No longer an activist; no longer an Earth First!er.
Activist has been my identity since I fought the dress code in high school and was sent home to change, seething at the hypocrisy of it, the requirement that women wear skirts, and in all weather, and little girls too, hampering their play. Pissed me off.
And locking my neck to the front axle of a roadgrader to stop an astrophysical development on Mount Graham was another highlight of my life, far more important to me than any of the awards and recognitions I frequently won in the mainstream world.
In fact, I often chose activism over other more professionally-enhancing and money-earning work I could have done, leaving me today among the poorest of the poor people on Social Security. Oh well.
I’m proud of my life. There are not many choices I regret. And I saved some habitat on that mountain, as well as a historic elementary school that anchors a large, mostly Hispanic neighborhood, helped victims and perpetrators of domestic violence, helped get a couple of community radio stations launched, and helped change the dress code. A better world.
But I think I’ve got to change my business card. I’m no longer an activist. And I’m not feeling all that smiley these days.
Activism assumes we can effect change. And I think we’re spinning toward that drain just a little too fast to keep telling myself, We’ll pull out of this, we’ll pull out. I’ve exhausted all my optimism.
I think we’re going through it. And I expect to find it a portal.So I’m putting my hopes on the Other Side.
And that’s why I’m no longer an Earth First!er (though I’ve stayed away ever since I found out I was a mind control subject twelve years ago; I didn’t want to risk sabotaging the work in a mind-controlled state).
And I love this Earth, but it seems to me that the secret Controllers have poisoned the air, earth, and water, fractured underground aquifers, sterilized the soil, planted unknown numbers of bombs who knows where, and modified our basic food crops to cause cancer and not reproduce. It doesn’t take a scientist to recognize a pattern.
I believe the Controllers are holding a total liquidation sale of the planet, including the people, of course, who are already used to thinking of themselves as human resources. And it seems that any of us living things left will have greatly diminished chances of survival. Maybe this is protocol for galactic entrepreneurs, like American housewives using bleach-water on the counters after cleaning.
All the world’s financiers are making very short-term decisions. (I’m making short-term decisions now.) All the wealthiest entities seem to be participating in this liquidation, so I think it’s time to wrap our heads around the idea of leaving the Earth and thinking about where we’re going in the next place or dimension.
Instead of active, now I’m passive, knitting in front of the fireplace, thinking, praying, petting the cat, pondering heavy stuff, feeling it’s all going to be okay.
Now, maybe I’m unnecessarily dark. Maybe things are better than we know – and especially better than I can know – after all, I was trained with torture, so I do tend to have more fundamental distrust of people.
Maybe it’s the time of the Nine of Swords — darkest just before the dawn. And the worst of humanity, the worst, most demonic stuff that has been allowed to play out on this planet for the last 10,000 years, like capitalism and patriarchy, have had their day and will soon be over. And we’ll get extra-dimensional help, or the Permaculturalists will design the environmental remediation, mushrooms will eat all the poisons, and we’ll all work together to feed everyone while reversing all the devastation.
…I used to work toward a similar scenario when I learned and promoted Permaculture, community mediation, and all the other skills I thought important for helping evolve a new culture. But so much that I’ve attempted has been sabotaged. And the stealing of children goes on.
And someone still, for over a decade now, leaves me with burns, bruises, biopsy “scoop marks,” other scars, and exhaustion during the night, but no memories. So pardon me if I’m dark.
I’m sorry, Everyone loving your life on Earth, but I’m not sad to see things going down the drain. Capitalism – and all the child rape, child porn, and sexual slavery it has justified and promoted for way too long – must go. And I’m certainly ready to get out of here myself, thank you.
So, I’ll be sitting by my fire, passively knitting and thinking, It’s all gonna be okay.
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I have quite a few memories of past lives, from a young sensual woman during a period of ease and abundance on the African savanna, to a teen girl in romance in Scotland, a young girl child on a farm somewhere in feudal Europe, a woman burned at the stake, a just-deceased Euro-American pioneer mother wife to a Native man hated by her parents who tortured him to death, a woman in Cochise’s tribe at the time they were told they’d be removed from their land by train and taken away, and more.
Some say “past lives” are not our past lives necessarily, perhaps just anyone’s, and I won’t argue, because I don’t know. I’ll only say these all felt like a past life, a memory, complete with emotions and contextual knowledge that I’d not known before but seemed to feel throughout my body and which were familiar and somehow part of me. But I’m willing to agree they could all be someone else’s life, never mine in any strict sense, thought for some reason I connected with them and felt a flash of their life. In any case, they are instructive.
In one life, I was a sex priestess in a temple of white marble, flowing with wonderfully heated waters. I knew I was very fortunate, one of the most fortunate in all the land. I lived in luxury. I consorted with only the most refined of men. I experienced ecstasy constantly. I may have also had the responsibility to heal men returned from war, as some have recounted – and it seems right – but at the moment of my flashback, I was impressed only by the beauty and technique we’d developed in raising our art to higher and higher refinements. It was a day of perfection in an environment of every sort of beauty and delight. Daylight fell through open spaces above, naturally lighting the walls and floor of white wet marble crossed by a long steaming pool.
There was enough texture on the marble for me to walk comfortably across it to a doorway where I turned and found myself nearly face-to-face with two men in conversation. I knew them. They’d both been entertained as consorts at one time but had not been chosen, because their ways didn’t adapt to our refinements. They were secretly, quietly enraged, I realized as I met their eyes, and I was instantly shocked and afraid. They were plotting to force huge changes on our world.
They planned to upset the entire system, take it out of the hands of women, and get sex whenever they wanted. They were stronger, after all, and there was no reason why they couldn’t. They only had to demonstrate to other men the power that could be had if they’d only take it. Far more men had been rejected than accepted, therefore they were the majority. They would spread the word, convince men the women could not longer tell them no. They could do it. They would do it. They would pump their seed into as many women as they wanted.
No one had ever treated women like that, at least not that we knew of in our refined world. It was a shocking and abhorrent idea – men being violent to women! But in that moment, seeing those eyes, I knew how badly their souls hurt from the rejection we’d been inconsiderate of. In that moment, I knew we’d failed. Our refinements had not included sensitivity to their disappointment, and it had been graver than we’d imagined. It had seriously wounded at least one and turned into something vile. He hated all women because of us. And now he wanted to hurt very badly all the women of the world.
I felt great sorrow for him in that first moment, to realize and feel his pain – that we’d neglected – but I also felt real fear, to see that he’d transformed his pain into active, righteous, empowering anger which he had every intention of carrying out, to prove his manhood. Not right there and then, but later, in a more far-reaching way. I had no skills in dealing with courseness, and I shrunk back.
This memory came back just now – probably triggered by the wounds I’m currently experiencing. And it caused me to count, for the first time, all the wounds I’ve suffered to my womb throughout my life.
First, I was sexually abused repeatedly as a child and put on stage in sex shows by a psychopathic conspiracy that practiced mind control. I saw my stretched-out genitals at age thirteen and have never forgotten the image or my dumb shock. I never looked at myself again for my years, or thought about it; my brain simply froze in a variation of “This does not compute” and then reset my attention onto something else.
When I was a young married woman, I became very worried for a couple of weeks when my husband and brother decided to drive across the country and return with a kilo of marijuana to supply our currently dry county. The night before they were to leave, I became so sick that their plants were cancelled. We ended up in the Emergency Room where I had emergency exploratory surgery. My ailment turned out, not surprisingly, to be “nothing.” But when the surgeon removed my stitches one week later, my incision gaped open, which he taped back with bandaids. They didn’t work well and left me with a long, warbling, wide vertical scar down my belly.
When I gave birth to my son, my first child, the doctors did something wrong with the pitocin they used to induce my labor (unnecessarily) and put my baby into shock, slowing his heart rate, then they gave me another drug which stopped my labor after they’d broken my water – all this when I knew I wasn’t even overdue. I’d told them I wasn’t due for another few weeks, but in the end I submitted – as I’ve been programmed to do.
I was in danger. All day I labored futilely because, not due yet, my hormones had not yet cued the chemicals to make the plates of my pelvis spread and become flexible, so my son’s head got stuck. They couldn’t push or pull him back, because it would break his neck. That ruled out a Caesarian. They tried all their techniques, and I was fatiguing. To “help,” they put a gas mask on my face (and soon tied my hands out to my sides to keep me from trying to remove it), gave me extra oxygen, and forced me to sleep between contractions with some sort of short-acting gas. (What this did to my baby, I wonder.) Then, a minute or so later when another contraction came on, they woke me up with a different gas when it was time to push again.
I tried to get natural air by scrunching up my face to make a gap in the side of the mask, which worked just once, and then someone came to hold it on my face, hard.
The next time I was awake, they told me they were going to use a vacuum extractor. In all my Lamaze classes, I’d never heard of it used for birth, only as a tool for doing abortions, so I thought they were going to pull my baby out in pieces to save my life. But, of course, I couldn’t ask any questions.
The doctors’ hands were too big, so they stopped and he explained he was going to cut the wall between my vagina and my rectum, so the he could get his hands around my son’s head. My life was being saved. At the sound and numb sensation of scissors cutting through my intimate flesh, I fell unconscious again.
I might have realized then that I was giving birth, but with uppers and downers flashing through my bloodstream every few minutes (and my baby’s!), I didn’t process information well, and still thought they were performing tough-decision, rescue-a-life surgery – as I pushed and they cut and gave orders and worked frantically under bright lights while I struggled on my back with limbs spread to the four directions.
When a nurse tapped me on the arm and said, “You have a baby boy,” I answered, “I have a baby?”
He was in a coma, but would come out of it in 30 minutes, and immediately yank the wires and sensors off his chest and, thankfully, begin a normal life.
My mother worried that I’d have problems from the surgery but, miraculously, I healed perfectly. My second womb wound, invisible to all but my gynecologists.
In my second marriage, I had an ectopic pregnancy and needed emergency surgery again. The doctors “saved my life” once more, but left me with a horizontal scar, which healed weirdly. Three. Those are the explainable ones.
Around the age of 50, during an era when I was experiencing strange events that seemed like “alien abductions,” my partner and I were beginning intercourse when I realized I could not stand to be touched inside. I investigated and found my g-spot had been sliced deeply from back to front and twice from side to side, cutting it into six squarish pieces which hung where one normal half-spherical g-spot had been. And the gaps between them – including the slice right up the middle where a partner’s finger would naturally curl – could not be touched. The cuts were deep and, it seemed, down to major nerves. Three more cuts makes six.
One night, driving home from a women’s spirituality gathering, my Volkswagen van’s lights went out and I coasted to a stop. It seemed like a half-hour that I sat at the wheel, telling myself to walk back to the gas station to call my partner, but I couldn’t move. When I snapped out of my trance and drove home, I thought I was a half-hour late, but my partner was nearly frantic because I was over two hours late returning.
When we tried to have intercourse the next morning, I experienced a new sort of pain – not painful to the touch, but when either of us tried to stretch my tissues even a bit. It felt as though I had something inside my g-spot, above the cut. It would make sex impossible for years. Seven womb wounds.
(That afternoon, I blew a large blot clot out of my nose, something I’ve never done before or since. The malfunctioning lights, immobilization, missing time, and nasal blood clot are all classic symptoms of “alien abduction,” which some people think is a cover memory for CIA abduction.)
Years later, in relationship with a photographer, I would convince him to take a photograph of my insides, and I saw for myself – and am now able to prove to others – that I’ve been both cut and punctured – by someone with the power to make me amnesic.
These days, I sometimes wake up with what seem to be injection bruises on my thighs, other bruises, healed scars, Taser burns, and even biopsy scoop marks – all making me quite sure I’m still being used at night as an amnesic subject for who-knows-what.
And every now and then I also wake up with irritations I don’t think I should have, given my habits: I wake with a sensation that I’ve been inoculated with something, and the inoculators chose to do their work on my anus – where I’m far less likely to photograph it for posting online! Other times I get reactions there as if I’ve been inoculated with a new strain of herpes. (The first strain I got by my own promiscuity, so I know the difference between my original strain, which faded away long ago, and the new ones (which swell badly) which I suddenly get “out of the blue,” even when I’ve been abstinent – at least in my conscious life.)
It’s tough to be an experimental subject of mind controllers and/or aliens. It’s’ too flippin’ weird to think about very much, and too weird to tell others. They don’t want to hear. Or sometimes they laugh, and I know they been influenced by cultural cartoons. So I keep it all to myself, socially. I live a lie. Unnecessarily.
Because, it’s not really weird at all. It makes perfect sense if we can get over the alien cartoons we’ve all been subjected to.
Extra-dimensional beings – recognized in every culture except modern America (the most mind-controlled nation on Earth) – have always been involved with humans, according to every ancient history and religion of every culture on the planet.
Just as humans have always domesticated animals and today abduct wild ones from the forest to tag and study, so do aliens do the same to us. Just as the CIA and military and other elements experiment on unwitting soldiers, orphans, and other less-regarded groups, so do certain aliens (and CIA and military, most likely with them) experiment on us. It’s really not strange at all. It’s what humans do. We have no grounds to call it strange or impossible.
And those of us who give them trouble? Even if we think we have every right to object, they re-assign us to worse experiments.
I was thinking about all this tonight, reflecting that I’m in very good health – with a few exceptions. My weaknesses are my heart – probably a result of all the electroshock used on me as a child in mind control programming. My jaw is extremely tight – probably a result of living with a command all my life to not tell – which affects my neck and upper back. And then there’s my intimate areas – all hacked up.
I wondered aloud to my partner whether I had any karma to clear – or whether I was being tracked by some malevolent spirit who’d somehow, maybe accidentally, attached to me in some past life. Perhaps my mind control programmers – some with Satanic bents, I’ve read – drew in an evil and particularly vicious spirit which attached to me.
Of course, it could also just be an unfortunate coincidence that happened to fall to me. Things do happen in clusters sometimes….
Then I thought of the sex priestess.
I wondered if the man in the temple might even be following me through lifetimes, controlling the minds and hands of doctors and others, and these seven wounds are his handiwork? Or maybe he’s long gone, but his activism set a course of history, and I’m just one of many still suffering.
My response? Hatred? Sure, I’ve felt hatred sometimes for whomever it is dogging me, making my life so very difficult to live at times, driving me to the edge of absolute despair time and again.
Then I remembered my ancient sorrow for the man, and I wondered if, in all my lifetimes, I ever said I’m sorry to him. Having only the fleetingest scraps of remembrance, I don’t know, so I’ll assume I didn’t and say it now: I’m so very sorry.
Perhaps this is why I’ve been so concerned with men all of my life. I feel strongly for their pain in this culture which won’t let boys cry, and tells men they must always be strong. I feel like I’ve always had an intuition about their secret wounds and a lot of compassion for men, even when other women love to criticize, laugh at, and even hate them.
Once, in grade school, I made a boy cry, and I’ve never forgotten the pain in his eyes, and I deeply regret it. (Blessings on your now.)
This bruise showed up ten days after another very similar showed up on the back of my leg. No explanation except: ongoing violence by my controllers done while I’m made amnesic.
I’m getting very tired of life, and, at 62, with occasional spells of heart problems that make me so weak, I can’t do much, I’ve often thought I was certainly close to passing over.
But I keep living, and I wonder what I am supposed to do. Fight the torturing controllers? Make things difficult for them? Document them? Submit to them? (crosses my mind now and then) Or say I’m sorry?
Is there anything that makes sense for me to do, that has something to do with the fact that I’ve seen the darkest underbelly of civilization?
My body tells me something my mind could never grok when I went to church and studied theology in college: Satan and his demons are loose on this Earth. We’ve been lied to about it, and tricked with cute cartoons to make us not see, so the evil does unacknowledged.
This is not a religious belief.
It is carved into my body.
Last week I was “up,” and I’ll be up again in a day or two, but really: What is there to do at this point in my life that makes sense?
Ah! …I have another past-lifetime flashback – just recalled! It’s a connection (described fully here), with Anais Nin, a writer.
Oh! And she was also (how could I forget?) a sexual scandal in her day, but for the purpose of appreciating the parallel, I’ll call her as a sex priestess of a sort. Ex-patriot in Paris in the 40s, lover of Henry Miller and others, pornographer when she needed money.
Anais and I write a lot alike – self-indulgent some might say, I say introspective and useful. But, actually, I can’t read her writing! I’ve read a lot about her and have a few books that include her writing, but when I’ve tried to read her (one paragraph is as far as I’ve ever gotten, even in a book I loved and read every other word of, voraciously), I literally shivered in humiliation and had to quit. (One day I hope to read more, but I’m tired of trying for now.)
So, given I am a writer, somehow connected to another powerful writer, born into this Darkness, what am I to do? I must write. So I do, and I speak when invited. Few want to hear it. Still, it’s my job.
So, there you go, Friends. I’m very sorry to bring you a reminder of this Darkness. But because I have, we now have a chance to deal with it, right? That’s the good part. It’s our greatest survival need: to see properly our surroundings. Right?
Then what? Fight? Dance? I say: “Aikido!” Or maybe all three.
And call on Cosmic Help – whomever that is for you. (I feel deep connection with Christ, though not Christianity.)
If we see our world clearly together – despite their efforts to keep us in the dark, we can act in greater unison and power.
And so I share these difficult things with you – for our communal enlightenment.
Thank you for being courageous enough to hear.
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