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".

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.

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.