Brightly Lit Rubix

I've only heard from Dorica one more time since my session with her. She emailed me to ask when was another good time. I told her that since I work at home my times are very flexible. What was good for her? And that was that.

Well, she thought I was lying to myself anyway: slipped up and said so. So this is to be expected. You move on. You help yourself the way you've always done. You hope your one-sided answers aren't lies.

While listening to the audio tape for American Conspiracies by Jessie Ventura, I got to a part where he mentions how he was approached by another MKultra subject. This person, Ventura said, claims to have been picked because of his Native American ancestry. I was driving the car at the time, so all I could do was shake my head and mutter in disagreement while my husband smiled at me in amusement.

Abductees aren't chosen because they're Dakota or Cherokee or some other bullshit reason like that. If that were the case, only Americans would get picked up. Military abductees are no exception. That sort of racism does not happen in the program.

It's a handy distraction, though. This sort of lie works very well and all levels of the "great secret world" use it to keep the rest of us in control. "You're special. You shall be our prophet. You have a message to tell the world," distracts the willing subject to the point they give up everything to follow this directive they've been handed. They get so full of themselves in being special they forget the power of unity against the menace. They fight to get more attention from being special to the point they even undermine what another is doing. The spotlight is everything.

I have to wonder: back in the days, just a generation ago, when being Red was even worse than being Black in our society, how many people would have been told they'd been chosen for this because they were Red? Not many if at all, I'm willing to bet you.

Because nowadays being Red is the same as saying "I'm born with innate natural powers of psychic Mother Nature prowess." And the ignorant think it without trying. The stereotype is there, seeped into our bones through television and radio. And we, the stupid idiots, fall for it again and again. And again.

I was not picked for this program because I'm Native American. The possibility does exist that I was picked because my father very briefly was tested and used during the origins of the psychic programs years ago. There are connections there. Most likely, from what I've gathered, I was picked up because I was already an abductee.

I was told by a researcher - a rather zealous one who later decided me and my friend were going to psychically attack her through the squirrels in her front yard - that there are program workers who are trained to read auras. When the find someone not in the program that has the holes in their aura that mean they are victims of alien involvement, they tag that person to be picked up. That's how you get pulled in. Or at least it's one way.

It's also the way that makes the most sense. There are countless people who are both abductees and later on MILABS. Well, I suppose they can be counted. I just don't prefer to make an attempt to count that high. I don't have the time.

Well, I could tell you these things forever and I suspect no one is ever going to listen. So that's that.

The other morning I was in that between state you often find yourself. For me, my entire life, it's the place where I ponder the meaning of things... or listen to my other selves talk to me or to each other. It's not quite a dream state; more like a large room where we can visit.

There's one person in particular: I don't know her name. She looks just like me - as many of them do - but she's eternally locked in a younger more daring sense of self. I wasn't entirely there, because I was waking up, so my view of her was fuzzy and halfway out.

She brought out a box and used our mental link to transmit the knowledge that what she held was how to unlock my mind. It worked similarly to a Rubix Cube: if you turned it one way, it would flash one color. If you turned it in a different sequence, it would flash another color. She turned it to demonstrate and it flashed red.  The biggest deal, she communicated without speaking, was if you turned it in a particular different sequence, my mind would be opened and the box would flash a rainbow of beautiful colors. She began to demonstrate.

I realized she'd shown me this before, when I was much younger. Perhaps I was 14 at the time. But I communicated back to her a mental flash that translates to, "Oh! I remember this! You've shown me this before! Wow, I haven't thought of this in over 20 years!"

Yes, she communicated back to me. And she started telling me again what the box was for from scratch. We got to the part where the box flashed red and I fully came awake.

I told this to my husband and he remarked that it sounded an awful lot like the boxes from the Pinhead movies.

"I won't watch those movies for many reasons," I told him.  I have already been warned what's in those things. Nope. No horror Pinhead movies for me, thank you.

If no one will help you, help yourself. Screw the rest.

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.