Sunday, November 07, 2010

...Revive, Refresh, Recharge ... Renew...



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There's a stairway in my yard to move you up, from "here" to "there," but the movement's through a portal like a Stargate, friend — I swear! It looks just like a staircase up a level from the ground, but it's *looks* which are deceiving when you slight the grand profound.

Slighted is potential to affect the existential with an efficacious meme that you'd provide. Slighting you forget you hold the keys to every kingdom you'd required if you really want to thrive!  

...Climb these steps before you, and you see the UFOs that are flashing through the darkness as they tread denying toes. Take the steps before you and provide for change of heart... with the evidence apparent? You've a horse before your cart!

Take these steps before you when you find you crave the truth! See, you're fooled by them no longer. Why? You're longer in the tooth!

Take the steps discovering the length and breadth of now; things are so much larger, quicker, brighter, newer — how?

Admittedly a state of mind, it's a useful acquisition. It's a doorway into thoughtfulness, meditation ... acquisition. It's a way to help your consciousness expand to cosmic reaches... ...it's a way to capture peace of mind from that which oft times freaks us!

See? It's a place you've made inside your brain, the only place that's real. It's real 'cause you make it so; it's real what you feel.

What works? It's what's imagined — what's created in your mind. Your force of will provokes this, friend, and it works you'll come to find.

Create a door in front of you, build it out of wood; fashioned out of stone, or not, you made it and it's good.

That door can take you places you had thought were only dreams! Departing from the 'man' you rise above his spiteful screams. You soar on space-time wings of light, past chasms made of stars. They're red and green, and blue and white — exploding crystal shards! Everything you see is light, even matter it so seems. Matter is this light at rest, and from it... ...shapes your dreams.

Dream you are a sculptor — build an archway in your yard, and through that arch you travel to the places you'd regard.

To slip arcane defenses, and they never know you're there; you plunder jealous secrets, then depart.  You dare to dare.

...Or through that arch you travel and some mystery's explained, the detail all accounted for ... now who would then refrain.

Through this arch? Fresh outlooks which provoke/demand respect; it's found there 'cause you need it. What you need, you truly get.

Oh... ...you've got to need it bad enough; you've got to really want to see ... just set your course and walk on through, and sit here, friend, with me.

Walk on through your archway and see the sky, brand new. See pinpoint lights flash different strobes, and sense a brand new you. Perceive what you've been missing in the dark skies you'd avoid, pushed away 'cause you felt threatened, over anxious, or annoyed.

Know that this is timeless, that it just goes on and on ... and if it does then you do too ... I wouldn't steer you wrong.

Know that *anything* is out there, and what's there deserves respect. Know that feeling is believing, you can join-up ... reconnect.

Shake your own hand; it's forgiven! What you cop to's in your past.  Forgiveness? A delectation, it's a stone groove; it's a gas!

And all this through a doorway that you've made from common things. Revealed! Discover peace of mind... and the calmness that it brings.

One finds they're, really, not alone; there're others in there waiting ... for you to wake up self-aware, is what they're contemplating. You go there through this door you make ... completely up to you... ...Return and step back through that door; be revived, recharged... renewed!



  • Budd Hopkins, assisted by one John Velez, built one of these things for a commission in a client's yard last century. Mr. Hopkins, one discovers, is not so much the Alien Abduction guy. No, rather he is more like what Terence McKenna correctly identified, I suspect, as the true engineer for the fast approaching future. He’s an artist.
  • Fear not. To some degree everyone is. One has to be... ...to be! ...To navigate a 21st Century day.  See, you very likely live a longer life, reader, unrecognizable to people of just a hundred years ago.  You live a potential of enlightened effication undreamed by near term forefathers, as angels even!  That seeming near god-hood has responsibilities also undreamed.  21st century existence requires art for both relevance and meaning leading to satisfaction.  Life requires art, even if only the art of mimicry, to survive — sentience to thrive.  I digress.
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  • The generic artist produces art of divergent quality, sure, but then how many pieces of the ready critic's expression have been featured in the collection of the Guggenheim Museum of Modern Art? No, Mr. Hopkins is very highly regarded as an artist — this is beyond question. I suspect, also, that Mr. Hopkins has never lied in a piece of art he’s produced —unless it was the allowed artist's lie as a device for telling a more ultimate truth— just as I suspect he’s not lying elsewhere...
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  • This aforementioned piece he conceived? It's a portal to a state of mind, and is still a real place, made real in the real world in a real way. Here's how Mr. Hopkins did it, here's how it's done. Here’s how you can do it.  I did it, myself.
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  • Make the "place."
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  • Find a "location", a sheltered, comfortable spot in a remote plot ... a convenient lay. A sentient place for serious sentience. Mr. Hopkins chose a location in a large, circular, and level field on the client's property.
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  • Into the center of this field he had rolled a large, disk shaped stone, a nod to the megalithic perhaps, and solidly set it up, table fashion, on rocky supports. This established the locale. This was the place in Mr. Hopkins mind, made real.
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  • Now. How to get there...
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  • Build an arch. Build a door. Build a portal, gate, hatch or transom. The *point* is that it signals a spot of transition between the inside and the outside, the here and there, or even the before and the after.
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  • It only looks like a door minus the surrounding structure, and is actually more along the lines of the archway Kirk, Spock and McCoy leaped through, to wondrous and exciting locales, in an ancient Star Trek episode.  Just go with me.
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  • The portal is in fact a teleporter to a state of mind ... a dimensional wormhole like of that cutesy "Sliders" series on the Sci-Fi channel. I can't call it imaginary; I mean, your most outlandish conjecture is happening somewhere.  There's far-flung space/time and surface area enough to have monkey beings two-fingering Shakespeare somewhere, you recall. 
  • These are just examples, mind you. Your place has a similar reality (what ever that may mean) remember, and has utility for that. That’s a good thing.  See, it can happen there, so, why not here!
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  • To get to your ... place ... you go through the *door* to it, and you are, of course, *there*. To leave the place, and this is important, you go back through the door, even if you're going to end up going into an inconvenient direction. The door is the only entry and exit to an intellectual location that can be anywhere in space, time, or mind, as these might all be the same thing anyway. The reader might begin to sense the possibilities here. 
  • Remember: "It's a place you've made inside your brain, the only place that's "real." It's real 'cause you make it so; it's real what you feel."
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  • Yeah, yeah ... yeah ... I hear your internal dialogue, "It's.  Only.  Pretend"! You're wrong. Shut up. 'K? ...'K.
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  • The sound of one hand clapping is, decidedly, not the sound of one hand trying to clap. Reality is dictated by the memes transmitted as a result of language, reader, and language is provoked solely as a result of imagination. Revel in yours. It’s a key to the kingdom and it can’t be taken from you, you can only give it up...
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  • When we were kids we had a marvelous capacity to suspend disbelief that is, to our aggregate cultural detriment, burned out of most of us before we leave middle school. The crime of sick culture. ...And what a crime!
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  • As a child I had a space ship. Oh sure, to you it looked like a tall stack of wood and rusty nails — filled with old radio dials, wooden levers, and bottle lids painted like *drive* instruments... ...But to me it was a battle star-wagon. I used it to right the wrongs of the universe just like my heroes "Rocky Jones", and "Captain Video."
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  • When I entered my ship, I was there! ...Even if I had to fly back, quick, because I heard mom calling on the "space radio".
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  • The point? "It's" as real as you make it. "It" has EVER been as real as you make it! A further point: your idlest thoughts are TRUTH REVEALED somewhere in a universe that just goes on and on in an appalling (and I mean that in a good way) if seeming infinity of space/time... and surface area... ...well passed the point of a billion-billion-billion fertile imaginations. Sincerely!
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  • Tell me dreams don't make it into the real world! ...Then think of computers, space shuttles, cell phones, everlasting flashlights, and living power from the sun — mere pie in the sky dreams of the erstwhile "trendlessly fluctuating" past. Stranger than these are ushered into reality by irrepressible imagination, rest assured of that, reader! Somewhere a hundred monkeys are banging out Shakespeare...
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  • It happened in our own history, verily! Additionally, we humans are our own proof of concept, our own indisputable evidence of the "other" ... that the other exists in fact! See, without the *other* there is no... *us*! What has happened once... ...has happened... and will happen again! We are somebody else's monkeys! I digress...
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  • We never lost the capacity to exercise imagination on an individual level, we were just discouraged away from it by the actions of an unjust society, a bone-head society frankly jealous that our individual energies would not be used, solely, to secure conveniently exclusive and callously disrespecting ends for a sociopathic few who manipulate that *society*. ...Not in my world!
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  • I mean, let's face it. If the shadowy elite had any respect for the sum total of us (you and me), they wouldn't allow the overpopulation (they encourage!) which discourages and limits the individual respect we all deserve just for plain, unvarnished, and garden variety existence ... for condensing out of the ether as mere biological facts produced by the imaginations of un-loving parents, even ... ...for just successfully clearing the breech of a mother’s womb! Respect presumed initially, reader. Individual respect that one should just be able to take for GRANTED!  Respect the default initiation, respect that can only be lost!
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  • Budd Hopkins, artist/engineer, only continues a tradition of efficacious consciousness altering that has been carved in stone at disparate locations, all over our globe, by wildly divergent if creatively intelligent peoples, throughout time! I allude to the arcane paths one walks to get to a location vis a vis the spiral labyrinths traversed in ageless meditations, labyrinths which have been around for an unguessed at length of time — usages lost to a completely mysterious and totally forgotten past.  Labyrinths used to focus the mind for intellectual travel?
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  • The labyrinth takes the place of the door, but the idea is the same: a journey to a healthy, positive, and very REAL state of mind — an alternate place, a hyperspace, from which you may return... with something real that can work... or from which you might learn.
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  • Imagination is all things, reader. See it in your very individual mind, and make it so.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

...Strange Treasure...



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L. Moulton-Howe? I'd surmised she was heavy. By that I mean plump, ponderous ... weighty. I'd thought she was mannish, had gained *too much* weight? ...Since beauty queen days she’d emptied some plates. A butterball picture preceded her lecture, I'd thought her an endomorph—too fond French confecture...

And what's wrong with that—well, not a damn thing; it's preferred is the point—as a way to still think.

Oh, don't get me wrong ... I'm making no judgment — I fight it myself — I'm as fat as da' gub'mint. It's just that it's better to get the full message unfiltered by beauty's beguiling advantage. Balance ... confused and derailed enough by diversions inflicted to shake it all up!

I don't want her to *thrill* me... but that I'd want her to share... all her travels, conclusions, and what she's found where. I don't want a romance, or a man/woman thing, but I do want her mind and the songs it could sing.

I wanted her portly, to give her words weight; all 'prettiness' suspect! It changes things, mate.

She'd been just a voice, but I'd heard its expression; its concern, its grand sense ... its truthful connection. She was honest, and forthright ... brave to bring light to a darkness we're facing... ...all near the same plight...

...Our world is dying; her words were its tears. She clearly contends valid reasons for fear! The lungs of our planet are burning up daily, the fish are expiring! She points it up plainly! Conspiracy's real, and it gushes from founts! Enigma's approaching — anomaly mounts!

T'was then that we met, and I've got to be truthful ... transcends the ethereal; good Christ... she is beautiful! She was standing, alone, in front of the lift as I turned a sharp corner — struck dumb and bereft!

I held out my hand and tried to say something; God knows what came out; I felt speechless ... presumptive. See what I mean? Beauty is tyranny! I’d comment to make, but I'd lost all epiphany!

"...You are Ms. Howe..." my question a statement, she said, "why, ah…yes." And her smile was radiant. Her dress was so light, and it moved without breeze. As we walked to the lift? ...I was weak in the knees.

I was fifty years plus, with a seasoned immunity to "the ways of the flesh" in our human community.

...Still, I'm swept up, beguiled, in the scent of her clothes, the wave in her hair ... her pedicured toes. My mind was in hyperdrive, and I grokked her detail... those alien eyebrows, the questions entailed.

Then the way she regards you, your secrets laid bare; I felt compelled to cover up, ashamed what she'd find there...

...See, I'm unimpressed by General Officers! I bow to few women, no strutting, proud man — but something about our Ms. Howe is quite different, and it sails passed beauty ... she's sincere — understand?

...Well, she was on two, and I was on four; we've one floor together, then she's out the door. The time that was spent in the short little trip? I'll remember a while. Though it went by so quick.

I thanked her, her courage, and I lauded her book ... "would you autograph it please," and she said she surely would. ...And then she was gone, and the doors had rolled closed — Linda Howe's a strange treasure, a flower...

...A dark rose.


  • She really is incredibly beautiful. Pity. I would just as soon it not get in the way.  This sentiment could have been made similarly were she to resemble a mossy sack of stomped frogs...
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  • See, "warts" — imperfections likely shared in humanity's aggregate? These are reassuring, actually, and imply a potential for approachability. Beauty can be tyranny, as may the contrary physical ugliness, eh? This is even when it’s not the tyrant's fault. More's the pity.
  • The perception with regard to Ms. Howe; however, is an inverse in some unexplainable way because, somehow... on anyone else? Her brand of personal loveliness would be an unwelcome distraction.  An exception proving the rule, she's the kind of person, you see, who makes her physical appearance fade in the listener's appreciation of what she has to say.
  • Remarkably, she has plenty to say. I’m asserting that, verily, and especially in comparison to her impacted detractors, there is a much more satisfying and efficacious beauty in her expression than can be found in her mere appearance, and I say this remembering my own converse turn at how all I've here-to-fore described can turn cross with you
  • See, she's not a woman you trifle with, clearly and decidedly.  I trifled to the smallest degree and its me in smoldering crosshairs... cut off at the presumptuous knees.
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  • It remains the preceding was my fault, so working it into an appropriate appreciation's evalutory equation is redundantly dishonorable. So?  So, call her gullible, non-discerning, or credulous in my presence and court your back-sides loss.
  • Say she has no filters, is not scientific, and is too self-involved while I'm listening to invite a lesson on ignorance of spirit and mind, n'est ce pas?  Imply she’s mendacious, obfuscating, or misleading to be found mendacious, obfuscating, or misleading, yourself. Call these bogus charges, say these thoughtless epithets, imply these canted assessments until cows return as prodigals... ...and get it as wrong as an out-of-control 720 degree turn from the truth could ever take you... verily.
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  • No, rather... ...she trumps her too often conflicted, presumptive, and suspect detractors with sincerity, imagination, and bravery. Moreover, she is subject to the dismissive slings and arrows of these detractors (agency, institution — status quo) only because in many cases these lack her courage, intelligence, and earnestness. Finally, she is a woman making her way in a male dominated field, and is remarkably even given that fact, in my opinion.  The Dolans, and J. Vallee share a similar opinion.
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  • Frankly, operating as she operates would make her just one of the boys if she was male. But she is female... so assertiveness becomes stridency. She is female... so thoroughness becomes obsessive-ness? She is female... so she’s not passionate... she's emotional. She is female so she’s not served by strong convictions... no ...she’s a "bitch"?
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  • Not at this station... too wary boys and ever warier girls. You know who you are.
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  • True, I usually have to make an effort to be *nice* to unusually pretty people ... by any stripe or definition of prettiness (charisma just pisses me off much to the horror and chagrin of the charisma-tized).
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  • See, I feel many of these are so used to deferential treatment they have (many of them) lost the capacity to respectfully appreciate it, graciously. Ms. Howe is certainly attractive enough for me to dismiss, out of hand.
  • ...But Ms. Howe also has unusual courage (I’m uniquely qualified to know what courage is, Sir and Madam!), plus evidence of putting herself in harm's way (...think about it...), and her obviously uncontrived and (cleanly healthy) passion for her subject is honorably admirable. I am loath to not appreciate what she has to say and the effort made to say it.
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  • And I do appreciate her, share her concern for an abused Earth (the only home we've currently got), and support, in a material way, her ongoing investigation into that which should be of critical (gainful!) interest to every one of us.
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  • I buy her books and eschew M. Shirmer's.
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  • Why? Because the earnest report is preferable to the axe-grinding and exclutionary one. I'd rather have "the truth and a half" than "half the truth"... ...And dead wrong? I suspect she’s still more *correct* (whatever that may mean) than her canted, conflicted, and intellectually constipated opposition.  That's the long and tall right there.
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  • God's speed and cleverness, Linda Howe. It's apparent you're one of the few who's at core as pretty on the inside as you most certainly are on the outside. Lovely, and still a minor god in my personal pantheon, and, currently still (...even if under original protest...)?
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  • "...Reporting my skies."
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Sunday, July 04, 2010

...Who Starts The Fire...



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With apology to Billy Joel…
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Flying saucers, small grey men — folks abducted ... not pretend. Saucer duels? Ford's not free, Mitchell, Hall, and Sitchin — see? Maytag washers, life on Mars, baby ET's plastic jars. Stanton Friedman, Jacques Vallee — only guessing on their knees...

We didn't start the fire;
it was always burning and we're never learning...
We didn't start the fire;
it was always burning and we're never learning...

Message traffic disappears; end time talk is full and near; comets fly across our skies and take those persons living lies. Johnny Ford is painted nuts. Still, we're mute; we've got no guts. Watch and all reports come in; saucers fly for sure, my friend!

We didn't start the fire;
we're never learning so we're keeping it burning ...
We didn't start the fire;
we're never learning so we're keeping it burning ...

CIA gives self-reports, laughing up my sleeve, I snort. Agents give kids drugs to sell. I wish these Agents fulsome hells. Uni-bombers and McVeigh, sure and they have hell to pay — but we're not hearing all the facts, just the *phacts* to stay the "track"!

We didn't start the fire,
and the fire's still burning... because we're not learning.
We didn't start the fire,
and the fire's still burning... because we're not learning.

Laying gutted, breached, and gored... on the knives of landed lords, in a cell that you'd deplore, lies the frame of Johnny Ford. Lost and most alone is he, he who worked to set us free (?); soon it is they'll come for YOU! What will, then, you think to do?

We didn't start the fire,
but it's churning burning's confusing our learning.
We didn't start the fire,
but it's churning burning's confusing our learning.

Heard it first on old Art Bell, deformed frogs, and cells from hell. Corporate madness gives offence, Suffolk County's made no sense... Hoaxes, frauds, and misdirection coming to an intersection, bearing down like there's no blessing! Here it comes! It's most distressing!

We didn't start the fire, but, still, it is burning...
...and still we're not learning.
We didn't start the fire, but, still, it is burning...
...and still we're not learning.
Stanton Friedman, one whom I respect, observed to me that our government might need to have some secrets. A Republic (he says, though I would argue oligarchy), requiring immunity from the *lone crazy* an accommodating democracy "suffers," needs to keep secrets from its enemies.

I can only offer that our now too often un-elected, and so then unconstitutional government —a government warned against by many notable Americans from Abraham Lincoln through Dwight Eisenhower to Edgar Mitchell— has so far and away abused that prerogative that the original reasons requiring that secrecy is straining relevancy! 

See? They've abused their relevance where they gladly betray their sworn charter to protect and serve the Constitution, and by extension, us!  Secrecy must presume that it NOT be practiced only where the greedy needs of the few are facilitated.

It's that bad.

It's a corporate driven government and a private wheel of shadows making more wheeling shadows, confirms Richard Dolan!  This puts the weaves of our social systems, he points out, at risk! Moreover, it's plainly NOT the persons who are ground up in corporate wheels making the shadows — they only endure them even as they believe they are served by them!  These are the persons poisoned, disabled, or killed outright at Area 51— ...or walled away like our own John Ford. The wheel grinds its way to you and I, good reader. Search your heart.

It is an unjust wheel, I'll wager confidently. It is a wheel we would not remotely energize if we knew what was required to keep its psychopathic roll.  A soul is legal tender in this contract with reptiles to power dehumanizing wheels facilitating the ongoing death of the aforementioned Republic.

To wit: A meltdown of the current system in its present form is abundantly forecast and probably inevitable. It is unfortunate that the reptilian minority most "inconvenienced," if largely unaffected by this meltdown I add, has to make it so tough on the majority... that is the rest of us!

Why not a controlled melt-down now in a time of relative prosperity when we have the extra wealth to weather the possible storm — grease for the dry socket that is not really required by the approaching future bearing down upon us like a train... Do it now coming out of this current disaster — in a year the dust will have settled a little and we will all be on much firmer ground.

We'll be READY for the next winter! Think of it fellow motes! We could be ready for far more than a mere winter!

Consider! We enter a time when we become more and more afraid of our government when the only government that remotely works is the government that is contrarily afraid of its people! We must have firmer ground with regard to our government, you and I, as regards a very necessary informed consent; it's the only place one can find any real and lasting satisfaction.  It is a place of bi-directional cultural respect bridging gaps between classes —a conduit between the left and right halves of Bell curves— and the only place we should be compelled to stand.  Mammalian institutions are preferred to reptillian ones for obvious reasons.  Lizard's institutions are not evolved and non-evolving.  These would de-evolve.

Restore John Ford.