Recent MKultra experience

Super Soldiers and the Fish that Bloop at Them

I've noticed this trend with the super soldier group that, in order to be validated as a super soldier, you have to have had some sort of military service in your verifiable history. Failing boot camp still qualifies you. I'm sure there are exceptions, but this seems to be the overall rule. Furthermore, the self-proclaimed super soldiers seem to be fighting amongst themselves. You've got the older guys who don't believe the younger guys, the younger guys who don't believe the older guys, and the women who cat fight amongst themselves. They point fingers at each other if they haven't had "enough" military service, are "pencil-necked skinny guys", are "confused" in what they remember; you name it.

They claim to have a plethora of adrenaline-rush skills, among them super speed, super fast reflexes, the ability to suffer dangerous events without getting hurt and/or killed, and psychic abilities associated with telepathy and telekinesis (usually employed for remote viewing).

I don't know about super soldiers in person aside from own experiences. (Among them being the time I traveled to Atlanta Georgia to see the Dalai Llama speak. I looked up - it's my habit to look around and observe - and saw very burly, very over-muscular men in fatigues pacing the rafter/roof area of the coliseum where we were. And there were service guys everywhere monitoring entrances back and forth, too, in suits and ties with little insignias about the size of a dime on.)But it seems to me that "super soldier" should not and probably does not refer to an over-abundance of muscle like at least one self-proclaimed super soldier is saying. And looking at the pattern of the self-proclaimed super soldiers, and my own patterns, I think super soldier isn't about looking like Superman. It's about being "super" in some way, be it with the ability to remote view or being able to "slip through molecules" to run really fast, or anything like that. Thanks to comic books and the public media, we have this vision of super heroes suddenly sprouting muscle and looking like Greek gods the minute they realize they're super. Considering all of the regular soldiers I've known in person who were mere "pencil-necked" guys that survived multiple deployments, let alone a super soldier who would supposedly go in under special circumstances, I just fail to believe that's the case.


Maybe there are grunts out there with that muscle rippling around even as I type. I just feel it's equally as possible there's a tech out there with very little muscle and a "seeing cube" (like a crystal ball but milky white) doing his soldier like duty. And there may even be an intelligence gal over on the corner writing down what the tech sees while the grunt guards the door. Who knows.

______________

But I need to stop to tell you about the Fishbowl, which for me is the final culmination of all of my experiences I am talking about here. I have met a lot of people out there who have realized when I am finished talking about it that they, too, are in touch with the Fishbowl. I had one tell me she was an ambassador. :-) So maybe this will help you as well, to give you the view from the other side of the room.

I have to with the dreams of going to a far away place in the middle of the woods and hanging with "hunters". And I'll be posting entries from my dream journal that have to do with the Fishbowl.

Now that I think about it, I realize why I thought of them that way - so maybe I'm repeating myself but I've just come to a revelation. I thought they were hunters because they all carried rifles and had bags and pouches on their clothes like a hunter would wear. But knowing what I know now... I'm sure you can see where my thoughts are leading. I can't prove any of those thoughts of course. But I was a small child, before I could even comprehend a conspiracy theory and the movies people claim to get their ideas from had even come out. And there it is. 

These dreams happened as far back as I can remember: I was 3, then 4, and I looked forward to walking down the dirt road to meet those hunters. They always greeted me in a friendly way - and although I can't remember what we did, I liked them.

And then that dream happened that I talked about here in April where I was told not to open my eyes.

So this other presence stayed with me my entire life. There are a lot of layers, so many that I think I might end up going to this blog for years to come. The pinnacle of things has been overseen and manipulated by a group of people I came to call The Council on High. Sometimes I call them "those old men" (even though there's at least one woman) or "those bastards". And I call the round coliseum place they meet in "The Fishbowl" because, when you're trapped at the bottom being reviewed or whatever, it's like you're in a fishbowl with everyone staring at you and tapping the glass.

My awareness of the Fishbowl grew slowly over the years.When I was a kid I thought it was God. Later I thought it was spirit guides. At least one preacher decided I was possessed at random and held an exorcism over me (I used a made up word instead of using a curse word to be considerate of everyone there. Should have used the curse word.). After that I didn't know who it was and stopped wondering; I just knew they were there.

They told me I couldn't marry, couldn't breed until the mate they had chosen came along, told me I would be in my 30's when things finally began to happen according to "The Plan", told me when I defied them to have children how long it would before that marriage broke apart, and even today sometimes I'll get told something that's going to happen. And overall they've been right, even with "The Plan". So on some level I know they're there as a real force.

There is an interesting story about the day I came to realize they were real people. I'll probably tell it next week, or some other time.


And I've figured out that in a very real capacity I seem to have a say in at least some of the dealings going on there.At first I did what everyone tends to do; I told myself I was the super uber important leader of the whole thing. I mean I knew I had two councils I dealt with, although I wasn't sure why I needed two separate cabinets. There was the group of 12 old guys and the group of 5 to 7 old guys (depending on who showed up). The smaller group would stand behind my chair at the tippy top of the coliseum and the group of 12 would meet with me in a separate room off to the side.

When I came across a presentation by George Kavassilas talking about the exact same political structure within the Council on High I felt very vindicated. (He, by the way, is also a nice guy.)

When I stopped to wonder how much of what was happening around me was real vs what was false, the Fishbowl was the first thing that fell in doubt. Maybe it was because the most I could get out my "Fishbowl channeler" was talk about the weather. Maybe it was also how I was placated by MUFON researchers and used by others who were in contact... and so many other things... I just had to step back and question the Fishbowl most of all. Was it real, or was it something I made up? Or was I being lied to and it was a big hologram construct?

So I announced formally the Fishbowl was being shut down until further notice. This was a few months ago. I've done it before, but this last time I was more serious than I had ever been. And last October I reopened it up again with this annual camping gather where I and those attached to it go and practice low-level psychic skills. (It almost didn't happen and I forgot to mention here that all went well, even though only 1 person and her fiance showed up.)

I wasn't sure what I was reopening... it just felt right, now that I'm using this blog to figure things out among other things, to start touching base with that again. To see what was there.

In my quest to learn more about the super soldier conundrum and to figure out where I fit in it, I came across Alara Blackwell. Of all the super soldiers out there, I found her interview to be the most believable. So my husband and I tracked her down and made contact.

She and I had a small chat on Skype and to my surprise she, also, was told not to open her eyes after a pickup. And then she started talking about doing things with her spirit guides and how, frustratingly for her, there had been no activity. She hadn't even been able to channel until last November.

It was an interesting confirmation I thanked her profusely for.

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.

Loyalty

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.

Sins of the Father

So yeah, my father was part of some government psychic program. I don't find that so strange.

All I know about Dad's involvement is he went through the testing when things were in it's earliest stages. He was with them a short while then quit. Couldn't get along with one of the others guys, he'd told me when I was a teenager.  Raised us with such fun things as games to hold aces and read each other's minds. (And thus I can tell you I'm what they call a reverse psychic.)

When I was first deciding I was going to do something about this alien problem, I got a book about the origins of the psychic program. I'd gotten it to see if my father was mentioned. And thus I now know the military wouldn't have the program it does today if it weren't for a chinchilla.

I never finished the book. I got 1/4 of the way through and got curious, so decided to remote view to the past and take a look at the grounds. Mind you, it's difficult for me to remote view successfully. I'll be doing something and realize I'm doing it, and it's like a shelf falls out of place in my head. You can feel the shelf fall and bam! I'm thrown out of things. At most I can go for about 2 to 3 minutes.

I found myself in a dark room staring at an open door. I could hear voices: a woman walking down the hall. She was giving a tour of the facilities. She said, "And this is the testing room" or something like that. And... something else happened. They closed the door. It was heavy metal so it clanged. The clang startled me and I was bust out of the vision.

I called Dad a few days later and told him about it. I didn't get to finish my story. I started to tell him about the door and he finished describing the room for me.

I bumped into Dad's past again when my husband was on his second deployment to Afghanistan. This was a hard time for me. I was angry at how we'd been treated, the lies, being left behind - most specifically the lies. I was angry that his first sergeant was bound and determined to do what he could to tear our marriage apart while other soldiers were allowed to talk to their wives. (No, seriously, they tried to order my husband not to talk to me it got so bad.)

When I'm angry I can do extraordinary things. But only when I'm angry. So I was doing a lot: I was remote viewing to that region nightly, I was moving things, I was seeing the future, giving my husband predictions on the next attack, you name it. I was also dealing with being given to this new young new handler - he must have been about 25. And he was so annoying to me that I'd remember him after missions and nightly abductions. He hated me, I hated him.

Then I had a vision.

@ 2010-06-22 17:49:00     Time Sensitive Documents

 The beginning is sketchy, but I was being told what was going on much like in a briefing I suspect. But because I wasn't sitting at a table being briefed but asleep, as I was told various information my mind supplied images.

  There were old military trucks. They weren't brown, but they weren't quite army green. They were also covered in dust because they had been in country a long time. They weren't traveling in convoys; they would go one at a time originating from the lower middle area of Afghanistan towards the border of Pakistan. One at a time, they'd travel with the dust around their wheels and the sun in the sky carrying...

 chrome pretzels.

  Yes I KNOW that's weird. Hold your horses... like I said: symbolic.

  So yes. Chrome pretzels. And I was told that these were some sort of probe, but the teller couldn't quite comprehend the technology and I could only perceive them as shiny brand-new metallic pretzel shaped things piled in the covered backs of these old trucks. The trucks were definitely older models, by the way. And the pretzels were being brought to the border region like this and set up along the mountains. They were being done so "right now".

  A parked truck that had been carrying the probes was sitting in the barren place it was left. (These trucks were never on base, but always in open areas or away from people.) I was standing in front of it. A vine was growing out of the engine. It had crawled its way down around the CVC joint and shaft of the passenger side front wheel of the truck and was crawling up the truck. It's important to note that it was only about 2 feet long (the part that was visible) so far. Later when telling the dream to someone, they mentioned grape vines and I remembered that the vine had three whole triangular-shaped leaves.

  The narrator said, "This is a side effect of the objects being brought here."

  I can't remember if there was anything else about that before my mind centered on the pretzels again. I have an alternate self who rarely speaks to me. She said, "You are perceiving them wrong. Instead, perceive them as forks."

  And so the trucks were filled with shiny chrome forks.

  And so I woke up at 3 am. I tried not to, but there was no choice in the matter.

  The meaning I have gathered:

  The trucks were Taliban trucks. They use old equipment, some from even back in WWII. Our vehicles would have been newer models, and they would have traveled in something else besides 2 men in a lonely truck. There would have been a guard or a convoy. Well, there would definitely have been more than 2.

 The pretzels are some sort of equipment to be able to sense what's going on. The pretzel shape could mean their maker's origin or just how they work, or even that they look like pretzels.

 The chrome means they're brand-new.

 Their point of origin is where they're being shipped out from to get to where they're going.

 The area they're going to is near where my husband is stationed. (And where my conglom has also been stationed.)

 The vine is a grape vine. It was explained to me today that certain motion sensitive equipment and other probe like devices such as these can be networked together to share information - like a vine.

 When "SHE" said to see them as forks... punster that she is... she was saying we are "forked". I'm actually quite fond of that particular pun.

  ... I've tried all day to figure out how to get the message about this to the right people. If this vision is interpreted correctly, there are going to be a lot of soldiers dead in the most nasty of ways.

I was very upset by this thing because I knew it meant doom for the people in my husband's region of the world. I'd sent all of the energy sources I could to protect him, and this was a very important message. I called a friend of mine about it, and together we began to try to track down people who were once part of the psychic program to get *someone* to listen to me. We finally found one old gentleman that had been part of Stargate.

I called my dad and told him no more crap, no more secrets, I was exhausted and didn't have much energy left; he had to give and help here. I told him the dream, and that's when he told me why he left the program.

There was a dream he had kept having about people driving off a cliff. He knew they were driving into fire but no one would listen to him no matter how he waved his arms and shouted. He knew it meant something bad was going to happen, but the people in the psychic team did the thing they're reputed for doing: ignored it. And then Mount Saint Helens blew itself up. And he was just so disillusioned by the lack of response when it was known it was going to happen that he quit.

I'd remembered, while he was telling me, a time he'd told me that dream when I was young. So I knew he was finally telling me the truth.

"Don't tell people you're my daughter," he warned me. "Don't mention my name." But I knew I was going to have to eventually. Modern politics is silly like that.

I had gotten the Stargate fellow's number and left him a tearful voicemail. When he called me back I was already calm and trying to gather old friends who I used to do things with to do something about things on my own. I was so harried and stressed. So now I'm going to admit to doing something rather manipulative, but please understand I'd spent an entire life not being listened to and an entire day trying to save an entire unit's life.

When he, Mr. G, called back I answered the phone and promptly broke into a weak woman's tears. Oh thank God you called, thank God I just don't know what to do I had this vision and my husband is over there and I'm so worriiiiieeeeeeeed.

Part of those tears were real, mind you, but not all of them. When I had him listening I calmed down and we chatted. I told him the vision, I told him for sure what it meant, he told me he didn't know anybody anymore, we talked about the vision some more, he told me my interpretation was probably wrong, I told him some more information, he asked me my whole name (while I felt him probing), and then he started to tell me techniques on how to use my talents.  I told him yes, I already knew some of it, I was raised in the stuff, my father claims to have been part of one of the programs.

He said, "Who was your father?"

"Dean White," I replied. (No, not his real name. That's not important here.)

"Dean WHITE!?! Ah ... is that your maiden name?" Poor recovery.

"Yes," I replied calmly. If I had laughed then my message would never have gone where it needed to go.

After that he told me there was someone who was still in the military that was in the program he could possibly contact that could pass things on.

Now that I think about it, he didn’t seem to like that my dream was narrated to me either. I’m not sure why.

Through my remote views to protect my husband I was 90% accurate... but my energy could only last a few months. I was so tired. That vision was my last spurt of energy aside from one last event with that stinking little handler.

But regardless, we watched things happen my husband and I. The troops were moved in secretly, my husband watched vehicles move around, we knew what I'd seen was coming to pass.  And then the guys were sent into the pass - the place I'd been ranting on the "other side" that needed to be routed out - and sure enough. They'd been settings things up for months in the way I'd foreseen. But there was someone who was an informant, which I'd tried to tell folks about, and this was anticipated. It was a damn near slaughter.

But when my husband and I went over some of the events, we noticed some strategies were in place as if they'd anticipated what I'd seen. At least, I'd like to think so... that lives were saved.

So it all ties back to my Dad. If it weren't for his early involvement - whatever it may truly have been - I may never have gotten the message through.

And that's all I know of it - well aside from him telling me once he'd managed to do that astral trick where you're in two different places at once, and the government had went nuts trying to get him to do more tests but he'd refused. Apparently he was in one place while a woman in another place gave him coffee and watched him fade out of existence.

As for the vision, my time with it ended like this:

Mr. G,

I was so upset when I spoke with you the other day I forgot to tell you about something else I saw. Of course it's too late to turn it around. When I saw that the Pentagon had released the intelligence regarding Al Qaida being at it's weakest (confirming another vision I'd told my husband), I knew the operation had begun on schedule. And now I look at those mountains and they're muddy and dark dark red.

A few weeks ago - I'm not sure when because I didn't record it the way I try to remember to do - I was talking to my husband and getting angry. Next I knew I was watching a man sit down at a table. He wore robes. I knew he was telling the Taliban our plans, and he was meeting in a room with another man to hear what was next. I was surprised that his under robe was made of that fake denim cotton material pattern. One just doesn't' picture a Muslim in fake denim, you know. But he was proud of his denim pattern. He preferred it It was dark and blue and he liked it.

He's groomed, like he was groomed in the states somehow or maybe he's a half-breed. He bathes more than the Taliban. That also surprised me. So maybe he blends in well or something. He isn't like a prince: just someone a touch fastidious.

Now of course so much of what I saw makes perfect sense. The Taliban were feeling urgent because they'd been tipped off last weekend was coming. They were laying their plans and preparing because they knew. They knew the location, they knew from which direction, and they even had a sense of how many.

The reason why they never attacked my husband's FOB until just before the operation was because they were waiting. I thought they were waiting for their fellows, but that was only part of it. They were still preparing. I couldn't figure out how, but I knew it had something to do with the earth.

I could have perhaps made a difference if only I'd tried to find someone sooner. If not you: someone. So I'll tell someone besides my friends and husband again. Maybe it will help. But I doubt it. A friend once told me that I would die the prophet who was never heard. So.

Today while talking to a friend about the informant (she remembered when I found him so we were talking about him) I "flew over" automatically again. It was brief. It was faint. It happened when I said, "I just don't know how to turn this situation around - no wait." And I did.

Their backsides are cooled by the wind.

I shouldn't bother you with this again, and I know you're busy. But I know also that people are dying or are about to die. I don't know why but I keep thinking of the piano cord death method in the beginning of Ghost Ship. But with a claw on the string.

If your friend was able to take my last vision and use it, perhaps this one will help as well. My sights are getting dimmer and dimmer, which could mean any number of things. They might get stronger when my husband returns to that hellhole after leave. Who knows. He's no longer being agitated by his jerk first sergeant (transferred again). When he's not agitated, I tend to not be agitated. We're tandem like that.

Jaded in Jacksonville 20

Another episode as I chronicle my journey into MKultra and the various weird things in my life.

This time: black princess programming, a monologue about villain lairs, and (in part two) tips on how to know if the researcher/counselor you are considering is a good one.

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There isn't very much by the way of profound in this vlog. I just took a moment to put together a quickie for the sake of making sure my vlog had something fresh and certain events with the Fishbowl (the Council of NIne... the Intergalactic Federation... whatever you wanna call it) were recorded... because I like having stuff recorded. I do mention George Kevassalis, but only because it's part of what happened. Sorry I'm not as... eeeh.... number-saavy as some folks.

No really. I care. I swear I care. I know it doesn't show on my impassive and uncaring face, but I care! I do!!

I even blipped out most of the swear words this time. =^-^=

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Ever wonder about what you're here to do on this Earth? Just what is your role? What are all our roles? Okay, yeah, I'm not claiming to have the answers. A wise man is a man who never claims to be wise,. =^-^= But I do give a clue on how to find the answers within yourself in this particular vlog. As well, Choshu discusses her role with the Council on High (Intergalactic Federation or Council of Light or whatever it's being called this month) while we see some nifty footage of the Buddha Temple in Tampa, Florida.

 

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This one started out talking about MKULTRA and Operation Monarch, but with even the gentleman who wrote the article I found saying he needed to rethink things because his sources had proven to be dubious, I ended up ranting about how women are treated when they go to the comic shop and game store. GIRL POWER! If you won't treat us as good people who want to spend our money, we'll spend it elsewhere. It's difficult to keep a comic shop going even in a GOOD economy! Humbug.

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