. It stayed with me, buzzing, delighting, making me feel I could do anything, and life was a fantastic adventure.
The next day at school, I found it hard to concentrate, but that seemed unimportant. The second day, concentration was still difficult, and I was a bit concerned, but still very happy. On day three, I didn’t see how I could wait tables, attend class and do homework in my ecstatic state, so I told my aura it was really wonderful to experience, but I needed it to go away now, so I could function in the world. It disappeared in  of seconds, and I was back to normal, disappointed.
In my last year of school, the spring of 1983, I interned in a commercial television station, the public television station and National Public Radio affiliate where I won a first place award from United Press International (UPI) – Arizona-Utah region, for a radio feature. I also won another award for a radio feature series on education. (I include these awards and recognitions for context, for when my story becomes quite strange and maybe unbelievable for some people.)

While my ex was in school in California, he left the kids with various mother figures. Toward the end of my next-to-the-last semester, their caretaker, with whom my ex was also sharing a house, called to tell me the children were being neglected while in her care – what an admission! – because she didn’t want the job, but my husband wouldn’t look for anyone else. Then she scolded me for abandoning my kids. In shock, I told her I hadn’t.
Angry to have been lied to, she suggested I prepare to receive the children, and gave me a particular date when she’d throw him out, when she knew he’d be too occupied by final exams to have any choice. Hopefully, he’d call to ask me to take them, though he might think it was temporary.
It worked perfectly and, two years after I’d lost them, I received them back and was able to care for them full-time for the next twelve months, while establishing myself professionally. This was enough to satisfy the court that my petition for full custody was worthy, and I was soon launched, happily, into the role of single working mother, with full custody.
When I graduated, I gave up my dream to be a radical reporter and instead took a job in public relations, for the nine-to-five schedule it offered – best for a working mom. I accepted a position at the largest PR firm in the state.
It lasted only six months. Sent to interview a new client, I returned to tell my boss that I thought the man was a charlatan, and they let me go. Soon after, for eighteen months, he was on the front pages of the newspapers’ business section every day for his arrest and trial on charges of fraud.

I am Alive Today Because…

I am alive today because someone wrote a book about the horrors they went through as a child.  It let me know I was not alone, so I was able to gather the will to go on living.

Should that artwork not have existed, I would not be here, or I’d be a writhing, drugged mess in a mental ward.  I thank God for the writer who told a story that few others wanted to hear.

Now I’m on the other side, hearing similar stories from people who’ve read my book.  I only allowed myself to write it after I knew I had a fuller picture, beyond the fear, including hope for healing; but in the middle, it’s not “pretty.”

When some claim that the highest or only aspiration of Art is sublime beauty, I think of Neils Bohr who  said, “The opposite of a profound truth may well be another profound truth” – giving me permission to tell my less-than-pretty stories.  Thanks for listening.

Chapter 4: Minister’s Wife

In college, I had been powerfully persuaded to join a sorority, and couldn’t understand why they would want me.  Eventually, I’d joined, then de-activated, and felt lost my sophomore year.

On a spiritual quest, I attended a Christian gathering and was astounded to learn that Jesus, icon of mainstream America, had spoken against doctrinarism, materialism, sexism, racism, violence, and had thrown over the money changers’ tables.  Even though the words embarrassed me, I “gave my heart” to him – in secret.  I didn’t like to make a scene.

Then I dropped out of college, and hitchhiked across the country with the first man I found who thought it was a good idea.  I felt I had to “get away.”

When our money was gone, in Bradenton, Florida, I took a job at McDonalds, and my boyfriend went to work at the Tropicana juice factory.  Terrifically depressed, at home alone one day with no one but the roaches and TV for company, I knelt before a chair and prayed for direction, promising God that whatever He said, whether I liked it or not, I would do it, if only I had direction.  I’d only expected a vague notion, but to my great surprise, an oval light appeared in the room, and I heard a voice say That’s it – and I understood that “it,” my promise to follow Guidance, was key.

Having seen very few independent women in my life, I didn’t know how to follow anyone but a man, and would find God hard to hear.  Afraid to be alone, I married the boy-man with whom I was living and traveling, and we eventually moved to Phoenix, Arizona, to be somewhat near my parents.

The night before my son’s birth, I felt his spirit come into me, a beautiful light exploding with gentle sparks of fine gold.  My mother was visiting and, when I told her, she insisted we go to the hospital.  We did and, even though I told the doctors the feeling was wonderful, they sent me home with antacid.

The birth was nearly a death for both of us, thanks to the doctor who induced my labor.  I was not as far along in my pregnancy as the doctors had thought, so my pelvic bones had not loosened, and my baby became stuck.  Thinking they were going to lose us, they used a vacuum extractor to pull him through.  I as unable to ask questions because of the mask pumping drugs into me, so was left to my own conclusions:  I’d heard that vacuum extractors were used for abortions.  I was shocked when they showed me a living baby, though he was in a coma for thirty minutes.

On a trip to Ohio, when Michael was six months old and sitting on my lap, my husband drove very slowly in an icy blizzard with two lanes of traffic crawling and stopping.  Once, after sitting in another vehicle’s exhaust, I asked him next time to stop farther back.  Irritated at being told how to drive, he stopped fifty yards back, and smirked.  We were both astounded when, seconds later, a speeding, out-of-control tractor-trailer rig used that space to pull in front of us and exit the highway, where otherwise there’d have been a massive death scene.

My husband announced one day that he felt called to the ministry.  First shocked, I was later embarrassed to find myself in the role of a minister’s wife.  I still loved the “counter culture” and believed that Jesus came to show us how to not be “of this world,” so I was delighted we had found the “hippie church” in downtown Phoenix.  I didn’t want to create our own church, but my husband never asked me.

While playing my role on Sundays, during the week I suffered from nightmares of forgetting my baby in bizarre places and other events even more upsetting.  When Mormon missionaries came to the door, I decided to invite them in to converse, and  soon had nightmares about them.

Within the year, I was able to quit playing “minister’s wife,” as my husband felt called to seminary, in Louisville, Kentucky.

There, my husband found us a job as house parents at Spring Meadows Children’s Home.  While he spent long days at school, I stayed home with our two children, one- and two-years old, and six to eight teenage girls with a variety of emotional issues.   “We” were on duty six days a week, twenty-four hours a day, but it was mostly my work.

One afternoon, working with the girls in the kitchen, I suddenly felt called to find Michael, and walked immediately to a chair in an unused room of the 4,000-square-foot house, and found him choking on a marble.  Without thinking, I swung my arm gently and connected with the center of his back.  A marble popped out, and he looked up, unconcerned, so I figured he’d just begun to choke and hadn’t had time to become afraid.

In Louisville, we discovered a “radical Christian” Church (a common term in the seventies), where the congregation welcomed gays and lesbians, and recycled, ate healthy food, and marched for peace.  Friendships had been rare for me, as I’d allowed myself to become isolated in the housewife role, so these relationships were nourishing and important.  At a Halloween party, a man asked me to paint a tree on his forehead, and I did, adding the roots beneath the tree, so it formed a beautiful circular design – and I felt part of something absolutely sacred.

“We” should never have been given that houseparent job, which turned into my job – six days a week, twenty-four hours a day, with two children of my own to care for.  Within three months, I was a nervous wreck.  After two girls climbed out a window one night during a snow storm, intending to run away, I began having nightmares and woke up one night dry-retching.  Thankfully, the girls had been brought back by the police, very cold, but safe.  I understood their frustrations and desire to be “away,” maybe get married and thereby become free of the orphanage system. They needed so much more than the system or I could ever give them.

As soon as my husband finished his first year, he quit seminary, blaming me for lack of support.  Interested in “intentional community,” we followed some other Christian friends to the Catholic ecumenical community called New Jerusalem, in Saint Bernard’s Parish in Cincinnati, Ohio.  There I started a Third World craft market at Christmastime and a year-round children’s clothing exchange open to the neighboring, more economically-oppressed Parish.

I discovered a community of peace activists, with whom I once leafleted outside Senator Neil Armstrong’s office.  A man, looking very much like the Monopoly banker, refused my leaflet and asked me with a sneer and strong stare, “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

At first I was shocked, but after pondering his response to my anti-nuclear material, I decided I understood:  he believed the television – it wasn’t his fault.  And with that was born a vision:  One day, if I were lucky, I’d work to put a different sort of programming on TV.

A local peace group invited me to help organize a five-state peace conference.  Others had planned conferences before and directed my work, but I managed the promotions, poster and mailing design, and registration.  I worked enthusiastically, and the keynote speaker Sidney Lens said it was “the best organized conference” he’d ever been to.  Thrilled at the peace-dove pin I was given when it was over, I thought it a wonderful possibility that I might make activism my career.

Eventually we moved back to Arizona, and my husband found a church he liked, though I absolutely did not.  The people refused to discuss things like nuclear power, ethical investments, or Jesus’ teachings on materialism, racism or sexism.  I attempted to converse on these subjects occasionally, politely, of course, but was told that everyone thought I was making trouble.  Unfortunately, these were my only acquaintances when I decided I needed to divorce my husband.

When he told everyone that the divorce was my idea, the entire church quit speaking to me, though I’d also quit attending.  Soon he told me (truthfully or not, I don’t know) that a number of people were willing to testify in court that he was the better parent, and he said that the most dominant member of the church – who happened to be my doctor – would testify that I was schizophrenic!  He was demanding full custody of our children. I had imagined getting a small rental in town and us sharing custody in a kind and equitable manner.

Maybe the doctor hadn’t really said that.  I’d never been diagnosed with anything worse than depression.  My husband’s mother, on the other hand, had been hospitalized at least twice, he’d told me, for some indeterminate mental illness.  I’d later learn that this is called “projection,” to accuse another of what you fear in yourself.

But I was alone, young, emotionally abused for nearly a decade, physically abused twice (but had forgiven him), and lacking any experience in standing up for myself.  I chose not to defend my sanity in court, worrying thatthose church members might actually intend to lie about me.  And their testimony might be believed and recorded in legal judgments.

I might have gone to my family for financial help to actually defend my situation, but they thought I should stay married.  As my father put it, “You make your bed, you lie in it.”

My husband had promised to return joint custody to me after I’d gotten a college degree and could support myself.  So I bent to the manipulations, and gave him full custody of our children.  I would seethe at Christians for decades after that, and wrote off God and Jesus for a long while too.

After six months without my kids, I woke up as if from a stupor and realized the enormity of what I’d done.  When I asked my ex for mediation counseling to discuss what would be best for the children, he agreed to attend, then cancelled appointment after appointment until one day I slammed the phone into the wall and screamed as I’d never screamed before or since that I would sue him.  He promptly left the state.

I talked to a half-dozen lawyers and learned the hard truth about suing across state lines for custodial rights if you aren’t the one in possession.  I could have followed them, but he threatened to flee the country with our children if I tried to follow.  “I’ll go to Ohio – or New Zealand,” he said, “and you’ll never see them again.”

I moved to Tucson, and missed two precious years of my babies’ young childhood, and they missed me, as my husband left them with whatever woman was willing to care for them while he went to school, and at least one who only did because someone had to – she called me and told me.

Chapter 3: Born on the 7th of July

It wasn’t difficult for me to become a hermit, as my childhood contained a lot of solitude.  I felt closer to my dog and cats than anyone else in my world, and knew the weeping willow tree in our backyard objected vehemently when her branches were used for switches.  I often dreamed that I could fly.

Occasionally, in pre-school, I used vocabulary that no one else understood.  Somehow a college student heard about this, prompting her to follow me around for a day, to write up a paper.

At bedtime, I sometimes saw spirals in another dimension, and was happy to see them, then I’d slip in and disappear.  Or, head on pillow, I would sense myself flashing, as large as the universe and tiny as an atom, in rapid pulses that came on me unbidden, but were always welcomed with joy and relief that I could go somewhere else.

In John Mack’s Passport to the Cosmos, he tells the story of Sequoia Trueblood, a Native American who often experienced people from other realms, and told of once seeing “a kind of vortex of swirling lights ‘like a rainbow,’ into which he was sucked.” My spirals seem like something similar, so it’s clear to me that my moving between the realms began in childhood, as perhaps they do for all of us, until we learn to shut it down or forget about it.

My mother expressed concern to her friends and my pediatrician that I had an “imaginary friend” I called Cathy.  She looked like a very pretty, even angelic child my size and age, and she once materialized in front of my parents, which alarmed me until she gestured (or told me telepathically?) that my parents couldn’t see her.  Then we had a private têté a têté.  Like all children, I learned not to tell others about these things, and eventually forgot it all for decades.

Many of my childhood memories are of being alone.  I learned to crotchet before I entered kindergarten and made the most elaborate doilies I could find in the pattern books.  In third grade, I read classic novels hundreds of pages long.

We’d lived for most of my young life in Merced, California.  The summer before fourth grade, we moved to Paradise Valley, Arizona, hometown of Dan Quayle, who went to our public school for a few weeks while awaiting entry to a private school.

In fifth grade, I read the palms of my classmates, always “by the book” – except once when I accidentally went into a trance, vaguely aware of saying things that came from somewhere other than my books.  When I regained my normal state, a half-circle of girls stood around me with open mouths and looks of astonishment.  I vowed to myself to never “do that” again.

Good grades were normal, as were art awards, and sewing, beading, crocheting, leather tooling, and copper enamel projects.

I was strangely turned off by television.  I watched it with the family on week nights, as that was our main family time together.  I never watched it on weekends or after school though, and frequently told my younger siblings they shouldn’t watch it either – it was “bad for them.”

By the time I entered high school, my parents decided I should sew my entire wardrobe, and so I did.  My mom and I would visit Saks Fifth Avenue, then buy fabric and patterns to combine or adjust, and we’d recreate our favorites.  The mothers of my friends could hardly believe my tailoring skills, and in the Fine Arts Department my senior year, I was voted “Best Dressed Girl.”

Using a book, I learned to hypnotize myself to relax or sleep, by focusing on spirals I envisioned in space.  I also began to interpret my dreams.

When our varsity choir went on tour, my hotel roommate gave a back massage to a boy who lay on our floor, and she suggested I give a massage to another boy who’d arrived.  Accepting the pressure toward this teenage intimacy, I began, having no idea what to do, but figuring I’d imitate my friend.  To my surprise, my hands seemed to read some energy and followed it across and around the boy’s back muscles.  Repeatedly, I was forced to let go of what I thought I’d do next, as the energy moved my hands.

I never asked anyone, but always wanted to know:  How many others experience this sort of thing?

Today, I believe there are a lot of people like myself, and I wonder if everyone has more “anomalous” experiences than we remember, but because we’re taught to ignore them, our natural ability to relate to the other realms slowly fades, and we forget what we knew as children.

Chapter 2: Vibrations Return

Chapter 2 of RattleSnake Fire, by Jean Eisenhower

March, 2004.  Less than two years after the Judi Bari trial, while my boyfriend, Asante, worked late one night, I decided to sleep in the bedroom we’d created in the greenhouse/bathhouse.  Loud metallic rattling roused me and, in my first struggle toward wakefulness, I thought a washing machine was out of balance with a heavy load – then I woke fully and remembered where I was and that I didn’t have a washing machine, or even electricity in that building.

A metal bed frame stored under my bed was clanking on the cement floor, and the whole bed and I were vibrating too.  (Arizona hasn’t had an earthquake in over one-hundred years, and no one ever mentioned any tremblers.)  No sooner had my brain registered the shock of this, than a different recognition dawned:  Oh, this.  And then these words: It doesn’t make any sense, therefore there’s no need to think about it.  Might as well go to sleep.  And I did.  Later I’d wonder if it had been a command, but I then took it as my idea.  Curling my arms comfortably around my pillow, anticipating something familiar and good, I lay my head down and slipped away.

The next morning, I wondered if it was a repeat of the vibrations at the FBI trial.  There, too, they had felt familiar.  But why would it be the FBI now? I wasn’t doing any more environmental work, and I’d never been as successful as others anyway.

Asante had moved his teepees onto my land and become my partner about a year previous and was very familiar with the FBI, having been a radical activist since he was a teen. After Judi’s bombing, her lawyer heard that the FBI was holding another “bomb school” in Asante’s county, where he was stopping a great many timber sales, so that the lawyer worried that his life might also be in danger.  He and his girlfriend had gone on a whirlwind tour, telling everyone about their work, about Judi, and about the newly planned bomb school.  Either they were never in danger, or their tour worked.  We discussed my experience over breakfast, coming to no conclusion.

Rising from the table, I walked to one of my bookcases and, without any conscious intent, pulled Whitley Strieber’s Communion off the shelf.  I’d read it a couple years previously, telling myself I only wanted to see what the rest of our culture had found so intriguing in this #1 New York Times Best-Seller.  I’d found the book credible, and was happy it had “nothing to do with me.”  My life had enough weirdness in it.

Though I had other work to do, I took the book and sat on the couch intending to spend “just a little time” reviewing it, for no particular (conscious) reason, other than to take my mind off things.

Within a few pages, Strieber described sensing himself vibrating before the “visitors” abducted him.  I sank back in the sofa with my mouth open, then with a quavering voice I told Asante that I might have just experienced … (I paused, too embarrassed to say the words) what people call … (another pause – I hated this – Go ahead, just say it – I prodded myself, and inside I withered with humiliation) “an alien abduction!” spitting out the words.  I wasn’t sure I’d rather it be feds.  At least their harassment wasn’t something that would make all my friends think I was wacky.

For months, I continued to have similar experiences (told to nobody but Asante), a few each week, many beginning shortly after I drifted off, and others happening in the middle of the night.

One of those earliest events, on March 19, 2004, I went to bed earlier than Asante again and, after I’d arranged my pillow and was just beginning to relax on my back, I was shocked alert by a laser-like light that seemed to hit me between my eyebrows – so bright, I saw it through my closed eyelids.

Wanting an assuring explanation, I scrambled for one, and thought, Lightning? But I’d sensed being hit directly between the eyebrows, and memory had it coming at a precise angle, not through the sliding glass door, where I might convince myself it had been lightning, but through the eave and wall above and to the left of the door.  My memory was also clear that it had been circular, about a pencil’s width, with a precise, not fuzzy, perimeter.  Like a laser.

Suddenly I realized I was immobilized, which filled me with utter terror.  I tried to pray for protection, but my speech center, including the part of my brain that creates silent speech, was mostly incapacitated.  I was able to drag the name Jeeeeeee—-zzzzzuhz through my brain, but my mind seemed frozen and unable to remember the name of any other helping spirit I had, which added to my fear.  I could accept my body immobilized – but my mind?!  That provoked a terror unimagined until that night.

Then I saw in a picture glass on my right, a reflection of the window on my left, and through it a tall being gliding southward, just a few feet from the house.  After struggling for a few moments with deep-soul fear over my inability to even silently pray, I mentally “tossed” my need for protection, like a basketball, to spirit helpers I imagined gathered nearby overhead.  Then I fell unconscious.

The next day, Asante and I recalled that the night had been pitch black when I’d entered the bathhouse.  It was a first quarter moon, which wouldn’t rise until near midnight, and the sky had been overcast, so there weren’t even stars for the palest light.  There shouldn’t have been light to see anything reflected in the glass.  Years later, I’d read that observations of ETs are often attended by inexplicable light, presumably from their craft.

I’d once ended a friendship with a man the first time he said the word “alien” and clarified, “Yes, as in aliens and UFOs.”  I believed this was all a possibility – and quite likely true – but I adamantly did not want to be friends with people who talked about those things.  And now I certainly didn’t want those things in my life.  I’d come to the country for peace, to read, write, and contemplate life.

Since they were showing themselves to be part of my life, I should have been willing to contemplate them, but I wasn’t willing – probably because the subject is so ruthlessly ridiculed.

Today, I suspect I’ve left this realm frequently over the course of most of my life.  Sometimes it has felt like a vibration, other times I’d slip into a vortex or sense myself turning to “mist” and materializing again.  But as I was taught by my culture, I’d forget it – mostly.

Occasionally, after this happened, I reasoned that, if aliens are visiting the Earth, they need to pick someone for whatever they’re doing, but I couldn’t figure out: Why me? It made sense that their goals might include letting the populace know they are here.  But if that is the case, Why didn’t they choose someone who had more credibility? It was true I’d been a reporter and even won a couple of awards, which might add to my credibility, and I had been respected in various business circles that didn’t know about my activist leanings, but that was all years ago.  Yes, I was a PR person, maybe perfect for the job, but I thought I’d blown my credibility when I’d aligned with Earth First!  So, it seems they’d made a mistake in choosing me.

Later, I would learn there appear to be connections between “alien” contact, environmental awareness, psychic phenomena and, much to my dismay, government intelligence agencies – all of which I was involved with, or they involved me.

 

Chapter 1: Black Budget Psy Ops?

(Chapter One of my memoir, RattleSnake Fire)

(My intention is to post my entire book in serial form, a couple of chapters each week.  This chapter is the longest and also the most political.)

Oakland, California, May 2002. I slept on a futon on the floor beside a baby grand piano in the living room of a couple I didn’t completely trust. Trust was a difficult thing in those years and still is to some degree.
I’d been asked to do media work for an historic federal trial. The FBI and Oakland Police, after twelve years of legal ploys to keep it out of the courts, were finally being tried on charges related to, but not including, the car-bomb assassination attempt on the life of an environmental activist colleague.

One night, during the first week of the trial, having just fallen asleep, I woke and lifted myself off the futon in confusion – my entire body seemed encased in a cocoon of vibration. I imagined a government van with electronic equipment across the street, aiming a powerful beam of some sort toward me.
This idea did not come to me out of the blue. Years earlier, I’d read in the daily paper – and laughed along with everyone else – that Evan Mecham, then governor of Arizona, had accused the FBI of using a beam “to mess with my mind.”
I’d seen the movies, along with the rest in our culture, of government-employed electronics geeks in vans keeping surveillance. I’d read about higher-tech dirty tricks. I’d had my home bugged for holding Earth First! potluck meetings open to the public, and I’d experienced this non-violent activist colleague subject to an assassination attempt by someone the FBI refused – in twelve years – to investigate. For a moment I was terrified.
Then I relaxed with the idea that this was not strange, but familiar, and even comforting. Oh, this… I said to myself, in happy anticipation, and lay back down to slip into oblivion.
On awakening the next morning, I wondered why I’d thought it familiar or comforting, and concluded, with no small amount of dread, it was probably government psy ops. “Psychological operations” was a major part of COINTELPRO, code for the FBI’s Counter Intelligence Project, begun in the 1910s to crush the early labor movement with spies, lies, disruption, disinformation and even contract murders. It had been called to the attention of Congress in the 1970s and, for being contrary to our public right to protest, was supposed to have been shut down, but most historians of activism believe it was only moved to the underground. Psychological games, most activists felt, continued to play a role in driving away supporters, and I assumed higher-tech dirty work was still being done, and I’d been a target of some new wizardry.
Years later, I’d wonder if it was something else entirely, but then I simply knew I was engaged in a dangerous event in American political history.

In 1986, when I first got involved with Earth First!, the radical environmental activist organization (“disorganization” we preferred to call ourselves), I was aware that illegal property destruction, commonly done to protect ancient forests after all legal avenues had been exhausted, had likely piqued the interest of the FBI and would make us a target for infiltration.
I’d never done anything illegal in my life, other than drive too fast, so I did occasionally wonder why I’d gotten involved. I’d been a Southern Baptist minister’s wife for a year, something I’d keep secret from most of this crowd for at least a decade, and normally shaved my legs, unlike most EF! women, and never helped plan or do anything illegal – at least for the first few years. But I loved the ballsy-ness of the group, the sense of humor, the enthusiasm for song and dance and street theater, and the righteous anger sublimated to a noble cause. Back in high school, I’d wished I could make the world aware of our environmental issues, and here I found EF! had given me that voice. Eventually, I’d come to realize something even more significant: sublimation of rage was also a motivation for me, though my rage was hidden so deep within my subconscious, I’d have no awareness of it for about a decade.
After hanging with EF!ers for a couple years, providing organizing and media skills, I finally engaged in two illegal activities. One was a spur-of-the-moment act of civil disobedience – I locked my neck to the front axle of a road grader, delaying construction on a sacred mountain for a day. I am not normally so brave. The opportunity arose and I was given no more than a couple minutes to decide whether to lock on or not. I’d long admired the activists who put their bodies “on the line” for something they believed in, and since I was a mother with young kids who’d probably not plan such a thing, at least until they were on their own, this felt like a serendipitous opportunity that might never present itself again, and I went with it.
The other illegal act I actually contemplated a little longer (maybe five minutes) before I put a bumper sticker – the easy-to-remove plastic kind – where it didn’t belong – on a glossy painted surface (so it would be especially easy to remove) on the inside of a bathroom stall – and about had a heart attack. No, my destiny was not to do much more than write media releases and organize, though I would later get arrested for not quickly enough leaving the scene of another group’s civil disobedience.
But I drank up the intellectual stimulation of hanging out with forest philosophers, academics, authors, angry anarchists, singer/songwriters and performers of every sort – from outrageous to spiritually sublime. At my first Round River Rendezvous, I sat with Dolores LaChapelle, author of Sacred Land, Sacred Sex, Rapture of the Deep, and Bill Devall, author of Deep Ecology, and watched Jeri McAndrews dance and punk rocker Jonathan Richmond sing, all high in the mountains of Idaho. I’d never in my life been around so many successful people who also seemed so happy and in touch with their emotions and able to express them. I need this, I thought.
My husband and I had just driven two-thousand miles to get the Rendezvous. The first evening, when we heard people speaking fearfully of FBI infiltrators, we were concerned and disappointed. I had what, at the time, I thought was a totally unfounded, neurotic fear that people would think I was a spy – the woman who wrote media releases as her profession and whose leg hair was just a stubble – obviously not a real radical, maybe a poser.
Even though this crowd of about three-hundred was camped at 10,000-foot elevation, some men had hiked back out and in again with a generator, television and VCR (the only time I know that such a thing was done), so everyone could watch the national news EF! had made that year.
On that cold July night, we stood huddled in the meadow, incongruously around a television with the generator chugging, while others bitched about the noise and consumer gadgets offending their sense of the wild (rightly), and watched news clips for about an hour. As a media relations professional, I was impressed that this rowdy disorganization had commanded the attention of the major national media – which, I’m sure, also helped the FBI decide they had to do something about it.
The two clips I recall included one about the burning of a helicopter used for clear-cut logging on steep slopes – an environmental nightmare that causes mudslides and the death of creeks and streams and all the fish and wildlife that depend on them. It was a little disorienting to stand amongst the type of people who would cheer about a felony that made the news, but also impressive to witness the passion and audacity someone had had, to take action to stop something that was clearly worse: After all, what’s more valuable, an ecosystem or a helicopter?
Obviously, I’d never be able to do anything like that, but I knew I could write the media release for someone, explaining why it had been done. They were like the American colonists, I thought, who’d dumped England’s tea into Boston Harbor. Now applauded by historians, it was a similar sort of civil disobedience, the destruction of something small to protect something invaluable – after all legal channels had first been exhausted. I’d be sure to always include this Earth First! ethic.
The other clip was of Dave Foreman, a cheerful, avuncular man with a drawl, who’d been a preacher’s son! I took comfort in his history, that he was not only accepted by this crowd, but nearly beloved. I hoped one day my devoted work to the cause would put my past religiosity in context. Dave and his wife Nancy lived in Tucson, not far from us, we were soon to learn. On the video, we saw him in his tweed jacket and trimmed beard – “dapper” someone in the circle called him, eliciting hoots and laughter – being interviewed by Jane Pauley on “Good Morning America.” I’d go home and tell my children that we’d hung out with people that I fully believed their children would read about in history books, who changed the world for the good.
Back in Tucson, we became regulars at the mailing parties for the Earth First! Journal and soon would host the biweekly potluck meetings at our home. We understood this meant we’d probably host infiltrators too, but we wouldn’t fear, at first, as we knew we weren’t doing anything illegal.
My involvement with Earth First! entailed writing media releases, creating post cards for hundreds of people to send to Congress, participating in protests, singing outrageous songs, and performing in skits on the sidewalk. Some activists went so far as to disrupt Forest Service offices, sometimes chaining themselves to railings. At the age of thirty-four, after a decade of motherhood duties and nine-to-five professional work, this was fun – and for a cause I absolutely believed in.
Actually is was so much more than “fun.” I had rarely seen so many people demonstrate – to me, up close – the passion and practicality that Earth First!ers demonstrated. They educated themselves on ecology, politics, law, communications, organizing, and more. At our first Rendezvous, we participated in an amazingly-successful “consensus decision-making circle” with 150 people involved. The women who led the group had been trained to present issues, focus the discussion, assure that all points of view were fairly heard, deal with emotions, and shepherd the group to a final decision. Later that day, we joined in “non-violence training,” which included lessons and exercises in how to avoid even the most subtle, non-verbal acts that might trigger violence in another and to help others recognize and temper what could escalate emotions in tense situations. I was highly impressed by all this planning and professional presentation – as powerful as any I’d received in my professional work – in the middle of a forest! My views were expanding in self- and world-evolving ways, and I believed I was on a righteous road with people who cared about the most important things in life – and they had fun.

In 1989, less than three years later, our idyllic activist community was rocked by the arrest of Dave, Peg Millet and three others (not Earth First!ers), who soon were all facing prison. Dave had been framed on the flimsiest of charges, having been hundreds of miles away from the FBI-planned event, with a federal wiretap proving he hadn’t had an inkling of what the FBI infiltrator had schemed. After a year and a half of intense preparation and the free services of the world-famous attorney, Gerry Spence (author of Justice for Some, who defended Imelda Marcos), Dave barely eluded prison.
Many activists pitched in to do jail and lawsuit support work, but I never felt able. The arrests and realization that two of the infiltrators who’d sought to put our friends in prison had both been in our home and pretended to be our friends was too much of a shock – though I’d thought I was aware of the reality.
To lessen my stress, I quit my activist responsibilities temporarily – but that turned into almost a year.

Within the year, I became re-inspired by a California Earth First! activist, Judi Bari, who was doing PR like I’d never done PR. The high point of her work, or that which attracted my attention, was her plan for Redwood Summer, a nationwide action modeled on Mississippi Summer, which had catalyzed the Civil Rights movement by bringing people from around the world to see and experience the racism of the South.
Judi was planning to bring people from around the world to see the giant Redwood forest being cut down. She was brilliant, and I wanted to watch her, learn from her, and one day become as powerful an activist as she was.
Acknowledging that I was burned out and still had two teenagers at home (though Judi had a four- and nine-year old, and she kept going), I decided to continue giving myself a break, but to keep an eye on her work, and in a few years, when my kids were on their own, I’d reenter activism with renewed enthusiasm and vision. I repeated to myself: Neither Judi nor I do anything illegal; we only educate, so no one can ever frame us. Somehow I ignored the fact that that’s all Dave had done too, and he’d been busted. What would happen to Judi, though, was far, far worse.
At that very time, the FBI was holding “bomb school” in Judi’s county, teaching local law enforcement officers how to investigate a bomb scene. Two of their three example vehicles, which were bombed, were Subaru station wagons – exactly what Judi drove.

Just before the first Redwood Summer gathering began, on May 24, 1990, a pipe bomb exploded beneath Judi’s car seat and should have killed her, except the cap blew off, sending most of the force out sideways, ballooning out the steel of the driver’s door. She was gruesomely wounded, her pelvis shattered in uncountable pieces, her body impaled on a seat spring from beneath her.
The FBI immediately took over the case. Judi’s lawyers said they were on the scene so fast it was as if they’d been standing around the corner with their fingers in their ears. While agents arrested Judi, unconscious in intensive care, other agents removed her driver’s side door to send to Washington DC “for evidence.” Then they told the media that Judi and her fellow activist, Darryl Cherney, also injured in the car when the bomb exploded, were their main suspects. The evidence would make this impossible to believe, especially when it came to court – twelve years later.
In the “court” of the media, though, with the evidence conveniently removed, the lie served its purpose. Judi and Darryl were characterized as “mad bombers” in headlines across the nation. And a citizen initiative called “Forests Forever” which she’d been helping – to make California’s timber industry sustainable, which polls showed would likely win – was now associated with violence. So, after years of statewide grassroots political effort, involving scores of groups and organizations promoting sustainable economies and sustainable ecology throughout the timber region, it barely lost.
The timber companies, which had been logging seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day under stadium lights, to liquidate as much of their assets as possible in the event the referendum would win, continued taking down the old growth Redwoods, while activists sat in trees and filed lawsuits that would never be heard. The national media, at least outside California, refused to tell the political story and covered the activists’ heroic actions as “color pieces,” media lingo for something interesting, maybe funny, but essentially insignificant.
The people planning Redwood Summer now had to split their time between the national campaign with thousands arriving from around the country, Judi and Darryl’s legal support, and Judi’s and her children’s care. Obviously, the bomber dealt a blow to forest protection, besides nearly murdering two brilliant activists.

It took years, but Judi was eventually able, with her wheelchair and walker, to go back on stage and play her fiddle with Darryl, a powerfully talented singer-songwriter. Judi defined the word indomitable, but she lived in pain the rest of her life, until she died in 1997 of breast cancer.
I was not as strong as Judi and could not shake my depression. It was as if a psychic bomb had exploded in my mind. Within a couple years, I folded my business and took a job.

A couple years after that, in 1994, when other family stressors (cancer, divorce, a move, and health insurance bankruptcy) compounded my depression, I left my children (barely old enough to be on their own), and moved to the country. With credit cards, and a total limit of twenty-thousand dollars, I built a 600-square foot straw-bale home with a fireplace, passive solar design, and steel roof to harvest rain water for drinking. I wanted to live rent- and utility-free for the rest of my life and go into the city only occasionally for groceries.

Twelve years after the bombing, the trial was finally scheduled to be heard. I’d spent four of the past years in hermitage, when Darryl called to ask me to help with media work. I came out of seclusion, thinking it well past time to confront my fears.

After the first vibration experience in the living room, I wondered how to tell Darryl about my possible psy ops event. Every morning on the way to court, he talked non-stop, usually assigning me a dozen tasks he needed me to take care of that day. I didn’t want to give him one more thing to worry about, but I thought maybe he’d experienced the same while sleeping upstairs and we could compare notes. But I never brought it up.
I worried about the family who gave Darryl and me spare rooms, serving us gourmet vegetarian meals every evening – always with too much wine and too many provocative questions that kept Darryl up too late, talking when he really needed to sleep.
The vibration experience was repeated a second time, again when I had just begun to sleep, but this time I found myself in another realm, fleeing from pursuers like nothing I’d ever experienced in any dream or shamanic journey.
I’d had quite a few anomalous or spiritual experiences while living in the country without clocks or calendars, spending every sunset sitting and staring at the colorful sky. After a year of wondering, what in the world could explain these strange events, a girlfriend, who was experiencing similar things, suggested “we’re having shamanic initiations.”
My first reaction was rejection – Not me! – I wasn’t the type. I wasn’t comfortable with those woo-woo people with spirals in their eyes, and certainly didn’t want to consider myself like them, or worse be mocked as I saw them mocked.
On the other hand, I’d had to let go of my prejudices when I’d had an amazing healing a few years back, after hugging a tree, which had suggested I do that. And then, when my son had gotten cancer and seemed ready and determined to die, I’d seriously prayed and he’d suddenly recovered. And when I was going down the tubes in a nervous breakdown that year, the Tarot cards I’d bought (for some reason I never could explain) had shown an incredible series of serendipities. Still…. Anyone can read Tarot cards and pray. What was this about shamanism?
All this crossed my mind in no more than one second of adamant refusal, then I softened and realized everything made sense through that lens – though, whatever that lens was, I wasn’t quite sure. I’d have to read about it. Suddenly, all those anomalies, bugging me all year, felt part of a calling. I embraced it and found myself moved to do the things called “shamanic practice.” But, unlike those “woo-woo types,” I couldn’t bring myself to talk to others about it.
I began to see our world was not a universe, but a multiverse, peopled by spirits, all of them teachers. In coming years, I would flash on seeming past lives, or other people’s lives, received signs prior to two friends’ deaths, and experience the surprise spirit visits of people who lived on my land in ancient times. I talked to animals, made friends with them, talked with animal spirits frequently, and somehow felt I was moving toward an understanding of this multi-dimensional world.
I was still in the early learning phases, when one day, within a couple weeks prior to Darryl’s call (the first we’d had in nine years), Judi, in spirit, had suddenly come to me (“crashed into me” was how it felt – Judi was a powerful woman) and given me a couple of messages. I never told Darryl this – it seemed too big and private a thing to share if the time wasn’t right, and a right time never did present itself – but it was part of the reason I believed I was supposed to go to Oakland and help.

The vibration events at the trial, when I reflected on them afterward, were nothing like my shamanic experiences, but the chase sequence in the second one was similar and comforted me because I had shape-shifted confidently and had become whatever I had needed. My pursuers, though, could also shape-shift and had come after me with equal ease. From realm to realm I fled, and they pursued. I amazed myself with all my changes, and my calm confidence, even leaping on top of the flames my pursuers sent to engulf me. Finally, beginning to worry it would never end, I said, Enough! and found myself awake in bed.
Maybe both were dreams, I told myself, brought on by the stress of watching our government agents lie in court daily about an assassination attempt, and my writing it up and sending it out around the world, with my name on top. But I didn’t think so. I’d had plenty of experiences bridging the worlds of what we call reality and what shamanic practitioners call the other realms. This was no imagination or dream. It was clear to me that I’d slipped, or been dragged, into another realm and had no memory for most of the experience.

Activists poured into San Francisco for the trial. The legendary attorney Tony Serra, on whom the Hollywood movie True Believer was based, came on board the legal team the last week and guaranteed that some media, who might otherwise have tried to ignore the trial, would have to be there. Julia Butterfly spoke at one of the many rallies, as did Starhawk, Wavy Gravy, and Utah Phillips. Bonnie Raitt’s agent called to discuss a fundraiser to support our cause. And other Hollywood stars were anonymous funders.
But the trial remained a place where darkness tried to stay in hiding. The FBI agents and Oakland Police were caught in scores of inconsistencies between their testimony and their previous depositions, or other people’s testimony or depositions, or the physical evidence, or just plain common sense.
Another contention of the federal government, to justify their investigative focus solely on the activists and over one-hundred and thirty of their friends and family members, was that Judi “had to have known” the bomb was on the back seat, because she had supposedly laid her guitar case on top of it, which they explained had caused the case to be damaged “beyond recognition.” However, government photographs show the guitar case on the sidewalk, quite recognizable.

guitar case "unrecognizable?"

The most striking was their contention that the bomb was “obviously” placed in the car by Judi because it was “on the back seat”; but the back seat, brought into the courtroom, and the back door – described in court by the emergency medical technician, who said he opened it easily to attend to Judi – were in virtually unspoiled condition, whereas the hole was blown beneath her seat, indicating a bomb was not “logically” put there by her. And of course, her driver’s door was now shaped like a balloon.
The trial lasted six weeks, from early May through mid-June, during which time I either sat in court, taking notes, or worked with two other media volunteers in the office, writing releases and trying to speak by phone with reporters around the nation. Every journalist outside of California refused to pick up the phone after our first calls. Or maybe their phones never rang – we wondered if the FBI could misdirect our phone calls, or if the reporters, some who’d already covered FBI misdeeds, were afraid.
Spiritually-minded activists brought us gifts of protection, like rosemary, Earth goddess statuettes and other emblems, which we kept on our desks or hung around our necks or on our walls. Occasionally, they’d lead rituals or prayers for protection.

Two weeks into the trial, I moved to a different house, and twice when I woke there, I couldn’t remember who I was (not where, but who I was) – and most strangely, I had no fear. I felt confident that my identity would return shortly. It was as if my infinite Self, all-knowing, unable to fear, had just returned and was simply waiting for my personality to come back before her peaceful understanding was withdrawn.
I stared at the room around me and into the hallway through the half-open door, content to be in a body for which I had no memory. Studying the unfamiliar door frames and wall paint, I slowly recalled the personality of the man who owned the house, followed by a remembrance of his profession, then his appearance, and the way we joked together, then my reason for being there – the trial! – and finally: me. I had no understanding of what would have caused that strange event, but also had no time to wonder about it.
It happened a second time at that house, then that was the end of anomalous experiences during the trial. Or at least those I remember.
Despite our stresses and the media black-out, everyone performed brilliantly, and the FBI and Oakland Police were found guilty on most charges, and paid a historic judgment to Judi’s children and Darryl: $4.4 million. (Eleven of the twelve jurors wanted to punish the feds with a $44 million judgement, but a single juror threatened a hung jury until they reduced it to one-tenth the amount.
Home in the desert again, alone, my days were drenched with paranoia that grew overwhelming before it would subside – but it wasn’t just the FBI that worried me.
Then, almost two years later, I would again experience vibrations drawing me – willingly – into oblivion.

Not a Zen-like hermitage

teepee under oaksWhen I set out to become a hermit, I thought it would be more Zen-like, with occasional overwhelming states of bliss when I walked somewhere in nature.

Instead I experienced what is typically described by shamans around the world:  I was grabbed by demons, stripped, terrorized, brought to the brink of death repeatedly, dipped in shit, fooled, tricked, and laughed at.  (All anthologies of shamanic lore recount a similar list of experiences.)

I’ve apologized for myself for decades now, explaining that I wasn’t properly socialized in the first place – and then I went through this.  In the jungle, it would be understood.  In America, it’s not.  But here I am.

 

Healing From the Treatment of Psychopaths

Wonderful stuff also keeps happening in my life!

Tuesday night, I healed a collection of alters, sort of a family, a stream, a lineage of wounded inner children who were forced onstage for the sexual entertainment of wealthy psychopaths.

The “child me,” I theorize, went blank at those times, and my empty beingness became a vacuum that drew in other energies.  Whether those energies were demons, daemons (human-god guardian spirits), “thought forms” projected by my captors, or my own creation to fill my dire need, something – no, some things – filled the gap and have ever after made my psyche different, and fractured.

Last Tuesday night, a whole network of wounded children were released, leaving an opening in me that was filled with joyous, beautiful light from my spiritual family.

Can you imagine how that might feel? I drafted my best description of the experience, and want my readers to know that I also have these good things happening as well, and I’ll be sharing this story very soon  It’s not all horror.

(And I believe it was this wondrous healing that gave me the strength to write about the dark stuff that I did on Wednesday – I needed to speak it for other aspects of my on-going healing.

(And I believe I also needed to speak it for you – as it relates to everything else in our political world.  Thank you for being strong enough to read this.)

Anaïs Nin and Me

anaïs-nin sepiaMany times I’ve told myself, “Shut up.  No one wants to hear this.” 

But I’d rather speak my truth to a few, rather than pretend truth to the many.  (I had that option as a journalist in my thirties, and I walked away.)

Second, I’d rather have a few friends who know the real me than many false friends who like my best effort at a pretense of “normalcy.”

Finally, I’d rather not spend the tremendous amount of mental energy it takes to read people, try to figure out what’s expected, then emulate it, and keep all my stuff – politically important stuff – to myself.  That would be a dreadful way to live.

anais-ninI’ve known since I was in my twenties that I wanted more than anything to communicate to the masses about our social ills.  I didn’t know then why I felt so fervent about it, but I do now, and I’m glad I spent my decades studying all forms of communication, such as “Radio and Television” (when I didn’t even own a TV), film, videography, news writing, script and screen writing, creative writing, non-violent communication, mediation, consensus decision-making, Robert’s Rules of Order (!), public speaking and acting – when I was terrified of the stage!

All that has given me the foundation to do what I do now – write essays and produce videos on concepts very difficult to make people want to read or view them, but politically important, and also psychologically important to me personally.

UnknownSo, imagine my surprise when in 1999 I discovered the writer Anaïs Nin, bohemian, diarist (I didn’t know the activity was respected enough to warrant this title!), and cultural critic.  Anaïs criticized the culture obliquely by writing obsessively about herself, her psychology, her resistance to cultural norms, and her defense of her self-interest, which she felt could be a most worthy activity for any human being desiring to increase his or her consciousness.

As a bohemian, she had multiple affairs while married (most notably her relationship with the writer Henry Miller), and proudly celebrated her counter-cultural ways.

I read Nin’s biography, immediately liked her, and recognized our similarities – and our differences.  (I had decided at a young age that multiple sexual relationships were probably not strategically wise – though I’ve never thought they were immoral per se; they were simply fraught with social penalties and other problems  I wasn’t willing to choose.)

quote-Anais-Nin-i-with-a-deeper-instinct-choose-a-88898While reading Nin’s biography in 1999, I began a three-year relationship with a man who was, at the time of our meeting, reading Henry Miller’s biography!  My curiosity piqued by this coincidence, I decided to read more about Anaïs.

Very oddly, though, I couldn’t:  I hated her writing! When I tried to read her work, I felt overwhelmed by shame, as if her writing was bad – and too much like mine.  I suspected that if I spent any time with it, I’d see all my own writer’s flaws and sink into debilitating grief at my humiliation.

Time and again, I’ve picked up her books, and had to put them down after only a paragraph or sentence.  And each time, the feelings I experienced were of deep shame for being such a narcissistic writer.  I feel as though Anaïs’ writing and mine are one and the same, that her self-obsession is my self-obsession, and I cannot read her.

I’m not exaggerating.  I have a book by Tristine Rainer, titled The New Diary, with a Preface by Anaïs.  I began, but couldn’t continue past the first line or two.  It sits unread on my self.  Besides, I might argue, I know all about “how to use a journal for self-guidance and expanded creativity,” as the cover promises, or so I think.  But, for as much as I feel dear toward this woman, I cannot read her Preface.

I have another book titled Sisters of the Extreme: Women Writing on the Drug Experience, a collection edited by Cynthia Palmer and Michael Horowitz, who each endorsed the book beautifully to me when we met at a “Mind States” conference in 2000 or 2001.  The book contains works by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Charlotte Bronte, Louisa May Alcott, Sarah Bernhardt, Box-car Bertha, Billie Holiday, Edith Piaf, Maya Angelou, Alice B. Toklas, Margaret Meade, Diane di Prima, Susan Sontang, Carrie Fisher, Nina Hagen, and many, many others, including Anaïs.

anaisnin_lisacongdon3I read every word of this book, drinking it up, cover to cover – except for the piece by Anaïs.  When I came to it and tried to read it, deeply interested, I had to put the book down.  Returning to it repeatedly, I’ve never been able to force myself to go on beyond the first paragraph.  I don’t even want to try it now as an experiment.  I remember how it upset me so immensely.

What is the problem?  I kept asking myself.  Eventually, I accepted that these words which others celebrate are in a style that reminds me too much of my own, so that I feel keenly, viscerally embarrassed, even mortified.  I decided, having only read a few words, that her writing and mine are so much alike, so self-obsessed in our alikeness, that I just cannot look in the mirror with which she confronts me.

Was Anaïs ashamed of her writing?  I don’t know, but I suspect it.  There was an extensive period of her life in which she made ends meet by writing pornography, but I don’t think this is the pertinent issue.  I believe it was simply the extensiveness of her journals – she wrote constantly – and the self-obsession she displayed with them and the dept of truth she told she later regretted.

31945-anais-nin-quotes-facebook-cover-wallpaper-851x315She also rewrote her journals so frequently that, even when she needed to borrow money, she hired other women writers to help her “correct” her earlier works, keep them organized, and secretly destroy earlier drafts as she updated them.  (It’s possible that, like many writers, she was not changing her original intent as much as refining it, replacing careless phrases with ones more exact and less prone to be misunderstood (I sure understand that practice).  In any case, she was obsessed to record her life on paper, and she needed to get it right.)

quote-we-travel-some-of-us-forever-to-seek-other-states-other-lives-other-souls-anais-nin-136076I’ll repeat her contention:  she defended her obsession as her chosen path to developing her consciousness, which she felt was a healthy activity.  But, why would I, one who appreciates journal writing as a healing and self-exploration tool, be embarrassed to read this sort of writing by another?

anais-nin-by-bree-reetzPerhaps we’re not just similar.  I’ve had many experiences in my life of connecting with trans-dimensional beings of various sorts.  And one of those, I’ve finally accepted, is Anaïs.  I think she might have connected with me at some point in my early activist days (bohemians are essentially activists) and decided to stick around to help me with this work.  (She died in 1977, before I ever heard of her, when I was a naive young mother, just a few years away from my first activism.)  And together – she in me – we cringe at her early work as many people cringe at things they put out to the public when they are young.

Painful though it may be to put ourselves out there as activists, we know it is our work:  to criticize culture, take stands, stick our necks out, take social risks, and take the criticism – because that’s what we were born to do.  And I theorize she recognized me – and came to assist.

So now I have a photo of Anaïs on my desk, reminding me it’s okay to be misunderstood by the many, so long as we give voice to new ideas.  She was a scandal in her time, and now in death she’s a respected writer – even though I cannot read her myself.  I feel I already know what she has written, and the structure of her language will only suck me in with more emotional entanglement than I have the energy to handle.  Besides, it would be like looking backward, and we have work to do to keep us moving forward.

 

The Amazing Devolving Human Brain “Not a Bad Thing”?!

“The smaller [average and devolving] human brain” recently discovered and reported in scientific journals “might not be a bad idea” – as aired on NPR’s “All Things Considered” January 2, 2011. See http://www.npr.org/2011/01/02/132591244/our-brains-are-shrinking-are-we-getting-dumber .

I’m not surprised that this has been discovered, but that the news report has been made with such light curiosity and a touch of humor. The reason it “might not be a bad idea” was reported to be that humans supposedly cooperate better with smaller brains. Since we are crowded into cities, where cooperation is required, rather than aggression, for survival, so goes the argument, our brains “naturally” have shrunk in size – by 10 percent – compared to CroMagnons, equivalent to the mass of a tennis ball!

One scientist explained that “a variety of domesticated animals” develop smaller brains – as if it is to be taken for granted that we are domesticated animals. (Belying his argument, he then compared the aggression of chimpanzees and bonobos, neither of which are domesticated.)

While I agree that we are indeed domesticated, I think the question needs to be asked: Who is it that domesticated us? Have we domesticated ourselves, as is implied? Or have we been domesticated, as described by ancient writers and storytellers of every culture, by beings from elsewhere who have created us, overseen us, changed our life spans, coerced us into cities, sent us in one direction or another, given us various foods and skills, and taught us how to live, etc.? This latter theory, I repeat, is not new, but is as ancient as human art and history; it’s only new to First World science, media coverage and the average person’s self-concept.

While the cooperative-city theory comforted a couple scientists and one NPR news reporter, I don’t believe there’s evidence that city life actually makes us cooperative – but the opposite. I suspect that poor nutrition and a toxic environment may be responsible for our amazing shrinking brains. (Maybe even cultural prejudice toward narrow hips on the child-bearing gender – who knows?!)

While some might say our devolution is simply an unintended consequence of bad science and technology, others suspect intentional manipulations. My personal experience as a child subject of mind control experimentation by our government tends to make me suspect that the dumbing down of the masses could also be intentional, for crowd control purposes and generally easier mass manipulation.

(Call me paranoid, but imagine walking in my shoes first. — And, hey, NPR just relayed, without comment or objection, the assumption that we all are “domesticated animals.” The most paranoid theories I’ve entertained in the past few years were just supported on the evening news.)

I do believe the tide is turning; but we must keep on resisting the oppression that would enslave us if we let it. All you activist friends out there, working for a cleaner environment – thank you! Keep fighting the good fight. The brains of our progeny may be at stake.

My Big Picture

We – everyone in the human race – are being manipulated by “aliens,” but this is not news.

Our alien connection is not only ancient, it is intrinsic to whom we are:  created beings, managed, DNA-manipulated, civilized, experimented on, mind controlled, and more, much as we treat other animals.

The primary question about our manipulations by these “aliens,” manipulations which are too many to describe in this short essay, is:  Are our creators benevolent?  (Or not?)

Religious history, with its commands to murder and torture, leads me to conclude:  often not.  (Some would say never, but I won’t go there:  It’s fatalistic and, as Rob Brezny has said, boring.”)

If the answer, then, is “Sometimes they’re on our side, and sometimes they’re not,” it behooves us to develop skills to intuitively read another being’s energy or motives.  (We probably once had that skill and have lost it, but that’s another essay.)

Another important corollary is the aliens’ relationship with our governments.  Since historical texts of all the world’s cultures and religions describe tight relationships between beings from the stars and human rulers, we should consider this is likely still the case.

To check it out, we can look at our own government and realize it has been officially denying for decades what every other culture on the planet has taken for granted since the beginning of history, which even a majority of Americans (the population with the lowest level of extra-terrestrial awareness in the world) knows is true: our government lies.

We all learn eventually that denial and ridicule are often signs of deceptive communications.  And our government’s lies are so obvious, it should be embarrassing, but we all just play along and don’t challenge them.

The common argument that they’ve been keeping it from us for our own good (so we won’t get hysterical) or because they’re embarrassed that they don’t have control and can’t protect us is highly ironic.  Our culture’s main religious text tells us in the last book:  The “first” [world nations?] shall be last.   [To know?]

How do government spokes folks and everyone else keep a straight face about all the lies?

Mind control?

Most people, in national government or on your own street, have been well-trained to be polite, avoid talking about politics and religion, obey their conditioning, and pretend that they don’t see that our rulers lie about pretty much everything.

When we accept the command not to speak, it’s unbearable unless we choose not to think about it either; and if we choose not to think about it, we generally tend not to perceive it.  In our silence, we blind ourselves.

Governments throughout history have reported similar patterns of alien-human interaction, while our government proclaims no pattern exists; but it displays all the signs of lying.  Conclusion:  our government is lying about aliens, and maybe also abductions.

It’s safe to say that aliens are either in bed with our government, working with our government cooperatively, working with our government coercively, or are the government – the shadow government perhaps.  And perhaps all those relationships are true with different aliens.

And if other cultural and religious histories are true, we can’t even use the word alien honestly, except to indicate that they are strange because we don’t know them – but we don’t know ourselves!  We don’t even know where we came from (at least Americans don’t).  With our long history of having our genetics blended with aliens’, I’m not sure we can say that we aren’t all half alien ourselves.

So, the distinction between alien abductions and government abductions may be no distinction at all, except in our immature understanding of our world.

Next essay:  Is government complicity with aliens something to fear?  It sometimes feels that way.  But it may not be necessarily.  Stay tuned.

New Video! A powerful 3 minutes ~

I Was OneMy new video is on YouTube now – here.

It’s about my childhood mind control, my shamanic healing in Nature and with extra-dimensional beings, and my conviction that everyone in the US is mind controlled to some degree.  (Our work now is to become free.)

It’s only three minutes:  serious, humorous, and inspiring, with layers of images saying far more than the words.

It’s about shining Light on the Darkness ~

Realizing Mind Control

       One evening on my way to sing with friends, I noticed I was unusually thrilled by the sight of the simplest things – the beauty of greenery beside a brick building, stone wall or window ledge over a garden.  I wondered if I would share this ecstasy when my friends asked casually “How are you tonight?” or if I should keep the thrill to myself.  I thought I should do the latter, as they might think I was manic-depressive.  Then, for the first time in many years, I wondered, Am I manic-depressive? (I don’t think I am.)

       Next I thought:  If I am, I don’t think there’s anything actually wrong with that.  It would probably be a natural thing, maybe a healthy way to deal with the trauma of having been born to parents who, for whatever reason, didn’t have the insight or intuition in their twenties to know better than to give their daughter to the CIA for mind control experiments. 

       Suddenly, I had to turn my car around and drive home, too depressed to speak to anyone, much less sing.

       I’m certain my parents were told the training I’d receive would make me smart, obedient, disciplined (all of which would improve the quality of my entire life), and was an opportunity to serve their country.  They were patriotic young Americans, bearing the proud surname Eisenhower, enthused about the good life after the Second World War, and probably seduced to think they’d have regular contact with important people in government.  After all, my father’s father was second cousin to Ike.  And Stewart Udall, soon to become Secretary of the Interior, had a home in town, and maybe he was the one who offered my parents this “opportunity.”  He had a cousin, Addison, who was my pediatrician.  Yes, my parents were perfectly poised to rub shoulders with powerful people.  Indeed, by the time I was eight, we had moved into an exclusive neighborhood, in a new custom home very near Mr. Udall.  He came to our Christmas party that year.

       In 1993, I realized that I’d been sexually abused as a child, which was such a shock that I became totally unable to work.  (My boss had just offered me the ownership of his $3-4-million-grossing, international, environmental tour company, but I kept “passing out” multiple times every day after this new awareness.)  I became so dysfunctional that I tried to commit myself to two mental institutions, then used credit cards to build a house in the desert and became a hermit.

       Accepting the reality of my memories made my world miserable, but intensely clear.  My past made sense as it never had before.  I felt more like a living person in a living body than I’d ever experienced.  Even my eyes tested better at the optometrist’s.  I chose the clarity, even with its excruciating pain, over the vagueness which had been my old life – with its story that I’d had a happy childhood.

       I don’t remember many details of the abuse, and those memories I do have, have strange blank spots where I know there are people.  I don’t actually want to remember, because what I do recall disgusts me and debilitates me for days or weeks or months after a memory.  So, I put no visuals or any particular people into this idea and have chosen the least sickening possibility that I can think of, which is that my parents gave me to others who did the deeds, my parents unconscious of what they were doing, or believing that it was a good thing. 

       First memory:  I am a baby on my back, naked legs before me in the air, something happening inside me, then pricks, pinches, pulling, then pain so great I leave my body, float up high, and look down on my mother, slumped on the floor near the wall as though she’d just slid down.  One hand supports her while the other covers her anguished mouth, and her eyes bulge with horror.

       In my book (see the second link at the top of the column to the right), I published a photo of the slice in my g-spot from front to back, but there are two other sideways slices that can’t be seen, and the characteristic ribbed skin of my g-spot has been removed and perhaps more of the organ.

       Maybe it was because I learned to leave my body in that instant that I developed the ability to regularly meet with help in other dimensions, with whom I loved to visit.  Sometimes at night, I’d be thrilled to feel the other dimension drop over me, knowing I’d momentarily be with my help again.  One night they told me that it would be a long time before I could be with them next, during which time I was supposed to become stronger in myself.  I remember the sadness of that message and the loneliness that followed.

       As scraps of memories have come back over the years, I’ve put together this understanding:

       The sexual mutilation ritual was probably performed by mind control experimenters to deeply shock my mind, just as all baby boys who are circumcised today are traumatically shocked a day after their births.  I assume this is to intentionally create passivity in our culture, much as we create it in domestic animals, lopping off their ears, tails, toes and testicles, which might simplify our caring for them, but at the same time makes them more docile – knowing who it is who can inflict great pain.

       While we know this is done to many little boys, I suspect other girls are also selected for genital mutilation.  Since female mutilation can’t be easily justified as it is for boys (though I don’t think it’s justified either), it must be done in secret; and in the event of bleeding, someone came up with the cover story about baby girls sometimes bleeding because their mother’s hormones cause them to menstruate.  I don’t think so.

       Some people say the experimenters are Nazis, brought to the US under Operation Paperclip, helping the CIA continue their development of mind control techniques;  others say they are Satanists, who essentially subcontract dirty work from the CIA; others say all these elements – Nazis, Satanists, secret societies, and other “rogue elements,” especially in our governments – are all in a secret global Network, keeping the majority of humans enslaved or disempowered with control through education, Media, entertainment, etc. and hard-core mind control for certain individuals.  Certain churches and their clergy were brought into the Network to provide a place for female mutilation to be done in secret rituals.

       How are children chosen?  Probably, there are many ways.  Satanists, like many occultists, take an interest in astrology and numerology.  I happen to have been born on July 7, ‘52, a date that reduces to 7-7-7.  This date was also a Monday (“moon day”), sits in the center of Cancer, also known as “Moon Child,” and was also a full moon – and I was born within eight minutes of the perfection of the fullness – within 2/1,000ths of a degree.  Three sevens and three powerful moons.  Finally, it was also the day that Dwight D. Eisenhower was nominated to the Republican Presidential ticket.  This seemed mundane to me until I read that Satanists also like historical dates.

       Eight years after I moved to my hermitage (with a four-year-long break taken in the middle), I learned about CIA mind control and how it requires the psychological creation of a “multiple personality” – created by the induction of extreme trauma – in order to create programmed “alters” hidden inside an unwitting subject.  This process is very  well documented, with CIA Director testimony to a Senate Special Hearing in 1973, 18,000 pages of mind control financial files discovered not to have been destroyed as the CIA believed, and testimony of mind control subjects collected using the best scientific standards – all confirming a network of underground organizations cooperating to create controllable human pawns, sometimes called “Manchurian Candidates” (because the supposed Chinese research was our nation’s excuse for pursuing it too – “for national security”).

       There were 20,000 children, it is estimated, who were brought into the program through eighty military and hospital facilities in the United States and Canada.  The children were taken in at around age six and returned to their homes two years later.  I have almost total amnesia for the two years of my life between ages six and eight during which I remember not a single face, room, or scene, but one:

       I am standing before an easel watching my fellow students busily painting away, while I just stand.  I can’t understand how my classmates can work with such abandon.  I wonder, How can they paint?  How can they do that?  Then my teacher commands me to “Paint!”

       “I don’t know what to paint,” I say, and she tells me, “Paint a tree.”

       Okay, I think.  I can take direction.

       I turn to my easel and paint a tree bent diagonally in the wind, then dip my brush into black and smear that all over the tree, then paint black leaves blowing by in black wind, then blacken the ground from side to side.  I am satisfied.

       In another flashback that hit me once, when I happened to be sitting on my bed reveling in a moment’s beauty, I felt a helmet put on my child’s head and a chin strap abruptly fastened.  On one side of the interior of the strap, which fit fully around my jaw, a half a tennis ball had been adhered which, when the strap was locked into place, pushed my jaw sideways out of joint, blinding me with pain.  My hands flew up and flapped over the imaginary helmet, seeking its release.  Saliva flowed copiously, and I couldn’t swallow with my jaw out of joint.  Almost choking on the fluid, I fell forward on my bed to drain my mouth, and still couldn’t stop my arms from flapping frantically while my face, planted down into the bedspread, became a pivot point for my thrashing body, my grunts and gasps interspersed with breathy screams.  Then the imagined helmet was released, and I felt my child agree to obedience to whatever those adults would tell me.  Later, I read that others have also testified about having joints dislocated as a method of control that leaves no evidence of torture.

       I also believe I was sometimes left cold and hungry, as I often feel inexplicable panic over being just a little bit hungry or a few degrees too cool.  I can also become enraged when awakened from sleep, because I was often awakened to be raped – I remember this clearly.

       Another flashback that came on me once, unbidden (I was simply walking through my home when this scene hit me):  A brilliant light flashes, then a crowd of men in white moves back, while one of them moves in to put his face near mine and say three short phrases very clearly.  He repeats them then withdraws, and someone else with things in his hands reaches them toward either side of my head.  Again, blinding light.  I believe this was an electroshock induction of mind control.

       One day when I was eight, my father, a veterinarian, came home from work unusually early, shortly after I’d gotten home from school.  He held a hypodermic needle upward, in the manner that doctors do, and told me that he had my booster shot to give me.  The strange thing was that he was smiling so intently into my eyes that I was mesmerized.  I came toward that smile like a thirsty animal toward water.

       He told me he gave “the best shots in the world,” and that I wouldn’t even feel it, because he had the perfect technique.  He said, “Look away, and you won’t even feel it.”  I did, and he was right:  I didn’t feel it. 

        Clearly, it wasn’t my booster, so what was it?  Years later, he would become “spitting mad” (his language) and nearly speechless with rage when I mentioned hypnosis or psychotherapy.

       We had recently moved into our new, custom, ranch-style home, where my parents hosted a Christmas party attended by Stewart Udall, who would become Secretary of the Interior the next year.  His cousin, Addison Udall, my pediatrician, was also there, and in the few short minutes that we children were allowed to mingle with the adults, I told him the only thing I could think of that he might relate to:  “My father gives the best shots in the world.  He gives me my boosters.”  My father was standing there, and I saw him blanche.  The looks that shot between the two of them let me know I’d said something I shouldn’t have.

       Not only did my parents say very little to me, but I have not a single memory of either of them ever smiling at me when I was young, except for the hypodermic memory and holiday events.  Withholding smiles may have been part of my training, or it may have simply been because I reminded them of what they’d done.

       One other flashback came from my teenage years – with a firestorm of emotion:  I was in the shower, forty-two years old, when suddenly I felt myself a teenager, fiercely anguished, arms crossed over my youthful breasts, fists in knots, face to the ceiling, screaming inside without words, because words weren’t enough, and it seemed that my skin burned red with blood at its surface.

       I had just been handed a white, beaded satin bodice, which soon would be all I’d wear onstage.  I feel poisoned to my core and want to burst from my body.  My forty-two-year-old self is in shock, as I wonder, How?!  How can this be?  This couldn’t happen when I was a teen!  I accepted that it happened when I was a child, but please not this!  But I felt it in all my being.

       I’d had tiny hints a time or two that putting me on stage might have been something they would have done, but I’d brushed it aside and never considered it.  Then this memory burst upon me.  I see my young self as a thin green tree with smooth bark and few limbs, my thoughts simple and few, my questions daunting:  Why is so much unknown to me?  When will I know?  How will it come about?  Then my skin is screaming with the memory of white beaded satin laid in my hands.  My pain is too much and the young one blinks out.

       It was nine more years before I realized I’d not only been a sexual abuse victim, but a mind control subject as well.  The other memories had been plenty to deal with; but then the mind control information rang true, made everything snap into focus, and sent me into a mental tailspin. 

       First, the world became clear, though it was also extremely painful.  I sought alternative ideas, including returning to my previous reality, in which I’d never considered things like this, but that old world, I now realized, had always been strangely vague, and I’d spent most of my life foggy and numb.

       These new memories were not only painful, but accompanied by fear:  Somebody might still want to mess with my mind, and maybe I’m still programmable.  If this were the case, I’d rather die.  I had evidence that I was still being programmed and used, and it caused me so much grief that I could barely function some days.  For years, I considered suicide daily, not as a release from psychological pain, which was great, but as a logical way to thwart my controllers.  Somehow I talked myself out of this.

       I’ve been integrating my multiple personalities now for over seventeen years, working to understand the mind control for eight years, and my work continues.  I credit my healing to interactions with helpers on other realms.  (More on this in another essay.)

       Perhaps the promises given my parents were partially true.  I was a very smart child, not very social and not highly motivated toward school, but able to score in the top ninety-eight percentile in the nation on a number of exams, and I’ve been invited into MENSA a few times.  While I’ve owned my own businesses for most of the last twenty-five years, whenever I ventured near the mainstream, people opened doors for me with a frequency and enthusiasm that made me nervous; I never knew why, but the mainstream was not attractive. 

          For the last few years, I’ve focused on learning to socialize, trying to make up for what I missed as a frightened child.  I’m also trying to moderate my discipline, learning the joy of letting chores go while I enjoy writing or some other art.  I spend most evenings quietly (never watching television, not since 1974), just reading, journaling, putting my life in a context beyond this Earth and all its horrors.  And I’m learning how to sing.  It makes me happy.

#

Do You Fly? Do You Come From a Star?

UnknownDo you dream of flying?

Around the campfire once, someone told a story about “a flying dream,” to which half of us nodded with varying degrees of knowingness.  The other half responded with silent doubt.  The dream flyers tumbled out a chaos of descriptions, of flapping or not flapping, soaring over mountains and valleys or around the dining room chandelier, or leaping into the air and staying aloft for exquisite, long periods of time; meanwhile, others exclaimed Yes! when something was particularly well described, or gasped in recognition of something they might have thought until then was their private experience alone, or softly held their breath because they wanted to interrupt with a story of their own, but would force themselves to wait because the discussion was under threat of breaking into groups and no one wanted to miss anything, so the group kept itself barely in order.  When it was done, the dream flyers looked as spent and satisfied as lovers after an unexpected romp.  The others looked perplexed.

flyI’ve always been a flyer, but I’ll spare you my litany of dreams.  I want to talk about my sense of not really being from here, and maybe I’ll learn, as around the campfire that night, that half of my community silently harbors similar secrets.  Or maybe not.  We’ll see.  (More about my extra-dimensional experiences are available by visiting either link on the top of the column to the right.)

The youngest memory I have that might relate to my not being from here is when I was no more than five, when I looked up at my mother ranting and thought to myself, “This is going to be a very long childhood.”  I wonder today:  Was it normal to have such a mature perspective at that age?

At night, when I went to bed, I sometimes felt myself flashing in micro-seconds between being as large as the cosmos and as tiny as an atom.  I also sometimes saw portals and knew with great happiness that I was going again where I loved to go; sometimes I had been waiting with longing.  There was a schedule I didn’t understand; I knew I was to be patient and was always happy when the portal or flashing sensations came over me.  One day I was told that I was going to have to wait a long time, but I was old enough to understand that it would be long but not forever.  I grieved, and then I adapted.

I seem to have been born into this life with attitudes and opinions.  I did not take it for granted that the world simply is what it is.

At another young age, my mother had told me, “I love you best when you’re silent.”  So I learned to entertain myself.  Adults were fun to listen to, but they seemed too easily pleased to hear their friends quote Einstein from LIFE Magazine.  Somehow, I felt they didn’t really know much, despite their nodding encouragement to each other.

At five, I started kindergarten and began tutoring other students for my teacher.  On the playground, I was appalled to see adults stand by while young bullies did their routines on the weak ones.  When I told the teacher, she aggressively scolded me: “Don’t be a tattletale!”  I was regularly appalled at the behavior of adults.

I seemed to have come into life with a standard – and a confidence that it shouldn’t be compromised.  Where did it come from?

I made very few friends during my childhood.  It might have something to do with my two years of “missing time” – amnesia – at age five and six, during which I have evidence I was a CIA mind control subject.  [This story is told elsewhere.  I apologize to those surprised by the incongruity – but these parts actually connect meaningfully, but that’s a much longer story.] Every now and then, another child would “resonate” with me, and we’d become immediate and decades-long friends.

In adulthood, I experienced quite a few synchronicities, which felt like divine intervention, as well as clairvoyance, intuition, and mystical experiences in nature.  But I ignored them, dropped them into an “Anomalous” file and went on with life as if the scientific model explained everything.

At the age of 47, I had an experience so powerful – related to being from somewhere else – that I could not speak of it at all for at least two years, and then I only mentioned it shyly to a few of my closest friends.  Eight years later, in 2008, I included the experience in my book RattleSnake Fire, but I declined to comment on its implications:

Camping in the desert with a group of about twenty people, I was in conversation when a friend, an amateur astronomer, interrupted to hand us a pair of binoculars and tell us the Pleiades looked amazing and we should check them out.  I’d been enjoying my conversation and wasn’t interested in looking at stars.  My thought was:  A star in the binoculars would look just like the stars we could see all around us, only bigger.  I’d seen photographs of stars and thought there was a beauty to them, certainly, but nothing to interrupt another person’s conversation.  Besides, they’d been there for a very long time and would probably continue to be so.  I said “No, thanks,” and turned back to talk with my new friend.  The astronomer interrupted again and implored me to look.  This time I thought his rudeness had passed a particular mark, so that I, a person who’d too little practiced a healthy assertiveness in my life, decided to practice it then.  I said, “You’re interrupting our conversation.  And I’ve never had any interest in the stars.”  I don’t know what he said next, but I remember being speechless at his insistence.  It seemed easier to look through the binoculars than to argue with him, and besides, then I’d be able to say, “Just a bunch of little sparkly things…” and then be rid of the man, whom I had always respected until that moment.

pleiades-uks018I put the binoculars to my eyes and looked in the direction he’d indicated, moving them a bit until I saw the somewhat famous star cluster.  Then, I was shocked, as my heart exploded with a recognition that engulfed me – like an aura:  I knew the Pleiades – in some hidden space inside my soul.  And I knew, for the first time consciously, that I had a whole lot more history than I’d ever considered, outside of simple theory. 

I had a moment’s flashback of being in a vehicle of some sort, standing with a group of close companions, looking out a large window at this cluster receding, and thinking, I wonder what it’ll be like to be gone for a very long time. 

The vision ended and I was jolted by grief, a new sort of shock, then longing:  Grief for the comfort long lost and almost-unfathomably forgotten; shock that that could be my reality, so far from this “reality”; and longing for the friendship I had with those somewhere else, so far beyond the friendships I’d had on Earth.  The word home came to mind, with more emotion than I’d ever felt before.

All that hit me in an instant, and I lowered the binoculars and said with wonder to the astronomer, my new friend and, by accident because I didn’t control my volume, to everyone else around, “Oh my god, I think I’m from there!”  Then I slapped my hand over my mouth, realizing that those were words I’d have hated hearing from anyone else.  I had no patience for people who said crazy stuff like that.  I’d been certain they were delusional.  But what had just happened to me didn’t feel like a delusion at all – I wasn’t daydreaming, coming up with stories to which I took a fancy.  On the contrary, if I’d wanted to impress my friends, this would not have been the story I’d have invented – far from it!

My words apparently shocked everyone into silence, and no one said a thing to break it for about five seconds, while I reverberated with the humiliation of just having said words that I would never have guessed could come out of my mouth and which I knew had a good chance of being hated.  I knew I couldn’t change this, because no one could have changed my mind a moment before.  I was alone in this, and that was that.  Alone and profoundly surprised.  My world, my being, my identity had been severely rocked in that moment, surrounded by friends, but with no one understanding.

The conversations started up again, and I have no idea what we said next, but I don’t believe I told much of the emotional part of my experience.  I do recall describing how beautiful the light had appeared around each star, and how the fine, thread-like rays emitted from each one met the rays from the others, and at those points of meeting they defined a three-dimensional network of gossamer light walls, like a ghostly cluster of living cells with a glowing star alive inside each one.  The fragility and beauty (and familiarity – did I share that or keep it secret?  I don’t know) made my heart ache with love.

It was too confusing.  I’d heard of people saying they were from somewhere else, but I thought it was probably self-inflating.  Of course, I considered myself open-minded, so that people could be from somewhere else, but if they were, I wasn’t sure why I should care or that it had anything to do with me.  It was too disorienting to think about, so I never did.  But here I was, maybe one of “those people” at the moment of learning she’s different.  Well, I always did feel different….

It’s been eleven years this month since the Pleiades burst onto my consciousness, and I’m ready to face now what it might possibly mean.  If no one else had said anything or written the books I’d previously secretly ridiculed, I wouldn’t be writing this now, despite my professed intention to always tell the full truth.  No, some stuff I reserve the right to withhold, and this has been a partial “withhold” bugging me for eleven years.  Now I’m ready to tell it.

Besides, there are theories, to which I subscribe, that we are all of “alien” DNA.  And there are theories that, as souls, we are all from many other places.  According to these, my story is not unusual at all, but mundane, and it’s only a matter of each of us eventually realizing the truth.  Like remembering our dreams.

Here in Silver City, Greg Renfro and friends, including me, have been singing The Star Song, by Missourian Bob Dyer, for years:

I think you must have come from a star
I think you must have come from a star
I
 can see it in your eyes, I feel it when you smile
I
 think you must have come from a star
I think we must have all come from the stars.

I’ve always believed it was possible – but I thought it was just a theory, for someone else; I never wanted it to be a personal fact for me, which would be too attention-getting; when I was young, my eyes used to tear and overflow spontaneously when more than a few people looked at me at once.

It seems time to come out of my denial.  Maybe if I share this along with all my doubts, others will relate to the human dilemma, and we’ll learn that we’re not all alone here.  And we’ll have a larger world to discover.