Friday, August 29, 2014

Misplaced Veneration and Misunderstood Technologies

In terms of symbolism the figure of a Japanese pagoda communicates the same message, as do the slabs of stone above the King's Chamber at Giza.

Like a greenhouse a resonant pyramid will slow down some energies when they enter and trap them inside. This causes an echoing effect within the structure and this characteristic phenomenon can be used to create a ninth crystal of ice. In Pyramid Prophecies by Max Thoth (probably a pseudonym), the tale is told of a doctor diving in an area of the Bermuda Triangle. He claimed to have found a crystal ball in a capstone chamber of an underwater pyramid. It was about the size of a softball (give or take), it was very heavy and when held up to light, and countless different-size pyramids could be seen within it.

I am sure that the ball was made from powered glass and doped with a certain isotope of lead. There is a circumscribed human head within each pyramid; the crystal ball was melted within a chamber of the area known as the capstone. The statement is that of a light of an idea, such as which can be seen in cartoon characters above their heads. The ball was melted during the highest point of the sunspot cycle. The inner pyramids were caused by the energy echoing effect in the structure. One way to see this artifact is as a physical representative of the Greek letter omega; this ball is a statement of the last split-second before the big bang, when all is matter. It also resonates with the twelfth sphere (in the lattice structure of the twelve spheres that I have discovered) of Scorpio-Sol, the Sun, which presents itself to the universe as a body that is dying. The last split-second before the big bang is a time of complete and total fullness. The Scorpio can be (blah-blah-blah) full of it, so it is that the crystal ball cannot hold anything for long before transferring it. Returning to the doctor; he said that he used to pass the ball around at get-togethers but at one certain time a woman obviously felt a grand sense of relief after holding the ball while the next woman after taking it crumpled to the floor in agony. Later it was discovered that the first woman had terminal cancer.

Besides the suspected false name of the author, the story has a certain feel about it; not that it is apocryphal so much that it has a sense of a plant, a disinformational concoction. More likely is that the ball was discovered during a super-secret operation involving a deep-diving submarine, and that the occult agency that performed the operation wished to go to a "Limited Hang Out Route," releasing just enough information to add to the quandary that is always being spread so as to keep the common folk in a state of question marks, a place where the elite inner core of secret societies can manipulate them. The liars at the top will often forge or fake a document or book and while the medium is false, the brunt of the information contained within will be largely true. From what I already know the description of the internal pyramids, the heaviness and the ability for the ball to pass on attributes or transfer them fits perfectly with the opposite of the Alpha in this arrangement.

Monday, August 11, 2014

Two Witnesses

Morning, Bill. You want to hear something off the wall?

Well why not. You're pretty off the wall anyway.

Nostradamus used the name Mabus in a few of his quatrains. Many folks have interpreted it as the name of the, so-called, third antichrist. Well, Ray Mabus is the Secretary of The Navy. Of course now that we know of one with the name, nothing will happen with him or anyone else even close to the same name.

Yeah. And blah, blah, blah; we're supposed to be in the rein of the last pope too, according to some monk named Malachi. So, it's 2014; wasn't WW III supposed to start sometime in the late '90s? Yeah, it's all  that "Boy who cried wolf" stuff, fear programming.

And then there was Y2K. That was a big whoop-dee-do nothing.

I'll say. I do think there is a matrix of man, but it's all so connected to the wrong. There was that "Harmonic Convergence thing in the late '80s that came to nothing again. Anyhow, this matrix thing is managed from the top. Whenever you see those people wearing masks at demonstrations they are not anarchists. Those are paid provocateurs. They are there to cause as much violence as they can. That way the police will have an excuse to use the nightstick, and the viewer of television will see the otherwise peaceful demonstrators as a mob bent on destruction.

Now I got another: What about the tabloids? They are owned by some of the secret societies, lodges, very wealthy elite, and intelligence-gathering organs. And get this: They do not make money; there is no profit to be made and even though they lose money still, in a capitalist society they remain on the shelves. The reasons being, they spread disinformation, they can provide a place for secret codes, and they can also be a threat to anyone in the limelight: Either you play by our rules or you'll get exposed.

I'm thinking of how everything gets twisted, perverted, or corrupted by the authorities: The true meaning of the "Occupy Movement" could be found in South America. Originally it was about laid-off factory workers taking over their old plant and running it, effectively and for a profit, with no management. Definitely the elite can't abide by anything thought up by commoners so they perverted the meaning and corrupted it into The Occupy Wall Street Movement, with no goals and no achievable ends in sight. They are experts at mass manipulation; over time they knew that the thing would lose steam.

We can't ignore the big dog in all of this. What about all the hoopla that was made over 12/21/2012? Dude! I was hoping and praying for something to actually happen – anything to overturn this mess. Hey, honey, how about a refill? Thanks.

It makes sense to think that the reason Joe Stalin blew up the Tsar's oil fields in 1905 was because he was ordered to do it by the big powers, such as John D. Rockefeller. And, referring back to how they always ruin any movement of the people: It was Charles Manson's job to destroy the Hippie Movement, and he did real well. And the street revolution in St. Petersburg in March of 1917 was genuine, so to nip it in the bud they called on Lenin to ride the train. He could be handled.
Hey man, did you ever notice how a great prognosticator comes into the limelight(?): There will be many who build him up; they'll cite the instances of the past where he was spot-on. Okay, so you start paying attention to him and what he is saying about the future only to find out over time that nothing the fraud has said has come to pass.

The Zippo lighter company.

What's that got to do with anything?

Yeah; I just remembered that my dad had an old Zippo lighter. Supposedly they had a lifetime guarantee so he sent in the one he had from way back because it had a broken wheel or something. He sent it in; they sent him back a new lighter. And the reason I bring this up is because it's an example of a very rare instance of something working "as advertised." It is extremely difficult today to find something that is not a fake, fraud, or counterfeit in some way.

This is not new, though: You should realize that lying is the mainstay of civilization. Without it there would be no entertainment, politics, economics, or religion. Remember all the stories of youth? The truth is that the Easter Bunny and The Tooth Fairy are still with us in many different guises. Really, when I think about it I can't find much of anything that is not lying.

Now you hit the nail on the head. This is why I want the Book of Revelation to play out. But this is part of what I mean by this screwed-up matrix we labor against: When you want something really bad, you'll never get it. And here's another sort-of "Murphy's Law" to consider: No matter what is said about the future, most of the time if you have heard and considered it then it will never happen. It's like quantum mechanics: The mere act of observance will cause it to change.

Well for sure, of the people, by the people, and for the people is a lie. It was and is all about special interests. And getting back to Old Murphy again, if voting machines can be rigged, then they are rigged. Does it seem that every president from Clinton on is dedicated to destroying America? Now they have little kids coming over the border. Most of them are from Central America, which means they had to cross over the thickest part of Mexico. They are being escorted, helped to become illegal immigrants to this country.

You have to ask the man with the alias about that, and while you're at it, you might throw in a question about "Fast And Furious." But deeper than that, just who is it who put this programmed Manchurian Candidate up for election in the first place?

Okay, okay, all these things we're talking about are important but there is one overriding problem that trumps them all: The fact that we're nearing the figure of Seven Billion people on this planet, and together we are all burning up the natural resources. Now, while we all know about this, who is going to be the one to hit the stop button? Most of us try not to think about it, or invent facts such as everybody can fit in the state of Texas. So, other than a madman releasing terrible diseases in airports, we're left with Pray to Jesus, or God, or The Virgin Mary. But I think that if I had the means I would hit the button, knowing that there is no one else who could pull the plug.

Yeah, dude, but it's easy for you to say since you don't have the means. We're just two old farts drinking coffee in a restaurant.

Friday, August 1, 2014

Saying Goodbye (After the Fact)

Would that I could shut it all out somehow: I feel as though I am the victim of a process of shunning, one that has left me alone to experience the sensory awareness of impending danger even as the rest of the accepted group of humanity remains unaware. Hillary Clinton has a book out; a new photograph of her shows those wide and invading eyes, with that smile that's just a little too affected. As I gazed, a comparison came to mind: I recognized it as the same sort of headshot as the one taken of Jared Loughner, the shooter of Representative Gabrielle Giffords; by way of definition, a psycho on Krank. The categories of psychopathology and sociopathology find representation in their shared traits when the patterns of behavior for politicians and the worst sort of serial criminals are compared. Somehow Barry Soetoro dropped out of the sky and became Barak Obama. Now he's saying that he had to issue so very many presidential directives due to the blockage of congressional gridlock. ("I'm sorry," says Caesar, but I had to take charge because of that do-nothing Senate.) Every dictator has used this sort of excuse.

In this paper I am starting with things afield. You see, I had to be away for a few days and, as such, I became vulnerable to the rottenness and filth of television ("Don't touch that dial"), courtesy of my own curiosity and due to my having to be near  a few elderly TV-watching relatives. And referring to hard drugs again, on the way back I awoke in a motel room in Tucumcari and saw the "people" of the early morning shows. My thought was, "Behind every smile lurks a potential lie." (What's new? Just about everything here IS lying.) Okay, that's peripheral information. It could be a tad relevant; some future historian may want to know, but it's not the principal reason why I'm putting fingertips to keyboard.

Two photographs: the first came by way of a professional. It showed Anna and a man at a table, having a daytime beer in a bar. Back in the forties and fifties sometimes a pro would snap a pic of you and you'd give him a little dough. The thing came out like a work of art and it made my eldest sister look like a lovely Italian movie star. But the second picture was not of beauty. It was a bit stark (I don't remember where I saw it), and the circumstances around it were not nice. She was standing on a sidewalk in Sioux City with the woman who had married my dad's brother, Uncle Lowell. He had worked on the first transcontinental highway of Canada and had sent most of his money home, to his young wife. She spent it all and demanded a divorce when he returned. Later, he hanged himself.

Anna Marie married but did not have any children of her own. Her husband had three from a previous marriage but his first wife had been declared insane. After he died in a strange motorcycle accident she became like the deteriorated character played by Goldie Hawn in Death Becomes Her.

There's a part of me to talk about here as well; first I have to return to The Beacon Theater that used to be at 29th and Ames, in Omaha: the year was 1961 and our little gang was walking past the front. Some older guys were there and Lyle gave off a very aggressive "Fuck You" to them. We took off running. I ducked down an alleyway and successfully hid in the middle of three or four trash cans but the next day Lyle gave me hell for breaking away from the group. I remembered this as I sat in – but did not participate in – the Catholic funeral for my eldest sister. The word mass is taken literally: people form a single body as they respond to the liturgical promptings of the priest. The all-together unity of it made me think of huddling for protection as against a too-wild and unpredictable, a too-cold and unforgiving world. Sometimes it's good to have the memory refreshed; some of it came back but in my youth I was performing as a kid, obeying my parents. In contrast, during and after my conversion I can recall synagogues that sounded like a cacophony of auctioneers, each man trying to get his own prayer in (and to heck with mass). Even though it didn't stick with me, I found myself more attuned to the "Currahee" aspect of the Jews. (This is an American Indian word, maybe Cherokee, that means, "We stand alone together.")

The church was a small one off of the old downtown area of Omaha. When I was a twelve-year-old kid I had hawked Sunday morning newspapers on its steps (for a quarter each) some fifty-five years earlier. It was beautiful inside, albeit somewhat cluttered and busy with its too many statues, too much stained glass, and in its symbolism overload. (I pity the one doing the dusting.)

I think it was 1954: she visited us when I was seven. I remember that Anna Marie made a big spaghetti dinner but there was something about that, and the grape juice she had bought, that didn't sit well with me. Later, outside, I threw it all up.

The day before the funeral was the viewing. I cried, not so much for or about her death but the sight of those paltry, pitiful and cheap clothes disturbed me greatly. (From what others told me, our mother had treated her terribly.) Years after her husband died another brother and sister went to visit and ended up taking out about fifteen huge plastic bags filled with trash, junk, and garbage from her neglected home. Her first words to them were, "Welcome to the house of death." In later years she lived with another sister and her family in Omaha. Every time I saw her I would ask if there was anything I could do (and I meant it – if she would have asked I would have tried), but she would always reply that she was okay and didn't need anything. In the last ten years or so even talking sounded like hard work for her (I found myself wondering if she had had a lobotomy); her verbal skills were almost gone, and now (goddamn it) she wasn't even going to be buried in a nice dress.

My private prayer was for her to have something better, no matter where she may go. She paid dearly while she was here.

I sat in the pew with the pallbearers and giggled to myself when I remembered that Jack Kerouac had his first sex in a confessional. Of course with my views and considering what I have experienced I qualify as an apostate and a heretic. I looked up at those wonderful stained glass windows and imagined them imploding inward in a contrived vision of something akin to what may have happened in The Omen. One reason why I broke away is because I feel that if there really is a judgment, then I will have to stand alone for it. When Brian said, "You're all individuals," the ovine gathering below intoned, "Yes, we're all individuals," collectively, but that's not me. I actually try to live as one, and besides that, there's all that mystical stuff about me that my family doesn't want to go near. A feeling of superiority is not where I'm at; I don't see myself as anything but normal while the majority of others want to remain at a lower state where they may feel more secure (plus, couple that with the absence of the pain required as a necessary part of learning and changing). It might be more correct to say that I have to remain a free agent, ready to go wherever I am called (if I get a call). I could not and cannot attach myself to someone or something, at best equal to me or at worst of a lesser makeup. Sorry, Lyle, and I apologize to the Jewish people as well, but I had to be on my own and I could not stop seeking, learning, and changing to fit whatever I found.

Dad and Mom were Aries and Capricorn, two leader houses; their first four surviving children were male-Libra, female-Capricorn, male-Aries, and female-Cancer, covering all four of the leader signs.

Anna was the second one. She was eighty-two-and-a-half when she passed away, the same age as her older brother when he died.

The funeral was followed by my brother-in-law, Tom, taking me to the zoo on my birthday, the day after the services. It was a great time: the Omaha zoo is (for a city of that size) quite exemplary, and an all-day project to take in. My childhood was not pleasant; I cannot bring up a truly good memory. So I find myself thinking of other kids in this town, the ones who will not know of anything good or positive in their youth and it doesn't matter if all the children at the zoo were happy. Even in the middle of my good time I couldn't help but think of the children sitting on a run-down apartment stoop with nothing to do and no money to do it with.

So, after an (almost) heart attack–inducing trip back, I am once again back on Route 66. I wear a wet T-shirt in my repo trailer, with an indoor temperature above 92 as shown on the thermometer. It has been windy (as per usual) but has since died down; tonight I walk and look up at the cloud cover, hoping that it will rain…praying for the rain of John Fogerty and Bob Dylan, a biblical cleansing.