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Monday, December 31, 2012

So You Could Say...

That times were interesting when I was younger. They were certainly a lot more interesting than they are now, although they were also a lot more traumatic.

That werewolf spell experience from my childhood would serve me amusingly later when I was living in Schenectady, New York.

A lot had happened to me by then. I'd married, been cheated on, been left, been reprimanded by the handlers, been discriminated against while living in New Jersey, had to send my children away to my abusive ex-husband to protect them from the discrimination in New Jersey, you name it. So I was living in Albany New York with a man who claimed he wanted to be my boyfriend that said he'd help me get back on my feet after I'd lost everything in New Jersey.

This was just before 9/11. The house I was living in was a two story that was divided into two apartments. The young man said I could live in the bottom apartment. It was a nasty house, to say the least. I mean there I am with fragile lungs (I was also recovering from serious walking pneumonia I couldn't get any doctors to take seriously) and he had these long-hair cats he and his roommate never cleaned up after, and he refused to open any windows to allow fresh air inside even though the screens were secure and the cats could not in any possible way have gotten out. I grew up with cats and I was pretty sure I knew enough about them to know an open secure window was safe, fresh air was healthy, and cleaning up after them was a must.

I won't go into the clique activities in that house - they're not important, and they're all Otherkin related anyway. The petty incidents with one of his "friends" who came only to get him to help with homework and was nasty to me when he was out of the room is basically something out of a movie about high school spoiled rich kids. The important parts are what he did to me - although some of it may have been good intentioned I still can only view him as evil these days.

He spent money on me, I'll give him that. He got me some new clothes to find a job in, which I found almost immediately being as I'm highly skilled. He got a friend of his set up to babysit my daughter for me while I worked - boy that was a mistake. That horrible woman soon proved to be resentful, petty and prone to take things out on my daughter, so I soon found myself looking for someone else on the side. Not fast enough, though - the bitch picked an argument one morning and quit on me thirty minutes before I had to go to work, causing me to lose my job.

The young man, I guess I'll call him Fred, also would do past life readings for me. He had a skill called scar reading: he would lay hands on you and read scars your soul has from past experiences. They were amusing stories he'd tell me, and I loved to hear them. They validated my existence when I needed it so very badly. One day after one of his friends had come to teach me how to fight with swords but spent that time telling me how since I was obviously a split personality that meant I didn't exist (only a nightmare for splits everywhere) he used the readings to make me feel better. I look back on the pattern that was around me: everyone around him treating me horribly when he wasn't there and him picking up the pieces every day and I recognize a particular training pattern.

The problem with that particular pattern, you see, is that I was already MKultra and didn't know it. Oh, he knew I was "manifesting" from the trauma I'd faced and was having a shift inside of me. He obviously didn't know why or how. I don't know if I've talked about it before, the Black Princess programming, but that's when this was finally fully awakened.

You don't tamper with a Butterfly's matrix, especially not to reprogram. The pattern I was thrown into there wasn't a matter of being handled or reinforced. It was a matter of fresh programming being laid upon me: it was tampering. That's stupid and dangerous to do to anyone, much less a Butterfly. I know that now. Of course back then I only knew I was in a world of pain, confusion, and felt cornered without really knowing why.

I don't know how it is for the others, but when I'm pushed into feeling a certain level of angst I forget that I can't do things and just take it for granted that I can. So my "powers" came out on dangerous levels. At first it was little things - being able to predict what someone was going to do next - and it moved on to bigger things like self defense.

Fred's true form isn't human. I don't know what it is... it has a lot of tendrils that he attaches to people. In fact it's where I learned the skill, but with him I don't think it was a matter of conscious thought so much as that was what he is. There was this time I was washing dishes (SOMEONE had to clean) and he walked up behind me. My senses caught hint of this monster and I quickly turned, automatically throwing energy throwing darts at him with my right hand. They went out as bright points of white that my 6th sense saw and melted into him.

I was so proud that day, bouncing around him saying, "Did you see? Did you see? I remembered how to do that!" I had no idea what doing that really meant in the grand scheme of things. I thought it meant that my past life self - the Malek persona - was finally reawakening fully and I was going to manifest into that phoenix I'd waited for all my life. Fred nodded and didn't congratulate me as much. He claimed the energy bounced off his armor.  And the next day for several days he was very sick; couldn't even get out of bed.

At about that time the observant bits of me started to catch on, and I found myself separating internally from the stories Fred would tell me. By then I was breaking inside completely from what was happening around me. One day Fred told me this lovely story about my past life and a love. I can't remember the full story now, nor do I want to. I remember he said my past body had six fingers on each hand and he described this form that matches some popular conspiracy theories. But I, after hearing it, contemplated the information he gave me. I realized I didn't remember any of it, and because I couldn't remember it that meant I couldn't validate it. This is a skill you must exercise to keep from lying to yourself, and I probably will talk about it over and over again in this journal.

When I sat down that evening to record what I'd learned in my past life journal, I omitted Fred's story. He noticed and was furious. I was confused at the time, of course, as to why he'd be so angry that I had not taken his tale as gospel. And there was another part of me that said, "See? He's manipulating you."

Halloween: I wanted to hold a party, so we did. Man that house was disgusting to clean. I was picking up three year old cat puke in corners, I kid you not. Omigod. But the point behind that is while cleaning Fred's room I accidentally came across a compartment in his floor; it wasn't secured very well. And inside were about half a dozen books on how to manipulate people. I just sat there on the floor looking at these books. My inner selves wanted me to pick them up and read them, but I wouldn't touch them. No way. I just filed their existence away in my head - as obvious as the situation could have been to an outsider, things sink in slowly for me somtimes. And I knew this was a blatant red flag that everything else was bad bad bad. But I was also trapped and maybe didn't want to acknowledge it.... but I'll have to tell more of the story next post.

While doing research trying to rediscover the information about blind alters, I came across a blog post by someone talking about Katy Perry's "Wide Awake" video. The blogger cautioned the reader to look at the "Alice in Wonderland" imagery, that it was a definite statement about Katy Perry's entrapment in the MKultra program (because only famous stars are MKultra slaves).

So I watched the rather entertaining video and what I saw was not Alice in Wonderland imagery. It was straight Jim Henson's The Labrynth. Yes, falling into the Green World such as the character in Labrynth or how Katy Perry does in her video does can be construed as Alice in Wonderland imagery. Wonderland is a very bright and fantastical dream world and it's well known that the book was used in MKultra programming.

But one mistake I see people making repeatedly is instantly pointing fingers at something fantastical and calling it a conspiracy shot because it has butterflies, colorful images, and things our culture associates with a magical world. Sometimes that's just not the case whether you like it or not. Shakespeare was writing about falling into magical worlds long before Alice was a twinkle in her father's eye. Before Shakespeare there was the mysterious poet who immortalized Beowulf for us. Sometimes a fish is just a fish, no matter how much you try to descale it.

It's like the HAARP fad a couple of years ago. HAARP was blamed for everything; a dust devil, high tide, your baby burping up it's juice. Whatever it was, HAARP did it. Omigod, seriously.

Look. I think this is probably another important part to getting to the truth about yourself. You have to keep to the scientific process and remember that ability to reason your god gifted you with. Maybe Katy Perry is a MKultra diamond. Maybe not. I haven't looked into her enough to know for sure. If you're going to try to reason one way or the other, use your brain and get to know the material first.

Which means being able to tell the difference between a movie reference and a classic children's story. Yes, that also means knowing the difference between Satanism, Devil Worship, and Zen. Not being biased just because you're Christian and assuming everything else is evil. Not being biased just because you're athiest, etc.

The information we give each other is so confused and muddled because of the people out there feeding us with mixed information. You want to defeat this problem? Work to beat that, first.

Monday, December 24, 2012

Moon over Star

I took a moment to try to find out some information on alters that had their eyes sewn shut or were missing in some way. I remember faintly my husband mentioning finding something about it before, but now that I want to find it I can't. As happens when I try to dig into this sort of information I am suddenly very sleepy. Oh, well.

I am hesitant to read too much anyway, for fear I'll stumble across something I haven't talked about here yet. I know that sounds silly. But, for example, I keep coming across references to mirrors and implants. When I was younger mirrors figured a large part with me. My brother and I tried to open a mirror to see if we could escape this earth that way - and it opened alright, but not in the way we intended. And that's a story for another post.

And the implants: I always played with the lump behind my right ear. I'd always known something was there. I'm grown and I hear that's a popular spot for an implant - and a lot has happened with that. Which I'll have to try to remember to discuss later.

But for now before the time of the open mirror back when I still fudged with the lump behind my right ear because it was a lump - just a lump to me - and I was a kid. And kids picked - this is where I am in my time line. And my next attempt to get away from the world was to turn myself into a werewolf.

Mind you I was already half-convinced that I was. I had dreams of turning into a small black wolf a lot. I'd go out the front door of the house at night when everyone was asleep as if by commend, shift, and go running with the neighborhood dogs. There were times I'd go to the door because I'd been summoned and there waiting for me were the Dire Wolves (so my father called them when I told him about it. He said so proudly.). They were large as a big man and I was the run they ran behind, waiting for me to lead the way. I took it for granted I was their "leader" and man, I craved the times we ran together.

But then one night happened when I was running with the dogs and the alpha male of the neighborhood challenged me. We got into a fight - and I can't remember what happened after that. I woke up the next morning with scratches on my face. Three long ones going up my forehead. And I never shifted again. Into a wolf that is.

The last time I can think of offhand that I shifted started out like all the other nights, but it happened a couple of years after the dog fight. I stepped out of my bedroom and went to the mirror on the wall by the front door, which I always did in this particular "dream". I looked in the mirror and my eyes weren't human anymore. They were bird-like: golden and slitted. I said "no!" and ran out the front door and fell on the grass of our front yard. My mind was filled with an image of what I was going to become: a bird like creature, colored like fire. A phoenix.

And I craved it to happen to me now. I wanted it. I needed it.

I'm getting old and it still hasn't happened. LOL

So I'd went on a research trip for a school paper, and the subject I'd chosen was werewolves. Which, if you know your research lead me to vampires. And the information was thick - and hard to find. Back then in the 1980's there was a problem in my home town with a large "Satanist" group that liked to steal any material from the library that might be construed as metaphysical. But I got lucky. I found an old book from the 1940's or 50's in a hidden nitch of the library and it was entitled, simply, "Werewolves." It was perfect.

In it was a lot of good information. And one bit I latched onto was an old spell on how to turn yourself into a werewolf. Essentially you took a bit of werewolf hair, tied it to a bush, and said a chant. So long as this charm stayed in place you'd turned into a wolf under certain conditions.

So I took my dog's fur (being as he was part wolf) and did the spell. I went to sleep that night fully expecting to be a wolf the next day. Sure, going in heat worried me (was 14 at the time) but I was determined to get out of the human world somehow.

I half-awoke to find myself in a large round room. My eyes stayed shut but I knew I was surrounded by at least 12 men and one woman. The woman stayed by my right ear and spoke to the men as if she was defending me. And the men were debating on what to do about this: my desire to get the fuck out. And this spell I had cast. It apparently was a real problem for them and they had to determine if I would be allowed my wish or not.

I woke up the next day quite human so I'm pretty sure I didn't get my wish.

I stopped trying to escape so much after that. Something in me just gave up.

Friday, December 21, 2012

Thursday, December 20, 2012

A Strange Defense

To continue my thoughts from the previous post, I don't know if I'd managed to open a stargate or not that day. Considering I was trying to go, once again, to Pern the chances are not. Chances are really high that all I'd managed to do was pour energy into my doorframe and create a nifty visual effect.

With that failed, I turned to other ways to try to escape. My next tactic was to turn myself into a werewolf. LOL. But I guess I'll talk about that later.

There is a mental exercise I will do on occasion - it depends on my mood shift I guess as to whether or not I remember to do it. I figure I probably should do it every night, but most days I'm so exhausted from working or what have you that I just crawl into bed wanting to sleep. (Some day I'll get to work regular hours instead of 12+ and that will happen to me less. Then I shall get to write in this journal more frequently. Woo hoo!)  I want to share this mental exercise with you because if you're built like me, it's a very good step in gaining control of the matrix that has been put into your head. And if you're "at that age" you need to get control or you won't make it to the other side.

When I lay me down to sleep, I mentally speak to the other selves I have in my head. It's not hard. You're preparing to put yourself into that all-important liminal state the handlers need you to be in when they trigger your alters, so it's not that large of a leap to reach out and touch someone. So that's what I do - and it's how they reach out to touch me when they feel they need to. If you learn to listen you can hear them talking to each other (even though I'm told they're not supposed to know each other exists). Sometimes I can catch snippets of conversation - but never enough to make much sense. About half the time I can actually manage to walk into the "between space" and see whose there.

The "between space" is like a brown-floored room. It has no walls except for darkness, and that's where we all go to talk to one another. I've been there a lot of times. When I was younger, I didn't know where I was going but now I understand it a bit better. It's only a bit of shared headspace.

So when I lay down to sleep two nights ago I "spoke" specifically to the one alter I have come to view as the most active and prominent one. She has no name that I know of, but I've called her a lot of things over the years. She's a shapeshifter, a practical joker, very sly and really everything I could have been but was shaped into not being. The white fox. I envy her and her power, so often when I remember to I beseech her to please help me continue assmiliating all of the people into one person with me.  Because I don't want to be split anymore. I want to be one single person, to hold all of my memories, to know where I've been, and to remember it. To genuinely remember it. I view that personal knowledge as the greatest power.

The feeling I've always gotten from her is that it's a good plan (being hers) but she has to assimilate as the very last person. Sometimes I think it's because she's afraid. Sometimes I think it's because she's the one trying to round things up and if she's gone things will stop. Sometimes I just don't know.

While calling to her, I found myself walking into the "between space". As I did, I saw another me already there. She had really long hair and her back was to me. Thin. Man, I wish I were thin like they were.

Someone walked past me. Her hair was long in the style that I wear it but it was an unkempt mess. She wore a beret; a woolen or crocheted one. It had a texture anyway. I think it was brown.  She passed me to my left and walked up to the other girl, who turned to the side a bit to greet her. I still couldn't see the other girl's face. But I saw the newcomer's face. Her eyes were sewed shut. And it wasn't just eyes sewn shut. The eyelids were sewn in these humongous half-moon shapes that basically lined where the skull eye socket would be. It was unnatural looking yet natural at the same time, and her face was lined by... I don't know what. Too much sun. The world. I don't know.

She turned to face me and even though her eyes were sewn shut she could see me, and I knew she could see me. The first girl whispered something into her left ear and left, all without me seeing her face. Newcomer and I faced each other a moment and I'm not sure what happened after that. I walked away or she walked away. Either way I was pushed back out of the between space, which happens when they realize I'm in there, and I was laying in bed with my eyes open.

There is a person in my head that I personified into comics that was a war general. The black peacock, I suppose, although I don't know if she is that particular persona. She is most likely linked the way all alters are in some ways and others.  But this person I've always known was blind. She's fond of alcohol, and her power is brutishly strong. She can kill you by manipulating your body's electric current - but she will only strike in self defense. So I guess of the alter types she's what they call a "defender". Although another word that pops automatically into my head is "the leader".  One of the trinity that makes up the me that is truly me. Or is it 8? 10?

She has no name, and all I can tell you about her is a bunch of feelings and two events when I think it was her that decided to come to the front of the room. The feelings are warlike: angst, power, a desire to flatten cities, a need to put some things to right, a need to follow the plan, a natural inclination to delegate, full expectation to be treated as a queen. Things like that. Most of it is a strength that swells in the bottom of my throat, and when I feel her inside of me I'm driven to research mind control, the source of our problem, learn more about the political environment going on in parts of the world, and to make contact with those "beneath me" for the information they have to give.

Like my trickster, she has come forward many times I am sure. But the two that stick out the most in my mind happened in the past 15 years. The first: a friend had come with her boyfriend and we held what we call "the Black Ritual." It's essential a truth-making ritual involving a bottle of wine that I charged with energy for a while. One person who is in the drinking circle will get hit with the magic and their inner truth will be revealed.

I was living in Jacksonville, Florida at the time. I think it was... 8 years ago? I was the one hit with the truth and even though I've drank more than a bottle of wine before, I blanked out. I remember coming to the front a few times while I cried about being abandoned by people and other things that had been bothering me. I remember keeping my eyes closed because as far as I was concerned, I had no use for them.

With my eyes closed I knew where everyone was, their every movement. My sense were wide open. And my friend insisted on calling me "Malek, Malek, Malek" (she didn't even pronounce it properly, which annoyed the shit out of me) and I finally shouted at her that "Malek" was NOT my name. She asked what was it then but I had no answer for her. Just a blankness inside where a name should be. And I was content with that.

At one point I became concerned for my daughter and needed to know where she was. My friends told me she was in bed, but being as this was my child I had to check on her. So I grounded and centered myself to get enough control to find my child and check on her. I opened my eyes as I pulled in air through my nose to see my friend step back as I did so. Her fear hit me like a ton of bricks. I'd never felt someone's emotion that strong before. I registered it but was not concerned by it. "This person is afraid because I have opened my eyes and they have seen something." So my eyes closed again and I checked on my daughter by walking through the house and down the hall that way. I didn't open them again until I stood by where she was in the bed to fix her blankets.

And that's all I remember of that night.

The other time happened years before that when I was living in New Jersey. I was at a party - an Otherkin party being hosted by one of the prominent social climbers in the group. I was hanging out having a good time, just happy go lucky me, when something in the conversation I was listening to went silent. I don't' know if it was on purpose, but to my best guess a trigger phrase had been said. I felt myself shift immediately.

I was cold, quiet, and wanted nothing to do with the group of people in the room. So I went to a side room and sat in the dark by myself, staring straight forward and waiting. One of the people, the socialite's roommate, got concerned about me and came in there to see how I was doing. I can't remember what he was saying to me. I just remember thinking consciously that I had to give him answers he wanted to hear; things programmed in my mind as the appropriate response to make people think I was actively engaged in the conversation even though I was only running through a program.

He was expressing concern - and I could feel his concern - when he laid his hands on my upper thigh. That was his mistake. I slapped his hand quickly with my right hand like a viper, bringing my hand up as if it were the snake's head that had just struck. I *felt* energy like a stream of electricity leave my hand as I locked onto him in this way. The energy poured into him for about a full minute. Then I slowly put my hand down and resumed my waiting stance.

I kind of remember he apologized. And I kind of remember telling him that it was okay, that I just didn't like to be touched that way. I definitely remember the feeling that no one was allowed to touch me that way. I was above them. I have no way of knowing if someone attached to me like my husband would have been able to tup me or not in that state. I'd like to think so, but that's something to talk about another day.

The roommate went back to the others but after a few minutes he said he didn't feel well and went upstairs to lay down. That's the last time I ever saw him. About an hour or two later someone went upstairs to check on him and called for an ambulance because the roommate was having or had a heart attack.

He lived. But that's all I know about it.

It could all be coincidence. I don't know. But these are the things I was reminded when I did my contact exercise. These are memories that would otherwise be lost. Pieces to the overall puzzle.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012


The thing about when we were young is that sense of Hollywood neediness - that feeling you tend to remember when you get all grown up. If you let that feeling take over, you end up bitter that the adventure was never had. Many of us never stop to consider that maybe it's our fault we never got to do anything amazing - we weren't brave enough to quit our job and look for something better. We weren't brave enough to join the army, weren't daring enough to risk having sex for the first time, weren't adventurous enough to actually work to take that trip to France.

I know people who have never left their house, never been on a date, never lived. I mean sure, I've had some damn hard times over the years. I've loved and lost. I've been beaten and thrown around. I've been on the bottom of the barrel. But I've also went driving cross country just because I felt like it. I managed to get a wife-beating bastard put up on federal charges for trying to force his wife to miscarry. I've helped a homeless girl get back on her feet, slid off a mountain in my car, and sang with such powers the sea waves literally divided around me in straight arcs of glittering sea foam.

The thing we never truly realize as children is that an adventure is not one unless it is riddled with hardship. Adventures are not fun until they're over and you're sitting by the campfire, telling the next generation of dreamers all about it.

So my older brother and I were young, and it was the mid-80's - a time I've come to notice that a lot of big events happened. A lot of the UFO information began to get disclosed, several reports of mass UFO abduction have been made, the energies themselves experienced an influx of activity. Off to the side of it all was my brother, me, and a host of other teenagers who found ourselves suddenly having memories of times long ago and far away from us. As I've talked about before, we remembered entire planets out there - cultures, foods, clothing, drink. Political drama.

And we'd formed that group I talked about before. My function back then was to "find the others" and I did after my fashion. I'd find the others in school, carry them home, and we'd form our little think tank groups just because that seemed the right thing to do. Part of that I realize now is spawned from the adolescent's natural inclination to group in cliques. (What a useful tool.) But then there was the other part - the part where we knew we each had our place in that clique. We knew one of us was the seeker, one was the battery, one the book, and so forth.

Inevitably, the clique that formed around me and my brother ended up with one goal: we wanted to build a stargate. We didn't try to build it using technology, even though we knew that this stargate required a special black rock. We hung out in an old church bus my father had converted to a home when our family was really down on its luck, and the emergency exit in the back was our portal.  We'd spend hours gathered in front of it sending our energy into the framework, trying so hard to get it open.

I was more fixated on escaping than the others. I just wanted out. At the time we believed the theory that books are born from alternate universes was true, so we had chosen Anne MacCaffery's Pern as our destination. Even when I was by myself, I would work on pouring energy into that doorway. Or I would spend hours plotting how I was going to survive the dangers when I got there; how I would find other people, what I would do if I didn't speak their language.

There was only one time anything happened from our efforts - and it was more my effort than anything. I was home alone. This was at the time "Matt", my brother, had started to cut me out of the group fun.

So there I was home alone - just me, the empty trailer, and my bedroom doorway. I randomly decided to open my own portal and just leave. I planted my feet in front of my doorway, put up my hands, and began to concentrate.

I don't know how long I stood there working on pouring energy into that pinewood frame. Maybe it was only a few minutes and maybe it was an hour or more. It was over in a flash when a simple yet extraordinary thing happened. The empty space of the door glowed a bright, neon blue.

It only happened for a second - the minute I realized my efforts were working another equally extraordinary but definitely more annoying thing happened. Something in my head slipped out of place, like a jolt or realization, and the power stopped. The glow disappeared. My doorway was closed to me.

It's a problem I've dealt with my entire life, even until today. I'll start to do something neat - like long distance telepathy. I'll realize Hey, it's working! And then the short circuit happens and everything stops. No matter how I try after that I can't get anything to work again.

So no matter how I tried there in front of my doorway, I couldn't get that blue glow to happen again. I tried for a long time, too.

Monday, November 26, 2012


1997 (Date estimated: back entry taken from my grimoire before it decayed entirely)
A vision/dream.


I think this was the first time I've come home since I slept to astral travel out and search for Juvinich.  I did that lifetimes ago, and I stepped to earth as I always have been; an adolescent, the Earth equivalent of 14 years old, and small.

I walked down from the mountain and to my castle.  All around me was lush vegetation; the plant leaves were enormous and succulent.  I went to the back of the castle, which was covered in vines and overgrowth as if it had been in ruins for a very long time.  This was a definite change (in my mind) from when the place was inhabited and cared for.  I remember noticing how brown everything was.  I entered through a small side door; a servant's entrance and not well-known.  I had often used this door when not wanting to be noticed.

I walked through the halls, noting the disrepair of my home, and suddenly the regent came around the corner.  He was a redhead with wiry hair and a beard.  He stopped short and exclaimed, "You're back!!" as if overjoyed, and then he encased me in a bear hug.  Immediately, he called for servants (there were only three) and arranged to have me cared for.  We walked through the audience chamber, and sitting in my mother's chair was the regent's daughter.  She was blond and her hair flowed like shining silk.  She was not happy that I had returned and complained loudly.  She must have been in her twenties.

They put me in my old room, and how overjoyed I was to see they had kept things the way I had them! It was a small chamber, and most of the decor was red-brown.  My couch was there - gods, how I miss my couch at times - and I immediately went to sleep on it.

Time passed, most of it with me spending time in my bedroom among my familiar things.  The regent spent a lot of time playing with me; he taught me this chess-like game.  I was aware he was acting like the father I had never had in that life, and I adored him for it.

Came a day - perhaps three days after my arrival, no more than a week - that I finally ventured onto my balcony that adjoins my bedroom.  I love that balcony.  I started to sway and dance to myself, and I began singing, in English, "I am the princess of Shiro, and I have come home." I was very aware that I had switched to English.

And then, I was picked up by an invisible force; the castle was rejecting me, it was trying to throw me off and dash me to my death on the ground below.  It was all I could do to cling to the wall and repeat, "I rebuke you I rebuke you I rebuke you," over and over again as if I were fighting a demon.  When I realized I could not rebuke the castle - the very thing I commanded by rights - the force stopped.  I picked myself up and the regent came.

"Who are you really?" he demanded.  "The castle would not have rejected the REAL princess!  Who are you?!"

Somehow, I knew the regent's daughter had gone into the controls of the castle to try to throw me off, but I said nothing about that.  Instead, I opened my mind in the old way of communicating through mind/dream speech.  I began to tell the regent what had befallen me after I had left.  It began with me selling myself to the winged folk in the caves for the sake of my people, and working my way up through their army until I was a great general of much trust and importance.  The winged folk would send me to destroy and conquer - I was very good at it.

And then came a day that I was transporting my people via starship from one destination to another.  (Think trains for Comanche and Lakota Indians.)  I knew the kingdom's regent was on-board, so I went down to visit him.  I opened the door and... to my horror... the regent was sitting on a cell bench, but he had died ages ago and all that was left was a skeleton with a red beard.  I ran to the cargo hold and opened the doors to behold my people - the people I had sold myself to save - and what had been done to them.  Genetically manipulated, all of the people who were once revered to be the most shining and beautiful creatures in the cosmos were monsters such as ogres, walking skeleton creatures, and distorted things turned inside out.

I was furious.  I made a speech. I was passionate.  I cried, "Let's fight!" and they cheered.  I opened the cargo bay doors, and they streamed by the hundreds out into the ship to attack my own regiment.  I turned to my second in command, a blond young man with a somber/troubled expression, and said, "So begins my rebellion."  I would have returned my thoughts to the regent to face his shock or wrath, but I found myself being wrenched out of the dream instead.  I fought it; I didn't want to leave my home, but after much fighting I opened my eyes to (my ex-husband).  He had woke me and complained he had to send his demon to wrench me back to Earth.

Dammit, I was home.  The place needs me, I was home, and (my ex-husband) wouldn't let me stay.

This vision/dream happened to me at a time when I was just beginning to truly explore what was in my head. In a sense it's where my story begins and is probably where I should have started this journal. My home was a place in the stars very far away and my people, as far as I believed, had been decimated in a huge invasion by "the black shelled beasts" who enslaved us and scattered the empire to the winds.

It was much much later I learned that among the UFO community there was the legend of the Lyrans that matched my story - well, except for the Pleiadian-born propaganda about the people having been too warlike as a reason why they fell apart. The way I remembered it, we chose to remain neutral and did not act to save our outlying regions which were falling prey to invasion and persecution by a new race of beings on the outside.

Also at the time there was a plague happening, something I came to call the "soap bubble disease." Basically people would just suddenly fall sick and fade away. I thought maybe it was because their souls were too old and were popping like decrepit bubbles. I had memories of watching my father fade and then my older brothers - and that the rest of the family had also met to tragic end after tragic end so that it was only me and my mother at the end.

I was the only survivor among my siblings. 

So we as a race acted to create a bridge between us and our enemies.... and to try to save our dying creed.  That was how I and my siblings came to be. We were created with immortal souls, a genetic blend of all races. We were the symbol of unity. My mother was from one of the more oppressed races and had been married in to my father. It was very important that he had midnight black hair - that black that's rare even among humans today - and she was a fiery strawberry redhead. I had my father's hair. Something I also learned much later was how black hair was reserved for the Lyran nobility, so again another match.

She wore a grieving mask - which was traditional like we would wear black today. As a small child watching her pass by me in the hallways of our large "ant hill" I was given the impression that being forced to be queen made her sad. Now I'm older and I think it was much more than that.

(Stop me if I've talked about this here before. I honestly forget what I've talked about and what I have not; it gets confused in my mind.)

So these memories stand and have always stood foremost in my mind, like a beacon summoning me into my future.

My older brother and I were talking on the phone today, and the subject of these things and how we used to look forward to our roles in the future came up. He complained that someone had tampered with the plan. Things had fallen behind, some things had been changed. And our roles had been diminished.

But I look at this ever bright memory in my mind and how things are happening today and I'm just not sure. We expected one thing out of fate, the cosmic plan, and our lives without really understanding what we were being "told". So we interpreted things according to our juvenile fantasies. But I look at how things are happening, at where I stand today, and where others stand, and I think things are happening just as we expected them to be... from the government oppression to starvation in the streets. They're all things I wanted desperately to avoid, tried frantically to find a way off planet to avoid them by, and am now watching at the age I was told they would happen. My feelings about leaders and acts of Congress are the same now as they were at the age of 10 - I just understand why I felt the way I do now. So that watching history unfold around me has given myself a deeper understanding of myself and my memories more than anything.

And that bright memory which I got to relive quite literally in 1997 still calls me home... the thing that has changed for me is I no longer want to go "home" in order to escape this mess. I want to go home - there - because it's a place I can do something about things.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

On the existence of past lives

One of the big questions I have right now is, "Are my past lives really real?"

As a Butterfly I've been lied to. I've had an entire history stuffed into my brain that I never truly experienced. I've had memories twisted to make them just enough truth to be solid with just enough lies to carry their training home. And I came out of it wondering what was real and what wasn't - for the biggest thing to me, to anyone who understands how things work the way I seem to do, it's essential to remember that you are the sum of your memories and experiences.

As I've mentioned here before, this means a lot I once believed in has been set aside. I have a plethora of past life memories I now hold suspect. This morning I woke up remembering not a past life, but the time when I was about five years old and my friend's older "brother" molested us both in the woods between our houses. She liked it. She wanted more. I bit his dick in my small child passive way. I didn't want to do that. I wanted to play with mud and climb trees. I still would prefer to get dirty and climb trees.

I used to hold a ritual every year and friends would come to it. But one friend betrayed me and undermined everything I'd worked for. It wasn't the first time that had happened, but it was the final straw. I dissolved everything and walked away. It's been a few years since then.

I decided to try again this year, but to keep it small as I wasn't thinking of anything more than a small friendly thing. As always the energies began to align themselves - for our thoughts and intents are very powerful - and people began to come to me. Past life professionals. Priests. Etc.

And my friend betrayed me again - she made other plans and talked about rescheduling for a later time. I realized today that it's going to be too cold this winter for that other time. So I'll hold the ritual by myself and walk the path alone - as no one I know will ever have the fortitude to walk with me to the end. Or to keep from greedily wanting to sit in my place.

And interestingly the past lives have been brought up again. The professional did a search and found a couple I remember. She said she was my husband and my wife during those time but alas - I am married to the being that was my husband or my wife all those times if my own past life memories are true. And his personality quirks are exactly the same as I reminisced to friends all those years waiting for him to find me again. He hasn't changed a damn iota, frustrating as it can be sometimes.

I am told that souls will live more than one life at exactly the same time. So while you are here, now, reading this blog you are also a small boy in Siberia freezing his toes off. I don't believe that. It amazes me how people will take one tiny facet of knowledge - the existence of these past lives - and forget about how we touch memory pockets as a racial standard and do often find ourselves exchanging ideas and feelings.

You can argue all you like about how time isn't really linear, how everything is actually happening all at the same time, blah blah blah. This is true. It is also true that time is shaped like a helix, a spiral - as is most important things in the universe; the true shape of chaos. In order to jump from one moment of time to another you don't think to yourself "I will go to the same moment that happened a year ago today" and step sideways. A part of you must plot which angle to go, where that point in the spiral is, where to step into lets you try to co-exist something else at the exact same time and explode. There are people who go on and on about how the universe is a hologram and thus it's an illusion.

But understand what a hologram really is. And get to know the rest of the story. The world is a hologram in that we see by light bouncing off of real SOLID EXISTING objects. Our eyes capture that light. And the REAL SOLID EXISTING objects are basically hard light in a sense while being in a sense something else. It's a hologram because it's makeup remains what it truly is while we interpret that makeup in our minds through our own perspective, skewing the truth enough for us to understand. It's real. It's there. The places with in the various dimensions that make it up like space and time are real and they're there in their place while co-existing at the same time. The universe is only one layer while being a hundred thousand million different layers all at once - and it just doesn't have to be so complicated. All you have to remember is you are you and time is time and although you're within it, you're not it.

YOU are not "time". You are a tiny mote in the great framework of the universe, and if you have the power to time travel (and we all do) then  you have the power to live linearly yourself. I myself, I know for a fact, prefer to remain what I like to call "Orange juice concentrate" - meaning I keep my soul being very small like a tiny firefly. I insist on living linearly - I remember the past. I know what happened in the past. I dislike a lot about the past. I choose not to live in the past as it were. I have strong memories that do that for me. I live in them when I wish to make a visit.

Because of how I choose to be, I can fly very fast, am the fastest in the cosmos. I like to sleep in stars or meditate for ages - it's very relaxing - and if pushed my tiny size packs one hell of a wallop.

I wasn't a nice person once. I will always find it amusing when I go to sessions (on the super rare times I can afford them) and the guide's expression changes as they first try to struggle with why I'd want to remember, why I did the things I did, the pain THEY feel from touching it if they go into places they shouldn't ought without permission, and wonder why it is I'm here suffering the way I do when I long ago paid my dues in full.  It's an interesting phenomenon of the human condition for me.

And someday someone will do more than wonder and drop it and I will have some more of the answers I seek here.  Which I think is what most of us desire most of all.

If, mind you, past lives are real.

Saturday, September 29, 2012

I Stand Unafraid

When people hear parts of my story, they almost always say, "What a nightmare for you! I'm so sorry!"

Well, not being able to pay my bills and hold down a regular job is and was a nightmare. Losing my children when I did everythign I could do provide for them and keep them from harm's way was a hellish nightmare. This? This quest for truth.

I... just don't view it as a nightmare. Interesting? Oh yes, there is that. Scarey? I dunno. I'm not scared by it. If I were I'd be doing like so many people out there and just rejecting stuff entirely.  You know the people I'm talking about. I guess my thirst for understanding on the whole thing - to know what the truth really is - outweighs any fear.  Now, stick me in the room with a malevolent ghost and I'm gonna be scared. And I'm definitely scared of what's in the dark. But this situation? It's a mystery. It needs to be unraveled.

The answer is neither completely in science nor completely in spirituality. They really are two sides of the same coin. What one person calls levitation magic another person calls telekinesis. What one person calls the High Sidhe another calls the Pleiadians. It's all in the power of perspective. It is my belief that the perfect balance is the ability to take that coin, set it on its side, and balance yourself on the edge. And then I could go into a lot of imagery about how the coin can spin, and the whole of universal matter and time is wrapped in a spinning spiral that - once mastered - can lead you to anywhere. But... meh.

It is actually a matter of some frustration to me that a lot of people don't get it. I have had people get very angry at me for the way I see the world. I had one person tell me I would never find the truth and never be able to heal myself because I wasn't willing set my logic aside. I had another - ironically a preacher - tell me to stop looking for signs and portents. I used to flit from researcher and priest, around and around, desperately seeking someone who could connect with me inbetween. No one could or would - whichever doesn't matter.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

So We Don't Meet Again

Springmeier is out of jail - if it weren't for his books I wouldn't know what little I do about things. Yet, I've never read past an excerpt here and there for all I've owned his books for years. I got them while he was still in prison, but it was my husband who read things for me. It was my husband who had told me about the Black Princess programming.

And it was learning about the Black Princess programming that made me understand that although I had not been lying when I had told people I was a princess yet a slave in another life, or that I was a reincarnation and an avatar of an old persona - I wasn't telling the truth either. The perspective was skewed by the lack of that all important bit of knowledge: just what it was that I was remembering.

Black Princess programming: she's a deep, buried personality in Flutterbies. When the Flutterby's carefully built matrix is tampered with or damaged, she awakens from her tortured slumber from where she was bitten by spiders and tormented by the lack of her eternal mate. Her job: to restore the mind, delete damaged or traitorous personae, and restore loyalty to the program. Her foremost thought, to find her lover.

It's a very painful process to endure. I don't recommend it.

So in my opened eye as the Black Princess - the Black Peacock was a title I took for myself internally - I saw the world as rightfully mine. Somewhere out there was my husband, the only man in the universe who knew how to be my handler - who could handle me like a animal trainer with his animals - while at the same time being my peer and lover. I was affixed as the separated center of a political world of strict laws that could only be worked around with loopholes. On one side there was a council of 12 elderly men who I spoke with on important matters of certain persuasions. On the other side there was a council of 7. And in the center, behind me, were the three who were my closest. I could direct what I wanted from the world and it would be done.

I wanted caustic leaders in the army reviewed and removed. It was implemented.
I wanted better grooming standards. It was implemented.
I wanted my husband, and he had to be a certain way. "Do things this way," the three told me. And, it was implemented.
I wanted. I wanted. I wanted. It was implemented.

And I enjoyed it - I confess I still would and possibly do. I ponder the state of the world, and I rail against what I feel is wrong. I have a sense of how things "should be" in my nostrils, and if the world is truly my oyster then I want to polish it right. As if I woke up tomorrow to discover I had super powers and a nifty pair of tights.

I know Springmeier is out of jail because I happened across a recent interview with him on Youtube the other day. I watched it for a while. One of his books is being reprinted, and the interview was to hype it up.

I have that book, so I loaded it onto my Nook and went to the pool to begin reading it. I didn't get very far. The book started talking about how Lucifer was supposed to be crowned at the turn of the last century. About councils of 12. Of families and things my innards know and know well.

My crowning happened in various way: they were ascensions. At the turn of the century I believed I was Lucifer - of course now I know much more about that legend and know it in itself is a false front for something deeper and... shinier - and I was having nightmares every night. I was getting attacked in my dreams by a group of people.

I lived in Bayonne, New Jersey at the time. There was one dream I remember in which the redhead who was the leader tried to draw me into a dark area. I told her she'd never trick me nor fool me into walking into her trap.

That weekend at a party, I met the redhead in the flesh. I was shocked.

But I was amused to learn she and her friends had formed a group to destroy Lucifer - they'd gotten the psychic sense that he was nearby and they'd been attacking him by ritual every night.

True story. I swear.

So by general agreement of the ignorant, I am Lucifer. The false front for a shinier story.

And the "astral" event I went through that year was a tribunal, a review of my life. A trial. To see if I was worthy. It was very stressful. If I failed it I would die in the real world.

But I didn't think of that while watching Springmeier's interview. Instead I remembered my scant attempts to contact him or his companions for help in remembering, in understanding what was in my head. Springmeier never responded to my letter. His friend responded but was very plain that I had to accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior and be reprogrammed. My quest for knowledge, taking things slow, making sure of what I wanted - none of that meant anything to them.

When Springmeier mentioned how people would come to him all of the time for help but he couldn't always help individually... I said to myself, "Well. Hopefully they didn't bother him too much."

They have firm and strong beliefs. They wish to be like Jesus. But I have already expressed how I feel about the role of structured religion in the programming process.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

The House My Father Gave Me

When I was about 18 years old, there was a woman who I thought was my friend. Her husband has been put in jail for embezzling, and I hung around her house a lot. I practically lived there. I babysat her kids, often for free, and listened to her wail and moan about the pole dancing culture. I can't remember her name now: maybe it was Lynn.

She couldn't afford where they were living anymore. One day while visiting another friend, I came across a vacant house. I told her about it, and she got very excited. She wanted to rent it. So, being the friend I was, I set about to get the owner's information for her. I found it, too, and she got permission to rent this house.

She promised me a room in that house - and this was a good opportunity for me. Where I lived with my parents, there was no hope. There was no bus system, no taxies, and no one willing to help me get to and from work. To move in with Lynn in that house, which was situated right on the edge of our tiny town, meant I could walk to work. Hell, it meant I could work. Maybe buy a car. Maybe finish college. My hopes were very up over her offer.

The house had a reputation for being haunted - this did not scare me at all. I viewed it with her, and she promised me the first room when you entered the house. It was bigger than any room I had ever had in my poor upbringing.

She got the house, and on the day she signed the paperwork she took back her offer to me. However, she said, I could come over and see the house.

"Give me a rock out of your collection," Dad said to me. I got one out of my little keepsake box: it was a small stone, like the kind you buy in a new age shop. He put it in his pocket.

My father and I loaded up in his old truck and we went over there.

She gave me the tour while Dad touched everything. His eyes were bright in that lit way that meant he was up to something. He touched the walls, the doorknobs, the doors. So while Lynn showed me the living room, he slid his hand across the wall paneling.

Lynn walked away for a moment - I can't remember what for - and I turned to the only door in the house that was closed. "That was supposed to be my room," I said to Dad.

"Do you want to see what's inside?" he asked me.

And then, all of it's own, the doorknob turned and the door opened.

I walked to the door of the bedroom and looked inside. Lynn already had a bed in there. The carpet was green. The light from the window was adequate but not fantastic - much like my dashed hopes to earn a better life.

Dad took out the stone and right there in front of Lynn, he put all of the house's energy into that stone. The feelings I felt in that moment were a mixture of gratitude that my father would do this for me, as well as surprise that he even would. He handed me the stone and said, "Here, Jennifer. Here is your house."

Lynn didn't stay in the house for long. I spoke to her only one time after that; it was to hear her complain that the house had lost its energy. And I guess that was the final straw in my relationship with her. During the time I'd known her, she'd used me for a nanny. She'd *smudged me* because a new age friend had told her I was evil. And she just... wasn't right. A few years later another friend said they'd heard from her and she'd asked how I was.

"I don't care," I had responded - which was very uncharacteristic of me back then. I'd have done anything to be your friend in those days. "She owes me an apology."

And that's the last I'd ever heard or saw of Lynn.

I kept that house with me for many years until the stone disappeared one day.  That was my house; the house that my father gave me.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

1999 Dream

Going through files tonight, I came across something I'd written May 20, 1999 - stuck in a folder and forgot. All these years later, I open it. At the time I thought, "Just a dream!"

But it's years later, and I've got more research and information under my belt. Just a dream, yes - Just a dream recorded by a young mother who'd never been anywhere in her life. Who'd had militant dreams from childhood and didn't even know why she "shouldn't leave her post" and tended to stand straight and firm. Now I know. But then - a recording of innocence.

Posted here word for word:

I was a soldier, sort of. I don't exactly recall how it happened but there was a friend with me. She and I were standing outside a military building.

"Come on," she said to me. So we walked inside like we belonged, somehow stole a couple of uniforms, and paraded around like soldiers. She wore a general's bars on her shoulders. I had the silver bars of a lieutenant. The uniforms themselves were khacky green.

(Of course these days I know I was wrong about the bars - and the details are too faded for me to figure it out.)

Perhaps it went too far, but somehow we were mistaken not only for the real thing but ended up on a plane to go the war zone. A secret mission or some such. Of course, when it comes to war every maneuver has to remain a secret because you don't want the enemy knowing what you're up to.

I was fascinated, looking down at the ground below. Thousands of men in uniform were across the fields. I remember in particular one was apparently wounded and he dug in the soil, trying to use his gun as leverage to stand. They reminded me of a bucket of soldiers littered across the play yard.

Upon landing, a high ranking soldier, could have been a general of something, approached us. He mistook my friend for someone important. I saluted. She did not. He started talking to her, asking us our business etc. Something about plans. I started to answer, as he was looking at me, but he sort of sniffed in my direction and turned to her. I shut my mouth, for fear of being discovered in this zany adventure.

We went to the mess hall to eat. There were soldiers all around us, but I don't remember what exactly happened here. I kept looking at my lieutenant bars, thinking that I hadn't wanted to portray anything more than a private, and wanted to find someplace secret to take them off.

We met the general again. He was haughty to me, and said something to the effect of, "I have no time for people who masquerade as lieutenants when they're nothing more than privates. That's a hanging offense, private!" My friend was taken for the real thing, even though she was just as much a fraud as I.

I followed my friend because I had wanted to do something good. I was nervous, but not willing to turn in my stolen uniform. I wanted an adventure, to make my mark, and I was there in the war zone to do something heroic. Something good. I can't describe the feeling; The need to do something.

There was a guy. We were in the field, running or something. Can't remember the rest.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

I'm breathing, I'm alive: where there's hope there's panic.

When I stumble across the musing of others Flutterbies or, in most cases, people who fake it I see a lot of PTSD reactions. It's fashionable to react as if you have PTSD, as if you are still suffering deep down inside from what may have happened two, ten, or twenty years ago. Like the surge of "multiple personalities" was fashionable for a while, it's fashionable to suffer from shell shock.

These people talk about how the aliens come for them at night, and when they see bright lights they experience unreasonable fear. They talk about sexual trauma; saying things by rote as if memorized from the page of a book. The things they express are very large, movie grade events. Things that make their stories entirely unbelievable to those that were never there.

And, quite often, to me.

Let me tell you about PTSD - a trigger. A big one that was a seed when I was a small child. Understanding of it didn't come to light until my husband came across the information in a book by Springmeier, only a couple of years ago.

Night terrors: we all had them as a child. But imagine being terrified of going to sleep - or waking up - because deep down inside you're more terrified that these nightmares are real. That you're not dreaming at all. And even if you could comprehend past "that was a nightmare" to touch the more tangible thing that surrounds the fugue, no one would believe you. Or if you were believed, no one would talk to you. To let you know you're not alone.

The dreamworld for me was very consistent. When I was a toddler I'd crawl out of my crib to stand at the window and wait, watching by the door. But when I was older, right before I started kindergarten, the dreams took on a very different tone. It was a dark, reoccuring tone that I couldn't escape from no matter how much I screamed for my mommy, or ran, or anything.

The beachs where I grew up were very different from how they are now. They didn't have boardwalks: they had dunes, a lot of dunes. Main beach had foundation blocks and pipes sticking up out of the sand - remnants of a suburban area destroyed by Hurricane Dora - and for most of my young life I honestly thought all beaches had pipes sticking up out of the sand. St. Peter's Point, however, was wild beach. Sand upon sand upon sand waited for you to walk across it before you came to the clear water, where the sun beat down upon you and browned your skin.

I loved that beach more than Main Beach. It was more primal: you could dig there. You could be free there. But at night, for a few weeks, it turned into a nightmare as - I thought - in my dreams I found myself deposited on the sand alone in the dark. There were heads sticking up out of the sand from people who were buried. Sometimes there would be no heads, just hands waiting beneath the sand. And sometimes when I ran, trying to get away from the water and back to the parking lot where I knew it was safer, the hands would reach up out of the ground and pull me under. Once or twice I saw my grandmother, or I thought the woman was my grandmother.

I called the beach the Blood Beach to myself... I was a child in the 70's. Blood Beach the movie, which from the trailers I've seen matches the situation, was released in 1981.

The unreasonable fear of being suffocated, buried alive, or locked in the dark came out again when I was locked in the bathroom with my mother's sister's stepdaughter in the dark. The scream of terror came out of me without any control. The horrible woman's response at my fear - no comfort, no care, just anger at the inconvenience of dealing with a loud child - didn't help.

So it goes.. so that now I'm 40. I can't watch anything on television that deals with the subject. If I do I end up awake at almost midnight, like right now, trying to deal with the pain. Trying to come to terms with the fact that the information my husband found was about the training of young Flutterbies. Apparently they'd be buried alive. Knowing that isn't the comfort; understanding this might be the source doesn't help because in your head is a lack of information. There's a black hole where the offending incident or incidents might be, and so long as you can't remember them you can never come to terms with what has happened. If it happened at all.

At the hint of the situation - even knowing the main character will be alright - my heart pounds as I stare at the television, mewling like a frightened animal. Sometimes all you can do is revert to being that small child again, bounce off the couch, and run to the wall with your back to it as you watch the entire room in your terror. In your mind races all sorts of scenarios: you're in a car, drowning in a river. You're buried in a coffin. Your lungs are filling with water from being sick and nobody will do anything to stop it.

Your mind is racing with escape scenarios, too. Maybe you can kick the glass out of the car door and swim to the surface - but oh gods. Your children. How will you save your children? So that for all your intelligence, nothing can save you.

That, my friends, is PTSD and being a Flutterby - probably of the last generation to be taught in the old-fashioned manner. It's not sex: it's not thinking about some abusive figure on purpose so you can rant in your journal and get a little attention. It's not bright lights: telling people some Fourth Contact scenario again and again. It's trying to hide from the fear, the darkness, the terror. Trying to avoid situations that trigger the feelings. Of not talking about it. Of long nights being unable to sleep no matter how tired you are and finally coming to your computer to blog about it. Of knowing that your shell shock isn't the kind anybody at the VA will ever care enough about.

I have PTSD. I have many triggers. Some, best I can tell being as I have to treat myself and handle things by myself, stem from the waking world and everyday mundane things. But then there are others that set my mind into motion, and there's no explanation for them at all.

Monday, July 2, 2012

Time for A Paradox

This story comes from a long ways away.

Once upon a time I had this dream:
2005-10-26 23:54:00
In my dreams last night, I was with Jessie on some great, green lawn. Jessie said to me, "Someone is here. He's your husband from the future, and he's here to tell you something. You died in fire in a warehouse."

I'm not sure if he said warehouse, but I think that's what he said.

The future husband had long, curly brown hair and a roundish face. At least, that's how his face appeared one minute. Then it changed, and I could see lines and a different structure. I studied it, trying to see if he was someone I knew. I wondered if it was Jack. He told me that I'd not recognize him this way, that it had been a long time and he had changed.

He said that he had brought newspaper clippings with him so that I could read what the newspapers had said about the fire. Jessie objected, saying I shouldn't read them. I grabbed Jessie by the collar and said forcefully, "Jessie, you know what it is I have to do. You know what it is I'm here on Earth for. You KNOW I have to pay strict attention to the future, all of the time, and I WILL read those newspaper clippings!"

Looking at my future husband, something told me that he missed me... I mean there I was this younger version of the woman he'd married, and I hadn't married him yet. It must've been hard. I kissed him full on the mouth, and at first he returned the kiss but then pushed me away.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I know you must be uncomfortable."

"Thank you," he replied.

We went away from the field to talk, and we entered this dark little trailer in the middle of a swamp area. I don't know what happened to him. I was there, waiting for him to come talk to me about this thing he'd come to say, but he wasn't there yet. There were mushroom growing on the wall; miniature versions of the kind you find on tree trunks. They were lined up like little soldiers, or trees at a tree farm. I ate them one by one, thinking thatI wasn't hungry at all and I should stop.

I woke up from that dream, the way I do when things are a message, before my alarm clock rang when it was still dark outside.
And then I met him and married him.

2009-07-01 18:21
Note: I am now married and my husband has a round face and brown curly hair.

And have been stressed and worried about dying in a warehouse fire ever since.
So on Saturday night I'm in bed listening to him snore and worrying about dying in a warehouse. I worried about how sad he would be, you know. The typical things you worry about.
And They said to me, "We can fix that." The message came to me from the right frontal side of my head. I can't remember the exact way they said it, but they basically said they'd change my fate. And I knew, the way I always know, that it was time for a Peer review - which is basically when they take the folks who have certain roles on this planet, review their actions, hearts and minds, and see if they get to stay in their job. Or, if the contract is up, if they want to go for another round. It's all very legal.
I said, sure. I'd work some more... but I wasn't willing to exchange the life of my children, my husband, father, or really anybody to save my own. Imagine: living out a long life with such a sorrow on your shoulders.
I don't know if I fell asleep at night or not. I do remember feeling frightened and uneasy through this and wondering what on earth had set me off. The TV shows hadn't. I didn't know. And then I happened to notice tht there were 3 humanoid figures in my room by the bed in a row.
So I freaked and tried to crawl across the bed to my husband's side of the bed by the wall away from the figures and the edge of the bed. I'm kinda scared of the edge of the bed.
And while I'm doing that it's the typical thing. You're scared but you've got something inside of you telling you that you're faking being afraid, you're faking everything, you're imagining it, etc.
Tim started to wake up and said, "What are you doing?" very clearly. Normally he'd have gotten right up. But he didn't. He lay there like a stone, you know. And after a while I calmed down and fell asleep.
The next day I woke up very early, which is a habit of mine when I've "worked" and just kind spent the day in a foul mood and panicky.

Here's the thing. Got a call from one of my "hand maidens" a few hours ago. It appears Saturday night she also was picked up. She woke up that night to a very tall being in her room to collect her. And no matter how she told herself she needed to get up and confront things, she couldn't.

Thing is... were they lying? If so, this will happen. If not, as I have accepted another round of work, then we have a time paradox.

I know from experience you can change time. Oh, if you want to change a huge event you need several sets of people because that's a lot of flow you have to fight against. Picture standing on the beach alone when the tide is coming in, and you're trying to turn the tide with only your hands. Kinda hard, isn't it.
But there was this one time when I worked in a probation office and I couldn't find a particular folder. My supervisor was a former Navy officer, and she was awesome - but I knew me having to go to her all of the time to find things was getting to her. It would get to me.
She was out of the office when this was happening, so as I looked I worried. I didn't want to have to ask her where the stupid folder was. And then I remembered a deja vous dream I had as a teenager of that very event, and in the dream Navy Supervisor was indeed irrirated. And lectured me on not thinking for myself as she went and got the folder, showed me were it was.
And I realized: oh. She showed me where it was. I'll go to where she showed me it was.
And I found the folder.

Tuesday, June 19, 2012


Synchronicity continues as religion comes up often in my circles. There is someone I knew who has joined a heathen establishment that has a bad reputation: not by gossip, but by the eye-witness accounts I found today. But because my husband is more attached to that sort of faith than I, my friend is more open to talk to him about things while I get excluded. Which is a problem, because years ago my friend swore loyalty to me.

In pagan and heathen circles "warlock" means "oath-breaker".

The situation has had me considering my own path. My husband follows Fenris, I've always been fond of Loki, and my friend loves Thor. Well, most people of that religion tend to love Odin and Thor. They're the most glamorous; get the most pr.

Even though I can talk about these things on equal ground as far as the mythos goes and other intellectual matters, I'm not a worshiper. I just can match things.

I've nearly 40 years of perceiving my life in relation to the gods this way:

I would go to sleep at night, and if an audience was required of me whomever had come (sometimes a god, sometimes a messenger) would wait patiently a small distance from the foot of my bed as I drifted into the dream state so they could speak with me.

I've made gods tremble at my anger.

I've had multiple people learn who I was and swear fealty.

And all of that has been in doubt since I learned the truth of how you're lied to by aliens. Maybe some of it is true, but I have to know for sure.

Someone once told me I was a chaos mage. Well, that's almost exact - except I think a chaos mage wouldn't have a Sumerian god tell you "You're one of us, you came from where we are, come back to talk to us at any time" when you do a ritual from the Necronomicon for shits and giggles. I think they'd get a different reaction, something that doesn't suggest that you're siblings.

But, okay. Chaos mage. So look up the definition.

Yes, I do happen to be a natural born chaos mage. I did not learn it from other chaos mages: I just kind of knew what I know and have done what I've always done. I will give Loki a bottle of beer, shoot an arrow for Diana, and meditate for nirvana. This is what makes me a bridge.

That is what "They" told me I must be "the bridge and gap between the different factions." I had to reassume the thorny crown.  Or something like that.  So it was the state of my beefrost existence that allows me to do what I do and to be what I am. It is nothing to be scoffed at, nor treated as a liability or danger. I am more free than most by my very nature and belief system.

The good thing about being, technically, a chaos mage is I am not tied down by your dogma. I am freed by my interpretation of it.

I am able to take new information about UFOs, like the new findings and theories about big foot, and use that information for a greater knowledge on the whole. Instead of rejecting it outright like so many people do.

Being a chaos mage is not being part of a religion.

So. So so so.

This particular bit of information is a part of my puzzle for the truth, I think. A chaos mage is a mix of everything; they pick, choose, learn, adapt, and do based almost wholly on belief.

The thing I'm supposed to be a bridge for? I don't know. I just know it's tied into belief and the persception thereof.

It's like being a spiritual jack of all trades, I think.

So.. why a chaos mage?

What other questions should I ask?

Thursday, June 14, 2012

In the early morning

Sometimes you just really want someone to talk to, to synergize with... to relate to.

So you try, again, to turn to somone. Say it's your husband. You've had an eventful day rediscovering some past life material you need to process, the implications it has in regards to your search for the truth, and you've just gotten a message from  your son that he has sleep paralysis episodes where - wide awake - a man in a pin-striped suit comes in to tell him how worthless he is.  This is the same son who, when he ws 5, told you about how he lived on the moon and built spaceships. Tipped with gold. For conductivity.

You turn to your husband in an attempt to talk, but even as the words stumble and halt as you try to force them out of your mouth you are overwhelmed with this feeling. You can't talk to him. There's no use in trying. But you tell him how your son needs to come home to live with you again.

And your husband responds maybe so, but you gotta convince the boy of that. This is his only comment on the matter. A minute later he starts telling you about viking fighting techniques and this DVD he wants to buy. Medieval re-enactment is his football and your feelings just got put back on the shelf in favor of a stick.

And you remember someone's sage advice given to you the other day about how you should just leave men alone to fixate on their games, their immaturity, their hobbies. Why, take for example the time so-and-so wanted to have a family day with the kids at the zoo but Daddy wanted to listen to the game. So he made them sit in the parking lot of places and listen to the game instead of doing things. And that was her fault, somehow, for not letting him alone, that the man couldn't grow up enough to stop being selfish enough to sacrifice a single Sunday.

And you know that for you, at least, it's not good enough. Because you're not fulfilled this way. You're empty, and your marriage is becoming a shell, and really. If the man can't stop fixating on his toys long enough to pay attention to what's really important, he's not a man at all. And as a woman, you need a man. Not a little boy.  Because although everybody needs a little me time, everybody also needs to not have to compete with a game for what's important.

Because sometimes you wake up scared in the night. And even though he's there, there's no one to turn to. And you worry for your children to the point of daily nausea, but there's no one to turn to. And you wonder if your death time is coming, but you can't talk to him. He's more worried about playing swords. And you've never felt more alone in your entire existence.

And you wish you had someone to talk to. And you even wonder if you're still pretty enough to have an affair.

But then think that in this double standard Western society, you're never going to find a man whose mother tempered him enough to be - well - a man.

And that makes you even lonelier. And black inside, so blue.

Spouses, if your other half is an abductee and they can't talk to you - the fault isn't necessarily theirs. It might be yours. You don't have to believe to be a good and loving partner. You just have to listen, be there, hug them, and interact. It's not hard.

At least, it's not as hard as losing them if you really do love them.

Sunday, June 3, 2012

My How the Mighty have Fallen

Religion is not a good thing if you want to move beyond your shell and fly into the cosmos. It keeps you from learning, and in many respects it even dumbs you down. Ironically the moral structures are usually quite good ones. But take most morals, wrap them in religion, and you've got the perfect brainwashing program. 

Because of this I feel Christianity being used to "free" people from abductions or the MKultra programs only makes them believe they're free while re-enforcing the patterns, commands and numbness. People turn to these programs and later report they're not getting picked up anymore, but is this true really? I think it's more that they don't *remember* being picked up anymore.

After all, it's our human minds that are being tampered with. When we remember something that happened, it's usually coupled with religious overtones of some sort. Or fear. Something used to put us into the control pattern.

So you pray about it. And when you pray, you're entering a semi-meditative state while putting out a command your subconscious remembers. So it stops on some level for you.  But there are abductees who can attest that although your memories are blocked out once again, it doesn't stop at all.

There are people who portray aliens as demons, and because Western culture hasn't completely made that mental connection between "demons are a fairy tale" to "aliens match the description of demons almost perfectly but are physical" there seems to be a short circuit when the information is relayed to other people. So some people consider aliens to be noncorporeal, fourth dimensional beings that can phase in and out between layers while others consider demons to not be aliens at all. The whole schematic problem between the old word "demon" and our current word "alien" is a giant brick wall, and no one seems to be able to step through or around it.

It's time people got a grip.

They have technology that allows them to walk through molecular objects, but that doesn't make them so beyond our level of existence that they're more alien than alien. They're very physical. They can be fought back against. They can be shot. And they're certainly physical enough to grab you to pump out your stomach juices, subject you to sexual experiments, and take you aboard their very physical space craft for a quick tour.

And because they're physical, meditation and prayer isn't going to stop them. You can be sitting by your bed praying as devoutly as possible,and they'll still walk right in, pick you up and walk you outside while you keep praying.

I don't feel any religion used as a tool to stop abductions is the right approach. Rather, I think they simply just flat need to be stopped. Abductions are a physical phenomenon. Then obviously we need a physical way of blocking them.

Today, as if to highlight my point of view, my mother reminded me of where my family stands in the realm of the metaphysical. "Did you know you guys live only an hour from Cassadaga?" I'd asked her on the phone.

"What's that?" she asked me.

Cassadaga was established about one hundred years ago in Florida as a sister psychic community to another place of the same name in New Jersey. (Or was it New York?) It's populated by only psychics, and I read recently that you're not allowed to live there without passing a series of tests.

My mother said, "I don't believe in that stuff."

You used to, Mom. When I was a kid before my little brother was born, Dad used to make pendulums using a pencil, needle, and thread. You'd ask what were my kids going to be, and you wrote the answers down and kept them in a wooden chest underneath the fish tank. You had books on astrology that I read nearly every day - especially the part about being a Sagittarius - and loved to watch UFO and ghost documentaries.

You once told me that you could sew a corsette from memory and had done so before when you were a teenage. You'd explained that you were French and your name was Aimie, and you were a seamstress back then. So you remembered how to make the clothes you sold for a living. And even today you sew when you can, and you're good at it too even though you're the first to tell people how you have not talent and can't do anything.

But then I found a "Cherokee" tribe in GA when I lived there, and I wanted so much to be a part of a larger red community than I knew. And I introduced you to them. They worship the "Creator" in a thinly-disguised Christian way, with a Christian pastor that preaches every Sunday,and you and Dad flocked to them. (And I used to beg you guys to go to church with me when I was a kid. Ha.)

Now I can't talk to you about hardly anything, and if I find myself needing a metaphysical answer my father is the last person I can turn to.... even though I carry his legacy on. You both only watching movies if it's about Indians, you won't hang with anybody unless they're Indian, you won't read a book unless it's about Indians, and really Mom. You're not even Cherokee.

I know what you are, because Gramma told me so. Tukaho, she told me. Tukaho and Irish. But one day I had you in the kitchen and you whined to me, "But I want to be Cherokee." And then just a few weeks ago you told me you were sure there was a direct Cherokee line in the familiy tree, you just couldn't find the connection to prove it yet - not even five minutes after sneering that we have a direct line to royalty in the family tree and can prove it far easier.

And Dad: we are Brotheron. I am a card carrying member of the Brotherton. Because that's what we are. We are NOT Cherokee. But that Cherokee cult has you.  All this after you embraced a religion. And our metaphysical drums were tossed to the fire.

I can find other examples of how religion holds mankind back. Take UFOlogy for example. It has become almost a religion. There are tenements to it that no one wants to break, even when information shows that they should be. That would go against the unspoken rule. And so the scientific process is buried under faith and belief.

We can break from our abduction chains only by realizing what makes us dumb, what keeps us from noticing what is around us.

It doesn't mean you have to stop believe in God. It's just that you have to recognize that God gave you the tools to free yourself. Prayer isn't one of them. Prayer is a communication device; it's a telephone. It's not a gun. But your god gave you a gun with which to fight, if you would just learn to use it. It's called reason.

That is step one to becoming free of the "masters".

Saturday, June 2, 2012


Researcher has talked to me a little bit, but it's strictly business. So it goes. I wait to see what happens and carry on. The hole inside of me isn't her doing. It's from everyone before her: people at the dinner theater I worked with who treated me like an idiot and used me for a scapegoat, or others who pushed me away, and lastly the folk singer who acted like she wanted to have a conversation while peppering her statements with things like, "Can't you go make friends somewhere? Go make friends, get out, do things!" and finally telling me she was breaking contact.

I'm not the most astute person when it comes to social nuances, but it seems to me that if you carry on a conversation with someone you're not exactly encouraging them to go away. And this folk singer... I love her stuff, and I still listen to it from time to time. But when I hear of some protest she's making or some statement she has to make about the state of the world, I no longer believe it. She apparently doesn't know what it's like on the other side - if she did she'd have understood it when I told her I couldn't afford college classes among other things. But she didn't. She just kept on. And so her credibility with me as a "revolutionary" died.

My first husband left me and my two small children in utter poverty. He never paid child support, and I was alone. I didn't qualify for food stamps because I made too much money, being as I worked at McDonald's 20 hours a week. My only line to the world back then was the telephone, and when it was lost I was submerged in an ocean of overwhelming loneliness. I had only one friend.

So one day I walked the miles down with the kids to the payphone to call her and talk. The payphone was in the parking lot of a closed down business; there were no cars or anything driving through. Which means it was safe for me to stand there talking a little while with the kids there playing.

While they played tag - not going far I might add - this woman drove through with her car glaring and staring at me. I watched her as I talked because I wasn't concerned about her blame. She was just one of the many who didn't truly give a shit except in spite and thus was unimportant.

After a while the kids were getting too unruly. "I can't take anymore," I told them exasperatedly and made them sit down politely by the phone.

They were sitting there being good when the police car came. Seems that woman made a phone call. "You're letting the kids play in the street," the cop had told me.

They had been playing near me in a vacant abandoned parking lot. Hardly looked like a street. I told the cop to give me his badge number and told them go ahead and call child welfare. They'd find out what a "spite call" was and like all the other times the case would be closed.

It never went anywhere. But I never forgot that woman's hateful eyes. She probably regarded herself an upstanding wonderful mother and good loving Christian. But I'll always remember her as a self-serving bitch with plenty of rocks to throw into other people's windows.

All sorts of incidents happened like that while I lived in Georgia. I couldn't even take my son to town and have him scream because I couldn't buy him a toy without some hag crawling out of the woodwork to yell at me and tell me how I should do this or that with my children. Not one of them offered to buy the toy I couldn't afford, or the food, or help with child care, or even to get back and forth to work when my car died. (There were no buses there,and I lived 3 hours walk outside of town.) Everywhere I turned there were people pointing fingers at me for not staying in my abusive marriage, for being a single mother, for not qualifying for welfare, for not having any money, for him not paying his child support, and for simply breathing.

And the gods know all I did all of the time was my best. I was tired and I still did my best. Even to the point I sold my body to buy the children food: I couldn't do any less than my best. I had to provide for the kids, that was all I knew.

And through it all is this echo of how horrible it felt, to be the villain without knowing why.

When I moved away from Georgia, the sheriff there was soon shot and killed for selling cocaine out of his barn among other illegal scandals. Which just goes to show who the villains really were. Pointing fingers at impoverished single mothers only works so far.

While taking a shower the other day and these thoughts ran through my mind the way they want to constantly do, I thought of my childhood. My mother's sister never let me and my older brother into her trailer, and when she had her house built she would only let us in the back door on the back-porch like we were servants or less. She yelled at me all of the time and I never felt welcome over there. Is it any wonder I grew up to hate her?

And I realized, Oh. That's why I looked forward to being picked up, to my fantastic dreams, that overall sense of belonging I was given when I went on a mission after the System found me. They didn't yell at me. They told me I was special. Even when I was a single parent abandoned with two small children, there was still that element of "The outside world hates you, but you'll always be loved in here."

And I think maybe that's why I'm not eager to "deprogram" the way folks say I should. Why should I listen to them? They call themselves revolutionaries and when I don't do what they say and how they want it, they throw me away.

But inside I wasn't thrown away for stealing air ships, or my daughter back. I was praised for the things I could do, recognized for what I am, and reminded that I could still be human and a worthwhile being.

So yeah. My loyalty is earned. Well earned.

And that's why if you want me to deprogram you'd better be willing to go with me into the journey of my head, to recover my memories, and find a damn good reason why I should leave them.

There's nothing wrong with my desire to remember my other life. My old handler told me so, and I was told that these memories will be the key to my survival. I'm not breaking any code for remembering who I am, to gaining a greater capacity, for expanding myself.

There's nothing wrong with making up my mind based on experience and what I know rather than following the deprogrammers blindly, either. In fact, I think those that preach about knowing the truth should recognize that me finding the truth first is the wise way to go.

It's not a matter of rationalizing the pain away or trying to come to terms with the grief in my heart. I'll do that in my own time.

Damn if you're going to get me to go back on important pieces of myself unless I feel it's right.

Friday, June 1, 2012

Bell's Theorem

I just finished reading In Shadow by T.J. MacGregor. Good book! Talked a lot about Bell's Theorem in relation to possible proof of telepathy. I spent the entire NIGHT discussing formulae with myself while looking at a cubicle shelf filled with purple Vs made of round marble like dots (kind of like in Othello) and worrying about Bell's theorem. The Vs had everything to do with how things were connected, and they were pointed in different directions which, now that I'm awake, I realize they were pointing to the flows of how the pulses would go if you wanted to direct a thought somewhere or cause an earthquake. There were black squares where some of the cubicles were empty. There was another dream I had after the last time I woke up: I was watching Barry Manilow wear blue-purple, play the piano and sing on some old television show. I was there, on the set, close and watching as if no one knew I was there. The song he played was one of those love songs, and I remember sensing pain in his hands from being overworked and being concerned. But he sat there and played and smiled and it was like he was just fine. I watched his hands from a distance, at the complicated piano playing, and was simply awed. I woke up with "I Wrote the Songs" playing in my head, but that was not the song he played in my dream. I can't remember what he played now.

Tuesday, May 22, 2012


I overwhelmed yet another researcher.

Or maybe I'm just too far gone to deserve the time of day. It's like I burn through researchers the way a chain smoker goes through a pack of cigarettes. I try very  hard to be careful, to respect their boundaries as they have. But they ask questions - do I lie? What good would it do anybody if I lied, no matter how fantastic the story?

She asked. I answered: the things in the blog so far, a lot of them are the result of her questions. She finally told me she was overwhelmed and had to back off for a while.

Of course I apologized: immediately riddled with guilt as I was. What else could I do? And she said it wasn't me. There were the usual stress factors researchers hit when going into this material.  But... so many before her. Dozens. And not just researchers. There was an article writer in England who decided I was "full of shit" because I made the mistake of telling her the tale of how the Western Indians thought their clocks would burn up when the railroad first implemented the time zones and seasonal hour changes. There was a backstabbing story thief who didn't believe ghosts run from me until she put me into a test situation (without telling me) and watched it happen. The specialist with MKultra "victims" who stopped speaking to me because I don't want to suddenly enter some deprogramming Christian agenda without knowing for myself what's really going on. The people who told me I lied about my ex-husband cheating on me, giving me my first black eye, or that my step daughter was being sexually abused by her stepfather and stepuncle.

I guess I just have that kind of face. With "liar" burned permanently across my brow.

Now, I don't know if Researcher will remain in contact me on a friendly level at the very least. She may or she may not. She has dropped off the radar right now because of deadlines and important matters to attend to. And I sit here hitting silent panic attacks all the day long.

Researchers casually say between themselves about how one resource is exhausted and they should break contact this or cut ties that. It's almost as if we, the sources, aren't real people on some levels. We bare our souls to them. For a lot of people the things they reveal about their "other life" comes under a great matter of trust.

And I'm always annoyed and disgusted that the people get tossed aside like pressed fruit. As a matter of fact, I've never gotten a single thank you for my trust in all these years.  It's so that I'd never recommend going to a researcher for anything. 

But Researcher I wouldn't lump in the user category, just the overwhelmed one.The one I place people when I realize I must always keep my wings partially tucked for the sake of their health and well-being. There are a lot of people in that mental category. I don't speak to most of them anymore by their own choice. I hope I'm not losing another friend. Even if we never spoke about this sort of stuff again; I just hate losing a friend.

I already stand to lose so much more I treasure right now. Just. Meh.

Remembering about Dad's involvement in the psychic programs got me curious, so I looked up Mt. St. Helen's. I had always thought it exploded back in the 60's, but I was wrong. It blew in spring of 1980.

Which means I was about 8 or 9 when he quit the program. And I have to wonder just how long he was in it... being as the programs all claim to have been decommissioned in the 70's. Or so I've read.