Party on the Dark Side

There is a place I have been to many times, so much I can give you a firm layout. It's on a beach, and it's an open air bar. The framework is pale wood, like bamboo or pine. There are two or three bars and many twinkling lights; it's a very clean bar - not at all like any I've been to in the waking world. And always when I go, it's filled with people. There are a lot of people, as if there were some huge social function going on.

There is a deck that goes around the back of the bar, behind the enclosed part of the building. The deck can be reached from the open air parts, however. It overlooks the ocean, which is about an acre away. There are trees, too, so that you can see the waves crashing through the break. They twinkle deep blue in the moonlight sometimes.

Standing on the deck looking at the ocean, there is the beginnings of a boardwalk to your left. It's usually closed and locked, because no one is allowed to go down it. You can't reach the waves by walking across the yard, either. The yard is filled with deep roots and marsh. You'll get stuck trying to cross, especially in the dark. I know because that happened to me once.

I always want to go to that beach when I'm there, though. It's just where I prefer to be. You can tell it's a private beach. How peaceful it must be to walk on along that sand with the waves washing your toes.

But that is not where my dream journey began last night. No, it began in an apartment building on the second floor. The apartment I was in was empty and the walls were a pale yellow. There was a light brunette doctor there - maybe she's the one whose been with me since I came here to Louisiana. Maybe she dyed her hair. She had on her lab coat but did not hold her clipboard.

I was escorted into the room and stood with her near the center. There were a lot of other people there, but they were more background color to me. I was aware of them, I was aware of their movements. I didn't care to register them as more than "people in the room with me doing these things".

The doctor told me that the angels, both good and evil, had to come and convince me to choose between light and dark again. It was important for me to remember who I was. (Again with the remembering. As if it pays my bills or something.) She stepped back a few steps and the "angels" came at me.

As far as I was concerned, they were trying to kill me so as they came close I lashed out with my hands and killed them one by one. I was very methodical about it, and wasn't really there enough to remember more than the blood spraying everywhere.

After about twelve or so, the doctor told me that both Archangel Michael and Lucifer would approach me now. And from the wall before me a man did walk forward; a very very tall and skinny man with curly short brunette hair. As he approached I expected him to be the Archangel Michael but as he neared my psychic field I realized this was not the holy good person I should expect. He saw that my third eye was wide open and staring and he snorted derisively to himself, shaking his head a little - I realized that was actually a private reaction and I wasn't supposed to see it so I did not react.

As he got within two feet of me I became aware of a cloying scent about him. It wasn't anything I can place: not cologne, not decaying flesh, not fruit or meat or anything like that. It was actually confusing, this heavy musky scent that was just on the sweet side like a well made meat pudding. It was this scent that made me decide I had been approached by Lucifer - because demons, real demons, smell like death. But it was also confusing. I kept thinking he smelled like death, but I knew he didn't. I've smelled death. This was not the smell of death. It was a smell I knew, I just couldn't remember.

And I had a sense as if I was supposed to know him from previous times - I think this is the impression the doctor was trying to give me.

He took me to the bar, then. I can't remember the journey or what he said to me in the meantime, but I know things happened. My memory glosses over those part and skips to the bar, which was filled with people. I recognized every face I saw, held conversations with many people who always nodded cordially as if greeting me was expected. Some faces I thought I knew from jobs I held in the past, but these people weren't quite it. Most of them were young and Caucasian, although there was one brown woman with salon styled hair that held a conversation with me for a few minutes before taking her drink and moving on.

Lucifer came up to me after a while, just as I was turning to walk away from my spot and find something to do. We went to the deck out back to look at the waves, and he brought himself very close. He put his arms around me and bent down to bring me into an embrace. His nose nestled by my left ear.

I thought he was going to kiss me, and I was filled with a dark protective rage. With my right hand, I grabbed the top of his head and jerked him back by his hair. "I will kill you," I growled.

Patiently he let me do that and locked his brown eyes with mine. When he didn't move, I let him go. He talked to me in a matter-of-fact voice, but I just can't remember what he said. It was something about me remembering, about it being an innocent act, and some other things that suggested it had to be. I just can't remember, and it's frustrating. Whatever he said, I let him bend down again to wrap around me without moving.

He brought me into his chest then and pushed my head against him as if I were a small child. Surrounded by his arms and his scent, I realized how familiar this embrace was. "I remember this," I said. Trustingly I put my hands on his sides. I wasn't committing to a full embrace just yet, but the feeling of being back into this cocoon made me relax.

"Yes," he said. "And do you remember the feeling of my back against your hands?"

I place my hands fully on him then, with my right hand a little further onto his back. His back did feel familiar to me, and I said so.

We broke apart and he spoke with me, but now I can't remember. He wanted to live it up for the night. There was a party going on and it was our role to play it out. About two or three young women approached us, as if they were also there with Lucifer, and everyone started to get into the swing of things. I was forgotten for the moment, and that's when I noticed I was near the boardwalk's gate. I could see the waves in the distance.

For the first time, I decided I was going to that beach come hell or high water. And I jumped the gate. As I did so, I remember noticing for the first time that I was wearing a white cocktail dress. The cloth swirled over my legs as I easily jumped over - and my legs were thinner I also noticed. I was also shocked at how easy it was for me to do it. As if the gate weren't that tall or I was healthier.

I went down the boardwalk in the dark. In no time I was at that coveted beach. The waves moved in an out rather quickly, but it seemed natural to me. I remember as I got there, I bent to look at something in the sand. I looked back at the deck where I could see Lucifer and the others dancing. I wished they would join me - I guess because it would be nice to have someone share my interests.

On the waves were several dozen Cabbage Patch dolls, all moving in and out with the waves. They had been abandoned by their children, I knew, and my heart went out to them. I approached them.

There was on doll who was new. He had black curly hair. He approached me, but I can't remember what we talked about. I ended up holding him in my lap while I sang to the dolls. I told them how sorry I was, that they had been left behind. That I hoped their children would come back.

Then I put the doll down and started to take my walk.

When I woke up in bed after all that, my mind was filled with Lucifer's embrace and his cloying scent. And I have spent all day replaying the moment when I threatened his life - like an animal trainer with a frightened tiger, I realize he was. He handled me well.

My husband complained to me when he got up and someone had messed with his CPAP mask. That only happens to him when we go on a journey. I wonder what his was like.

Cow Mutilations

I listened to Coast to Coast last night and, good thing too because there was a lady on there talking about cow mutilations. Which is something I've never been able to find good information on when I've had time to look. So I listened to her and finally formed a question. "Are all the mutilations on females?"

I'd never heard of this woman before, mind you.

When I couldn't get through on the call line I emailed her and asked because I really wanted to know. She took the time to email me back this morning. There was *one* male mutilation. Oh, and she was a little butt hurt that I hadn't read her books. Lady, I didn't know you existed before last night! You ain't THAT famous.

But in my email I drudged up some memories for her use and shared. This of course meant that I was now thinking of said things when I went to bed. I woke up a bit later the way I do feeling something on my chest. Then my left ovary started to hurt as if it were being cut. This woke me up all the way thinking "The Greys! Are they operating?"

The heavy thing on my chest was my cat and the pain was a cramp I get from time to time. Oddly I thought to myself, still groggy, 'No, stop it!' and it went away.

And you lay there thinking that even if you're telling yourself these things for attention or people accuse you of talking about them all of the time because you need mental help, you can't be consciously dealing with it for attention if you're waking up in the middle of the night scared it's happening again. Not scared your cat is smothering you, that you're being raped by an intruder, or that you're hemmoraghing. You're waking up scared you're on the table again, and that's what you come out of slumber preparing to defend against.

 I've been researching on Skunk Works trying to find something as that is the only real lead I have right now. It's not easy material to find. At least for me: my computers never seem to yield good search results for some reason. Folks who don't live here have come over and seen the difference themselves.

EDIT: she later told me there were thousands of male mutilations. Turned out to be a nice lady.

Speaking Of.... slrp

While we're on the subject of reptilians, I think I should share two of my wide awake physical brushes with them. Now, this has nothing to do with being approached by a reptilian in the night when I was just beginning a comic about them that was meant to portray them in an utterly ridiculous light. That was a purposeful encounter, and those you must always examine suspiciously because so much can be and has been faked. Lies are all around us.

These were two accidental encounters, and that's why I hold them to be so real. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Or the wrong time, maybe. Depending on your point of view.

The first time was when I and my daughter moved to a small town located about three hours east of St Louis, Missouri. My husband was in Iraq at the time, and we had just bought the house of my dreams - and I mean it was literally of my dreams. The thing I had dreamed about, wished for, and hoped for my entire life right down to how the open bar looks in the basement. We were leaving Jacksonville, Florida behind - and that being a hotspot in which I witnessed a lot of things - so I thought moving to this little town was going to be a nice quiet change. I was in for a scarey surprise.

We got there, settled in after some drama with the local officials who went so far as trying to accuse me of stealing my husband's identity in order to forestall the final signing of our house's paperwork, and life set to resume. In fact if you see my video blogs you can even see when we moved and notice the change.  And all should have been a hustle of unpacking and learning our new town.

But I, being taught to feel and be aware at least on a low skill level, couldn't sleep at night. I could feel them all around me - there was a huge cluster of minds all watching me. They were aware I was there, they were watching carefully, and the foremost emotion they put out was wondering if I was a threat. It was very uncomfortable, and I was a bundle of nerves. I only slept during the day, when the "psychic eyes" seemed less trained on me and it felt safe.

Being an author, I got booked to make a public appearance in Joplin, Missouri. My daughter who was about fourteen at the time, and I loaded into the car and we started driving. We had to go through St. Louis to get there and hit the city sometime in the evening, but even as we hit the outlying farmland areas on the outside of the city I could feel them. It was scarey - more minds than I had ever felt before, and I knew I was sensing a large scale movement above ground that was very special. The minds were all bend and shaped in that way people get when they have an intense purpose.

We crossed the bridge into St Louis, passed the arch, and as my daughter oggled the sights and crooned I felt them moving around. There were hints of water, smells of underbrush, and then suddenly it just shut off. I knew, then, that they had ground their prey. And I knew it was a young girl. I said to my daughter that they had caught someone. A couple of more miles down the road, when we were a little past halfway through St Louis, and the city went on amber alert. A young girl had been taken.  It was the saddest confirmation I had ever received in my life.

The rest of my time living up there was spent in fear, knowing I was so close to one of the reptilian hives that still practices the girl hunts when my daughter was just at the right age they seem to prefer. After a while the minds stopped watching me at home, but I never stopped watching out for them.

When my husband was on his second deployment to Afghanistan I saw one in the flesh. I was in Hobby Lobby - I kid you not - looking for supplies when this woman happened to be in the same row as me. I looked at her, and she looked at me. I could feel her attention - not sure how I got it - and her eyes were black pools. They were beautiful eyes, mind you, but they didn't look right... and as I stared briefly I could find no hint that they were because of contact lenses.

"N... nice eyes, "I literally stammered. 

She thanked me and I ducked to the next row. You'd think that would be it, but I could feel her following me as I talked with my friend... first about the woman's eyes in one brief sentence, and then about whatever mundane thing I could find. The woman followed me from row to row, her always on the other side, as I pretended to shop and act like I'd noticed nothing weird. I saw her head cocked when there was a gap, listening.

So, because the situation was both scarey and a bit provoking, I decided to try a trick from Babylon 5. Babylon 5 being a TV show, well, you can't take any of it seriously. But what the hell. I started playing Mary Had A Little Lamb in my head over and over. I focused on that song while continuing the conversation.

That was when the reptilian ... or whatever she was... decided I wasn't anything and went away.

I tried very hard to get my MUFON contacts to come to the area and investigate with me, but they never would. And that is where that tale ends. 

Untouchable

Researcher and I have been discussing things back and forth. She thinks she can use my story in a book. I say she's welcome to it: if it can help someone all the better. That's a good thing.

I don't want to say her name here, so I'll simply name her Researcher. So far she's a good and wise person; has driven me to pick up projects I thought I'd never be able to pick up again. She's also a fantastic writer. I love to read her things. And I dare hope we're becoming friends; that most precious of universal gifts.

She asked a series of questions for her research, and one of them had to do with childhood abuse in the family. Now, I now that many people in The Program talk about how they were so severely abused by their parents, or their father sold them into sexual slavery, or some other horrible story. I know that without that historic abuse in your life some researchers will decide you lie and are not part of the Program at all.

Well. I have no family abuse in my life. Sorry to disappoint.

My father, now, he was abused very heavily: he had been taken from his family when he was a kid and spent his life being passed around. That has to do with the stigma of being "Native American" in those days. Hell, even when my first born child was born I had people trying to take him from me before he was a few hours old. The government takes Indian children away from their parents; end of story. The government does not trust us. That's the rest of the story. We are still "The Indian Problem". That's the story in a nutshell.

Part of my father's history is he'd been bequeathed a bunch of land by his grandparents. It was a house, a small island of maybe an acre wide; things like that around the town I grew up in. Then the government gave him to some distant cousins to be fostered. While fostering him they beat him with two by fours and homesteaded his land out from under him. Nice, huh.


(But even so that branch of the family had a strong "witch" named Fanny who would pain her moods and cause the weather to change - so I was told by my father's cousin who was called my aunt. And that so-called aunt also fancied herself a psychic; used to work with the local police and everything.

She used to freak out at the tricks my older brother and I used to do, but that's not important. She was ignorant. Enough said.)

So some abuse my father suffered through that carried down. He just had a fierce temper. He didn't sexually abuse us. Again, sorry to disappoint. He just would get mad and spank us very hard, then spank us again for crying.

There was a couple of times he lost his temper and left my brother weeping softly on the floor. That could be considered abusive, I suppose. But when you people think of abuse, you think of some sort of daily torture with constant bruises.  That wasn't my life.  So I dunno if abuse is the proper term so much as he was rough. And we feared him.

Mom, too... not abusive so much as distant from me. Yes there were times she would not respond to us at all, as if we weren't there. She once told me I was ugly. When my little brother was born, her attitude towards me changed so visibly I resented my little brother a lot. She's different now and doesn't remember any of it, of course. But I have a chipped tooth from one of her slaps still today.

But still on that when I went to school during the freezing winters - yes Florida used to have those with busted pipes and sheets of ice and everything - with shoes that were popping open it wasn't my  mother. It was that we had no money. And no, we didn't get food stamps or some magical tribal check. I've never qualified for food stamps; not when I was a child with my mother, not when I was pregnant with my children, and not when I was a single mother with two small babies in diapers.

No, the sexual abuse happened with an unrelated church man - who was a three time offender but had been allowed his kids back anyway. I was friends with them, and practically lived over there. I was ... maybe 10, 11, or so. I was either over there or my grandmother's house.

 I was also the star witness when he went to court the final time. Not sure why it was me, but yeah. You'd think his daughters would have made better witnesses when it was his oldest daughter who made the call. But these men in suits took me into a room with a long table without my parents, sat me down, and proceeded to ask me very serious adult questions about the situation. I was... maybe... 14? 15? Although it seems to me I was 13: I tend to age revert though.

They didn't ask me for details on what he had done. They just asked one time if he had done it, and I said yes. "I know because I had a dream and woke from it." So then they asked what do you want done with him?

And I answered, "House arrest, counseling. He's a sick man." I was repeating that last part from a counselor who, during the initial interview to see if I needed mental treatment for this, had told me about how the molesters think they're having real sex with you. And that they often don't realize they're abusing you.

That counselor had explained a lot to me that day as if I were some sort of college student, and through it all I was repeating what my inside me was saying. "BE sure and tell them you know it's not your fault it happened." Etc. So I got out of that with a clean bill of mental health, which was a very important thing for some reason. And when the counselor was talking I was thinking, "Liar. That man was training me to have sex with him in the future." Which was obvious: if you'd heard him talk all those years.

So this 4 time offender who had molested his own daughters, me, the neighbor's girls, and a couple of small girls one of the daughters was babysitting, was given house arrest and counseling. To the letter on what I'd said they should do, I might add. =^^=

Go me, empress of everything. Except the Military Graphic Arts department, but that shall change someday. Because SOMEONE who knows what they're doing needs to take over. Some of these posters around here. Day-um.


Through most of my young life I held on to my virginity like some talisman. It was important not to lose it. Young boys came asking point blank for sex, and I turned them down. I've been pushed into bushes, approached, you name it. I skirted all the dangers as I held onto myself; partly because I knew I had a chosen mate, partly because I didn't love those boys, because I didn't want to get pregnant, etc.


There was an inner knowledge that I was an "Untouchable". No one was allowed to tup me in that way; I was exempt for some reason. I told this to a boy once who was asking me to have sex with him. I don't know where I got the idea.

But even today I must recognize that most of my sour sexual experiences are the result of desperation and poor choices that happened after my first marriage ended. Not because of the Program, not because of some dark agenda.

I recognize there probably was some sexual training in there somewhere, I just can't find it. There were times I "dreamed" of demons rubbing my body, exciting me to a sexual frenzy only to leave me unsatisfied. Between the way the other kids treated me at school, the abuse, and the years of knowing I was "Untouchable" I've developed this serious sexual hole in me; I can't feel sex hardly at all. I have a hard time getting into it - I can't just throw myself into it and care the way so many women claim to do. And if my husband doesn't have sex with me I begin to feel ugly and undesirable; my morale takes a serious plunge into the sewer.

I was Untouchable because I was meant for something else. But that's the extent of my knowledge.  Well that’s part of the point of this journal: to help me remember and figure things out.

Big head

So when I was a very small child, before I started school, I kept having these dreams of .. something... sneaking out my bedroom window or something like that. I can't fully remember right now. Back then I loved Hong Kong Phooey and the Pink Panther, so in my waking life there were a lot of burglars wearing that cap they're famous for. I forget what kind of cap it is. I'm fond of 'em too. They're classy. ;-) 

In this one particular dream I'd met on the road in the woods with the others the way I normally do. And it was time for me to come home. So the nice men and lady brought me home. And as I was coming out of it a woman's voice kept saying "Don't open your eyes. Don't open your eyes."

Well, duh. I opened my eyes and looked to my left. On the wall was a huge silhouette: a tiny body and a head that I took for a head with one of those caps on. Naturally I screamed bloody murder, and the parents came running. There was a burglar in the house, I told them. I don't think they believed me.

Grew up with a lot of night fears, though.

Before that when I had a crib I'd wait for the folks to go to bed. As soon as the house was dark and quiet I'd climb out of the crib and go stand at the front door window, waiting. I'd just look out and wait.

And to this day wherever I live, after a while one of the windows will form black smudges along the side from where I'm apparently sleep walking as I wait.  My house in Illinois still has the smudges - at least it had better. The girl staying there for me was told never to wash them off but I'm given to understand she's turned my room into her room so anything can happen. However there's hope. The window in my bedroom is starting to sport the smudges. It's a hard window to get to. I must be really desperate to watch and wait.

Reticulans all must die. One squirt of a good weed killer on the right planet, and our problems are over. ;-)

Seems to me, though, in a mundane sense these events I mention here are the true start of my story. The rest I talked about earlier: it's a story in my head. It may not be real. But these things here, now. They are.

I didn't wake up from a nightmare and scream. I woke up, turned my head, saw something while already wide awake, and screamed.

And I never forgot.

To this day I'm nervous about shadows in the dark.

I want to make note that three days ago I woke up with a big shoe burn on the back of my left ankle. It hurt to the touch and was red; as long as my hand.

And my muscles hurt, too, like I’d done some really super intense work out.

That night before, I’d been trying to stay up and work but was hit with an overwhelming need to sleep. Oh well, I thought. I’ve been staying up all day so it’s only natural to want to sleep at night. So I went to sleep.

And woke up early the next day: usually a sign that I’ve been somewhere.

But who can say. I wake up with weird spots like that all of the time.

I think if that is gonna keep happening, they should give me an hour and make me work out. I’m flabby and out of shape. I mean, there should be SOME benefits to this shit. Seriously.

And then ....

Before bed I rewatched an old lecture by Dr. Karla Turner. I firmly believe in her philosophy, and she was very good at uncovering information and asking questions no one else seems to want to approach. She had a good way of putting things, too, that kept you alert through her lectures. So I rewatched to refresh my memory, and my husband watched with me even though he truly couldn't care less one way or the other.

In the middle of the night I woke up with that invaded feeling you get when you're either being picked up or dropped off. It didn't feel like I had been asleep for more than an hour. I turned my head to look to my right and saw the little 3 foot tall black shadow. As my eyes adjusted, I felt a realization in the room that I could see it. And the black lump in the semi-dark winked out of sight.

I sat up. My husband mumbled, "Where are you going?"

"There's something in the room with us," I said. Yes, I was a little afraid. I hate nights like that. You'd think after a literal lifetime of it, you'd get used to it. But I guess I never will.

My husband lay in bed still as stone, unresponsive. After a moment I was able to go back to sleep again. When I mentioned the event to my husband tonight, he was noncommittal about the affair. I don't believe he'll ever take this matter as seriously as it should be taken.

I did wonder if Dr. Turner's lecture hadn't made me imagine the whole thing.

The session with Dorica Manu was hard to do, and that's a fact. I don't feel like going through the entire affair: most of it was keeping up the visualization of a talk show host room with a door and a mirror. Mirrors are damn hard to visualize because, to me, they're portals. Which means if I make one in my head, I'm making things that go with it. But I did this in order to call forth my soul, then spirit, then mind.

Interestingly, the technique we did - which is supposed to help me mold back into a single being with my memories intact - is very close to the technique I've been doing off and on while working out on the treadmill or taking a walk for a couple of years now. It's very effective. So I let Miss Manu guide me along and tried not to skip ahead. I tried to be patient when she didn't agree with something one of my inner parts said. I figure: she's been doing this with a lot of people and knows what she's doing.

My soul wouldn't come to the session, although I called with all my might. When she did show up, she was very misshapen and ugly. She was as tall as a building with knobs under her skin like huge calcium deposits or witch carbuncles. Her hair was stringy, and she wore Xena's outfit from that old show.

I won't come because I'm UGLY, she said - and that summed up my entire life. I'd been told I was ugly by everyone at school for 12 years. I was told that by my own mother, by my cousins, my mother's sister, random people at the mall. Either I'm strikingly beautiful or I'm strikingly ugly. Only once was I ever considered plain, and the man who called me that meant it to abuse and hurt so I will never know if he told the truth. He probably lied.

 Calling my spirit was more difficult. What I finally got was a mute pale and beautiful version of me. She wore flowing pale robes and had white hair. At some point Dorica had said something about my body or... something... but whatever the statement, my spirit's response was to point out that we trade bodies like snails to a shell. Dorica did not agree with it - and at this stage who can say which is which?

The third was the hardest: she wanted my mind. All of the dozens and dozens of spirits who'd stood outside the room waiting for their turn laughed. They were ALL my mind, and that was indeed funny. This was something else Dorica didn't seem to get quite - and as I ushered everyone into this room I'd created I wondered if it was because there's something else she knows that I don't or because she's never worked with a butterfly before?

We managed to get a few to merge, and they turned into a woman of fire. The woman then proceeded to make it a point to stand practically on top of me - and that's when I could hear what was going on in the room better. I couldn't before: I'm not clairaudient. I noticed the change, but I said nothing. I wasn't sure how the observation would be received.

When it was over, Dorica said there was more work to be done and mentioned she didn't quite believe the matter of the soul - cut herself off before she could finish. And I was left wondering: so... does she believe aliens made all that up I just went through, or that I made it up, that I'm lying to myself, what?

And, because the instinct is deep inside of me, I wondered what I had to say to convince her I was telling the truth so we could carry on and get the job done. Or at least to make her happy so we could do more. I didn't go for it, of course.

It's just too early to say anything one way or the other. But I know she's genuinely trying to help me - without shoving religion down my throat.