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Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Intergalactic Historic

I've been watching a lecture by Dan Winters about the Galactic History of DNA. Most of it is stuff I already knew: everything has DNA, a fully ascended being can live in a star (like my soul does), there were the bird people (mine) vs the snake people (my former betrothed) and that's how the structure of the universe went boom. But still: I don't go touting these things so I'm amused when I come across someone talking about it.

The things I mention here are "past life" memories, of course: things I've known and remembered since I was about 14 years old. The memories came upon me bit by bit. and I fully believed in them with a faith that could barely be shaken. But it was shaken, in the end, when I found out the truth about MKultra. When I found out what may be the truth about myself.

The main question I have in my rather normal quest of "who am I?" is: what part in my head is the lie and what part is the truth? This is why I started digging into my head. This is why I started reading articles, books, and reports by whistle blowers. Because we are the sum of our memories and experiences, and I no longer know if my personal sum has been concluded in error.

I could spend a lot talking about who I thought I was in this post, but I think perhaps it's best to nutshell so that I can concentrate on other thoughts that will undoubtedly tie into it later. I was "told" by the information in my head that I was a slave. But also, I was a princess: the last of my kind from the original homeworld of all sentient life ages ago. Some people would then regard me as a Lyran, and I've met a lot who decided I must be angelic. Then of course there are those who taste my primal energy, it's dark flavor, and decry me as evil. I've even been kicked out of card reader booths, smudged in people's homes, and attacked by no less than two separate holy roller churches to be exorcised.

Whatever others decide I am, for me the real importance has been more where I've been. Perhaps it's my Indian (feather not dot) upbringing that had to play with that - a person is who they are not where they stand or who their grandfather was. I think it helped me, this philosophy, so that I remember towering pink granite structures, winged dragon teachers, a flight path to a planet on the other side of a black hole, and a lot more. I also remember the day everything died and the fractured existence we live in now began.

Supposedly my memories are encapsulated in a book Prism of Lyra, but I may never find time to read it as busy as I am. :-)

But when my husband and I got together for me to finally try to find a serious researcher to help me get my memories back (which has largely been a directive almost as if it were an order), we came across how the MKultra program worked. Black Princess Programming, the screaming army, the map of one's soul... and how you're told lie after lie. How you are infused with the soul of a fallen angel (which I finally decided I must be). And...

... my quest to seriously get someone to help me figure out this mess began.

Are you familiar with the story of Christmas Night, when Mother Mary and Joseph came to Bethlehem no inns had any room? So they went from door to door, seeking but never finding until Mary and Joseph finally bedded down in a manger - which is basically a barn filled with animals.  That night she gave birth - which leads me to consider perhaps she was already in hard labor by the time they were being turned down left and right for a place to stay. Which makes me think the inns were probably more worried about their bedsheets than a spare room.

That's sort of how it's been for me. When the most painful parts of this mess began, I was (unfortunately) involved with a large subculture called the Otherkin. Mind you, a good deal of them are okay folks - but then there are a select few who prey on the others. And I'd fallen into their trap.  My head had been tampered with, and I - giddy from the drug of their attention - gleefully listened when I was told more and more about my supposed past life. I ate it up. But none of us knew what was awakening.

So that when small things began to happen - like I managed to be able to throw energy bolts that could actually move objects - we thought it was because I was manifesting. Or at least I thought so. I'd like to give the others the benefit of the doubt: perhaps they didn't know either.

But when my world crashed and I was flooded with a horrible memory that I can only call the Pit and my "inner self came forward from the past" to take my body over, they threw me away. After all the damage they'd done - like a broken toy. And I had to heal alone.

These days I know what happened was the tampering triggered fail-safes people like me have built into them by the "masters". They'd awakened Black Princess programming - something I'll get into another day - and I became very very dangerous to deal with. I'm a very very different person all these years later. And I'd sooner see those people hanged than made better: it's not in my matrix to feel any other way.

Since then I've went from person to person to person. I've tried major ones like James Bartley and Barry Gaunt. Literally all of them, save one (Eve Lorgen but she's unable to help much), were dead ends. Usually it's because I didn't want to accept Jesus as my lord and savior. In one case it's because I wasn't famous enough to get his attention and hold it. One quit researching to focus on ghosts. And all of them found my way of approaching descriptions and how I see the universe weird at best.

So today I sit here writing this blog because I just don't know any other way. Years ago when my heart broke and I was thrown out on my ear, I tried to find mental help and no one would help me. I had to help myself. Here I am, trying to help myself again.

Who am I? What have I done? And which parts of me can I reclaim? Most importantly: is this real?

Dorica Manu was sent an email with the flash stimulation exercise results days ago. Usually she answers within a day. She's been quiet.

Well, she'd already bit my head off because when she'd first offered to help me I'd been very careful about it. I'd asked a lot of questions about the process - remembering what had happened with those Otherkin years ago. She'd decided I was fucking with her and told me quite sternly she didn't have time to be fucked with.  So perhaps my results were too weird for her, and like so many people I've known decided I made it up.

She might respond still. But I've lost hope on the matter.

Sunday, March 25, 2012

We the Lamps Three

Today I was supposed to have a meditation session with Dorica Manu: she and Dr. Corrado Malanga have made a lot of advances in alien abduction research. Even though I'm not strictly an alien abductee, I had approached them one day through their website. They were my last hope, having tried everyone else, and I thought it couldn't hurt.

They have a website dedicated to the Flash Mental Stimulation: it's a mental visualization exercise to help... do I don't know what. It's a good exercise, though.

Well, the appointment fell through - as things usually do in my life. My husband was summoned to the field last minute and forced to stay there and my daughter wasn't planning on doing anything to give her mother space. So I cancelled. However, Mrs. Manu asked me what happened with the flash mental stimulation - as we're still trying to coordinate.

In the exercise you visualize three lamps: Mind, Spirit and Soul. You pay attention to their colors, their size, all sorts of things. You turn on Mind first, then Spirit, then Soul. Always Soul last.

The first time I tried it, I got nowhere. So today, as my daughter decided once it was too late to go off with friends and my husband is working the night shift and sleeping so he can't call me from the field, I had time to myself. It was too late to rescue my appointment. So I did the exercise again.

By visualizing, for those that don't know, I'm referring to a meditation technique the requires the use of imagination. So I imagined I was in this round room that was so dark I couldn't see anything. With my eyes closed I did my best to picture it without controlling the images that came to mind. They had to develop on their own as a treat from my subconscious.

I sat myself in a chair in the round room: the chair, it turned out, was ornately carved wood with a plush red velvet seat. Okay, fine. I like comfort, I'm good with that.

The three lamps, I knew, were in a triad around me at perfectly spaced points. Mind to the front (because it was going to be the first list, but I could turn and face any one really), Spirit to my right just behind my ear, and Soul to my left similar position.

So I was expecting them to be these floating round globes because that's how I draw the lights in my comics. And I was thinking, maybe color. I got an impression of the color green for a moment but I'm also wearing green right now, and overall I wasn't surprised to find my visualization was chiefly fuzzy, black and white and faint. I just don't visualize by force. 

I told the first lamp to turn on by waving my right hand. Not sure why I chose that action or any of the subsequent actions; it just worked. The lamp turned on. It was round, yes: it was a round crystal ball atop a very finely-carved pedestal. The detail was more than a Corinthian column: it was tarnished silver, the column pedestal, with a platform for the lamp that wrapped around the bottom of the globe in curls or leaves... I could see the detail but I'm not good at retaining detail.

The globe was barely lit. The light flushed up from the bottom and made a gradient through the ball so that it almost looked like a crescent moon. It was about chest height and bigger than a basketball. Very smooth like a glass globe (I touched it). I tried very hard to see its color but the most I could get was a faint impression of yellow; a soft yellow light.

I went back to my seat and turned to face the spirit lamp. I snapped my finger to get it to light; right hand. It basically flamed on: it was a large fat flame coming out of a similar pedestal as the first. There was no color, though. I could almost hear the sound it would have made, though. The light was pretty bright, too. I thought, Ha! Well, okay, an old-fashioned lamp is still a lamp.

It was face height and as big as my head.

So I automatically turned to face the Mind lamp again when I summoned the Soul lamp. I wasn't looking at the Soul lamp when I did. I turned it on by reaching up with my left hand and pulling a chain; like one of those chains on a ceiling fan. It went click. And out of my peripheral vision I saw the lamp turn on. It was huge. At first I thought: what, it's a big disk like the Ra disk from ancient Egypt or something??

I turned to face it. It was very huge. At least bigger than the wall of my living room: like a maw of circle. It didn't glow, it was just there, and after a second I realized it wasn't a lamp at all. It was an eclipse. The sun or moon (not sure which) was crossing the light from left to right, and only a small sliver of light remained at the bottom right: you've seen eclipses. IT was at that point where things are almost completely eclipsed.

I felt guilty looking at it and broke out of the room. Got a grip on myself. Went back in.

With my wings (oh hell I dunno. Seemed good at the time) I wrapped the three lamps into a ball and smushed them together with my hand. At first I thought they'd become an old fashioned storm lamp, but I felt like I'd chosen that form just because and kept smushing. It was just a flash, the storm lamp.

When they were blended, they were like a melted candle. But instead of a light it was just smoke; very thick mass of smoke.

Do I have any idea what it means?

Not really.

Monday, March 19, 2012

Open Your Eyes for the Reminders

The few people who have taken me seriously over the years get offended or puzzled when I defend my handlers, my past, my life. Then there are those, of course, who don't believe me - because obviously I'm lying or I'd be a shivering lump of jell-o right now sitting in a dark house worrying about Charlie coming to get me. I'd be bitter and angry; full of fury and ready to fire.

I don't deny the presence of PTSD in my life. I don't pretend I didn't have it before the real world and the actions of people I thought were my friends ripped my family apart. I wouldn't be honest if I told you I wasn't prone to panic attacks even at the age of ten.

It's just that the situation in my head and chest are complicated and crippling enough without using them as an excuse to get away with stupid shit. Oh, call me drama queen for speaking up when you've done me wrong. Accuse me of overreacting when I let you have it for being an asshat in my direction. You're wrong when you do it: you're very wrong. If I let you have half of what goes on in my head you'd - well.

There is someone I let have it that way, before I knew what was going on in here. Years ago. At the time I was trying to remember that special past life. The information I had was sketchy. So this guy psychically took a peek. And wept.

What a mystery! So I sent willing student after student into my head to tell me what the hell was in there bad enough to make a grown man cry. They wept. They shuddered. They spoke of the Pit, The Hill, of bodies, of things. And after a while I stopped sending them in: it was too cruel to do so.

But I look back at all that's happened and I consider how essential this information is. The important thing to me is that it shapes me into WHO I am. We are the sum of our memories and experiences - and sure, things aren't always bright in my head. I had to send my son away on my daughter's 5th birthday to save him from a bigot in New Jersey who, after not being able to prove child abuse, was trying to have him shut away in an insane asylum: anything to take that boy from his mother. My first husband slept with eight different women, brought home VD, and gave me my first black eye. I was teased so heavily in school I still get anxious and overly-defensive when in group situations.

I had to sell sex to random men for $5 here and $10 there just to buy groceries to feed the kids. I didn't qualify for welfare of any kind, and child support enforcement turned out to be a cosmic joke.

Okay, yes. I carry a big gaping wound in my heart that my son doesn't answer my letters and calls another woman "Mom". On the other hand, if it hadn't been for those mundane matters, I would never have learned to stand up for myself the way I do now. I wouldn't be able to write the way I do, sing, breathe... and I wouldn't care enough about the world to want to make a difference the way I try to do in my own small way. And if I were handed the World Monarchy today, I wouldn't have thought as deeply as I have been doing for years on how to change the administration to stop being such a jack-ass to the little guy.

My PTSD isn't just from the "Other Side" - the side with bloody beaches and dark-haired people trapped in tiny cages. It comes from life in general.  It keeps me from holding a regular job, and I can't get PTSD disability checks the way a soldier documented as having gone to war can. So I chose to make my own way in this world with the skills I have. Maybe I'll be a gem someday. Maybe I am one already.

Someone found my last blog post today. Her presence was brought to my attention, which brought me to her own blogs. Which brought me to her story.

Such a beautiful woman: once a sex slave, prostituted on the streets in Manhattan.

There were other links. Sadder stories. Similar. Women trapped in a waking nightmare, one that's even harder to get out of than mine.

When it comes to my handlers, I am very very aware that I was treated with a different kind of care. For us in the program, the torture isn't as senseless as people like to think it is. The pain is a tempering fire as we're forged into strong blades of steel. A "broken butterfly" is a blade that broke in the fire or during use.

I was a broken butterfly once. So I reforged myself. These women whose stories I read tonight: they don't always have that option.

So if you please: my past brings me great pain, and I can't deny it. This blog will be a healing device as I go. But I can heal.

Some of those women know others who are still trapped.

I am reminded: things aren't always that bad. No matter how thick the gore.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

Monarch Migration

Maybe we're all so desperate in our daily lives for Hollywood action, we make up vague memories of spaceships, aliens and moving stars. I ponder that often as I go through my own life; a life that I'm told is neither boring nor typical. Even if you take out my own star traveling vehicles what's left is full of drama and bright conclusions.

But I'll tell you a secret.

Your life is exactly the same way.

The trick to it is not in any difference between how I get out of bed in the morning versus how you do the same. The trick is in the storytelling. For instance, I have a very hilarious story about how I almost burned my house down using the same cooking pot on the same burner of the same stove three separate times. It's a true story. It's fantastic. It's entertaining. And it could happen to anybody, and probably has. I merely make it sparkle with the telling.

I have more true stories from my life that are just as full of glitter, but people don't believe me. Such as the time I caught a catfish in my fishing net in the pond behind the house while searching for minnows. The way it splashed in my net and the glimpses of its black glossy hide made me think it was at least a foot long before it managed to jump to freedom. But the ditch was small, and my net was only a little larger than that. So no one, to this day, believes my story. It's the big one that got away.

There are even stranger things in my life people don't believe because they're too weird to be true - to them, at least. But it isn't that the events were strange or impossible; I just have no other way to describe them to you using this clumsy spoken language. But I consider when Turtle Island was first visited by the strangers from far away. "Strange clouds on the water," one villager said to another, describing their mode of transportation. These strange pale beasts rode in the clouds.

... or did they?

No. They rode on sailing ships in the water. But "strange white clouds" was the strange way of telling the tale.

But again, maybe we all just really want to be special that badly. Our media and the world around us is saturated with faked, air brush images of people who we're told are special. They look nothing like us, they act nothing like us, and this means we're not as awesome as they. Then some person stands forward and says "I was abducted by aliens." At first they're made fun of. Then they're believed. Then someone writes a book on their life and they're famous. They're special. And we think: man. Why can't that be us?

And then we fool ourselves.

"I think... yeah... pretty sure I remember that was me, too!" And yes, friends, we can make up memories and lie to ourselves quite convincingly. So much so that a lot of my day is spent wondering when I'm lying to myself and when I'm not. And I worry that I'm telling myself that lie, because I can't see my own sparkle for what it is.

But, and this is important, there is much in my life that is true. In fact I'd say the entire past 40 years really happened, if not more. I just gotta make sure I remember the true parts and dodge the parts I made up.

This blog - this book - might be career suicide for me. But my career isn't exactly the most successful anyway. Someone once accused me of believing I'm in a comic book - he was a jealous lover to a young man I thought was my best friend. I loved my best friend very much - the way I love all my friends - and the accuser was a very manipulative and angry man. No one understood my feelings for my friend - they thought I wanted a lover when I didn't want anyone close to me like that at all - and to this day I still get angry when I think of the little drama queens that came to me for gossip and said I was being led on. I wasn't being led on. I watched in silence in the corner as the two fought, as they almost came to blows, and even handled the police at the front of their restaurant while they threw pots and argued in the back.

"She thinks she lives in a comic book," was the rumor when the accuser found a way to get rid of me once and for all. "And she thinks she's trying to save my boyfriend from me, the evil!"

They laughed at me. They made fun. They thought it was hilarious, and that I was insane. But not one of them thought to hear about the time my best friend asked me to please help him to get out of there. To help him survive. To stay by his side, because he needed a friend.

I write comics, fantasy, science fiction, and whatever other story I choose to weave. I am in them as far as any good writer needs to be: I am the Great Creator. But I don't believe I am literally my own comic book character the way the FBI apparently accused me of when doing a friend's background check.

So then let this book, this blog, be another woven and fantastic tale. Believe or don't believe. Accept the truth of strange white clouds or assume inexperience means nothing less than a lack of wonder.

Know this: I lay in bed a year and a half ago. I was half-asleep. Then the music played. By the time I'd identified the song, I stood up out of bed wide awake. I was full of energy and driven with purpose.

There were two men standing at the door; they wore dress blues of some sort. To sum up the story, for I shall tell it entirely later, they realized I was aware and zapped the back of my head with a tazer.

I know it was a tazer because I woke up with the head wound the next day - and it's a scar tissue wound that didn't heal for at least a year.

It's kind of hard to dream a wound like that into existence.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

dream, milab

I'd slept all night, but today while trying to stay up and get work done I was hit with it: I had to sleep whether I liked it or not. And I couldn't focus on anything; kept wandering around the apartment. So I finally gave in. I dreamed of the compound. I wake up remembering it as if I'd always remembered it, but the dream was the first time I'd become aware I knew of it. There was a map of America, and there was a guy there. They're going to build over the compound. And I said to him that there was the compound. I pointed to the map and it zoomed in kind of like how Google Earth does and I showed him the overhang that masked the underground entrance. I panned the image around and I pointed to an area that used to be open dirt and I told him, See you can see where there used to be open space to park stuff. While I was doing that I was trying to figure out why the place looked so different from what I expected. And where the old shed had come from that was where a parking lot used to be. Another thing is the map was backward. The eastern seaboard was on the western side of the map... or ... something like that. I remember when I looked at the island peninsula of the spot I was remembering another map of the place, a place that showed a grid of rooms underground. They're laid out like graph paper.