Truthspoon


Insider info and illuminati analysis...


...from the man they just can't recruit.

Thursday, 18 May 2017

A Reader's Poem.


The Everything Christ by Tenderfoot-In-Truth


Why is is that everybody seems to be sleeping awake? 
What other ways do we have?
Existence we have created,
For the survival of this very cheap loneliness.

Fulfilling!
We need something more, 
Something exuberant, 
Something great.

I wait for that day,
I can't understand the greatness of God 
I just dream 
Those in Christ will be glorified

Victorious, powerful, sinless,
Together with Christ 
Judging Together with Christ 
Ruling Together with Christ 
Without a single wrinkle.

Of the rubber of water, robbers vanished into the night 
Time meaningless 
Hours forgotten 
Seconds, minute ripples 
What is His love? 
What made me worth it?

A single breath 
For Him to come down and save me 
A worthless piece of dust and yet 
The breath was worth it all 
It was worth  
Everything

Livened, strengthened, and permitted 
Saved, determined, routed 
A single breath 
Upheld, predestined, secured 
Enamored, attracted, envisioned 
A greater I 
For the glory of the only One

The gracefully impartial Lord even in all the respects seeming none the kindest 
For the glory of the only 
The absolutely and indisputably, the irrevocably and unfathomably Great One 
The One great and just God 
Because I am sick of the alternative 
Satan tailored for me to wear 
And I am sick of the reflection of perfection 
I can no longer even kid myself with a clearance sale
Because the suit I wear is a custom-made clown costume 
Unsuspecting me 
Oh, silly, unsuspecting me!

I have given you the key 
Behind the veneer 
Behind the smile, behind the torment 
Behind the pride, behind the heartache 
Behind wickedness 
I ask are you done? 
Christ asks you are you done? 
Get in! 
Rush to claw to grab to climb to drive!

Never to receive rags of fine linen 
Come in now, immediately, and open! 
Time will pour out in a gust of wind that falls down a trail to nowhere 
And you will be eternally indistinguishable in a pool of darkness 
Returned to your master and 
For the wedding occasion

Yourself to blame you for mediocrity 
Behold something other than self-importance! 
You do not slam your pom-poms on the silent show 
Don't you do that 
The minuscule, mangled dance 
That you do not even qualify as 
Mediocre! 

Apparently, for the mediocre qualifier you have yourself 
Without Christ to blame

Under the place hidden 
Because, oh, with Christ, with the very thing of the everything Christ 
Nothing, yes, nothing, nothing at all! 

To blame you have yourself for 
Why, with the everything Christ 
You do not blame yourself 
You blame a blameless one! 
 And thus is swept the dust that collects 
And finally it is rid with, good riddance! 
In good sound and mind

In the everything Christ 
To bend the flaw aright 
Thank God, you can actually say good riddance! 
You can say good riddance! 
God in Christ bent the flaw aright

God bent the flaw aright.

Tuesday, 11 April 2017

The Adventures of Jesus Christ and the Sword of Conflict.





When Jesus said ‘I did not come to bring peace but a sword’ he was telling the world that conflict is the price of truth. That the world would take up arms against him, his people and his message. We see this culminating in the events of the last century and this century. The Earth has now become a battleground, and it is precisely because this world is not the abode of truth and the resultant turmoil we see is the battle between good and evil, between the truth and lies, which will never settle into each other to develop into harmony, ying can never resolve into yang in harmony, but only to conflict, continual and all consuming. Good and evil are mutually exclusive, ‘the light shines in the darkness and the darkness comprehendeth it not.”



We are on the verge of a huge world war which has been carefully arranged, just as the previous two world wars were carefully tended and grown by the international bankers who ensured that Nazi German had all the funding she required to build up her colossal war machine. The same agents also funded the Soviet Union which was bankrupt and impoverished after her disastrous role in world war one and the 1917 revolution, and millions of dollars of funds were made available to ensure that Stalin’s radical five year plans of industrialization and mechanization, bore the fruit of creating a suitably armed belligerent to aid in the destruction of the Christian world.
 


And now we live in a world which is on the verge of being torn into pieces again. Yet this time who knows what will remain once the dust and bombs have settled. The first world war left shattered churches in broken towns in Northern France, churned up fields, and a mortal moral wound in the heart of the Christian world from which it has never recovered. The great unspoken thought was that if a Christian people could murder each other on an industrial scale with all the genius of their science turned to making machines and substances designed to rip up and ruin human bodies, then maybe the Christian programme hasn’t worked.

The second world war was merely the end of the long 1918 ceasefire and again all of the malicious genius of science after being given many long years of apparent peace to perfect the art of murder, used its genius to murder on a mass scale, culminating in the nuclear destruction of two Japanese cities. 



The Dominoes, Ready to Fall, All Lined-Up by the Hidden Hand.

And now, as of the time of writing and indeed, perhaps for about the past five years, we seem to have entered a final phase for the civilized world, a phase where all the dominoes are now in place, conveniently aligned, entwined and positioned so that the right pleasure applied to the right domino, will set all the pieces tumbling upon each other. While one group remains aloof from the cascading chaos: those who push the domino. They get to observe and watch their handiwork from a vantage point of perfect safety. They are not in amongst the dominoes, they will not fight, or be bombed, except those pawn sacrifices from their group they have decided to use for such a purpose to further their goals and they, like the banker, always win. 

But the true creators of war and conflict are above and beyond the chaos they create. They are the ones who have worked so hard to put all the dominoes in position in order that they might fall all the better, that the least pressure be enough to totally flatten the whole world.

This is because the group setting up the dominoes and preparing to push them all over is at war with Christ and has been trying to kill and persecute Christians and Christian civilisation from the first day of their appearance on Earth, just as they persecuted and had Jesus Christ himself murdered. It is the same people dragging the world to war as those who killed Christ.

We live in a world dominated by the sword. Christ brought the truth to the world for the first time. We now have the word of God and the choice to listen to his voice through the ministry of Jesus, or to ignore that message. 


Unfortunately even the existence of that choice and the presence of the truth of the presence of God, is too much for some people to bear, and they have made it their role, to do what they can to destroy the presence of God and all knowledge of God’s word, even if it means destroying the Earth and all its people.

In the next world there is the eternal turmoil of judgement, which means the transmutation of souls to the next dimension, either into the light, where ‘the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their father’ or ‘into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels.’

It is perhaps for this reason, to tackle this potentially inconvenient truth about this world being a crossroads into the next world and our inclinations, inner desires and actions determining which path we take, that the scientific and media consensus is that the next world doesn’t exist and that this world is not in any sense a crossroads but a cul de sac.


If we can imagine that in the next world our physical body no longer exists, and all we are is the inner being, then all superficial charm and outward personality, have no value and no substance and all that would be left would be the inner desires and inclinations, whatever they may be.


It is often the case that people erect a façade and construct a ‘personality’ with which they negotiate with the physical world.
This personality often bears a vast difference between the inner reality of the person and the outward projection so carefully crafted.
  


Unfortunately superficial charm and the crafted personality façade are highly prized on this planet and in many fields are indispensable to success and the ability to rise to a position of controlling influence. 
Such people by their nature and ability to maintain a steady and reliable personality façade at any time, become highly successful in the media and entertainment and from there, they are able to directly exert a controlling cultural influence over other people.

These cultural figures become mental and cognitive leaders for the people under their influence and their beliefs and values soon become shared by the greater population who no longer think for themselves but absorb the ideas and suggestions of their cultural leaders, whose ideas and beliefs they adopt, under the influence of their superficial charm and their constructed personality.

One often finds the most vociferous voices in the media and science extolling atheism, are those very people who might have something to feel guilty about. For instance both Stephen Fry and Richard Dawkins are atheists who seem to have a very ambiguous position on paedophilia. And so to negate any sense of judgement and to evade the idea that they may be responsible for some immorality they conveniently relegate all such ideas of morality, responsibility, judgement, and even of good and evil itself, to non-existence.

In this way, atheism is a new kind of deception and a very easy way for evil people, or at least, people who have committed some evil, to feel that they can elude any consequences. Of course, the consequences cannot be avoided because you may think you can rewrite the rules of reality, but no doubt such thinking is convenient for these people during their earthly lives, but such thinking often creates attendant problems such as depression, bi-polar disorder, drug abuse and alcoholism, because these people are not dealing with truth and are willfully evading it, the result is discord, depression and a life of confusion where they search for meaning which they have willfully obliterated.

Only Jesus can save such people, but they are so oppressed by their own guilt and that attendant guilt is used to construct the artifice of their atheism, that they have too much personally invested to abandon it to Jesus, besides, such people also, much to their detriment, have built up such a level of adulation, professional respect and kudos that they probably start to believe their own bullshit, since everyone else seems to. It must be a very difficult temptation to resist, to join the mass of the public and believe in the consensual illusion about the grandeur of your own public image.

These are the values stitched into the culture and the people exposed to that culture through the media. The only way to be mentally free from the conditioning is to leave the country and spend several years in an alternative culture, preferably one which has some value and appeal to you, in order to break the conditioning of ones native culture and learn to transcend such conceited television boobies as Stephen Fry. Once one has removed oneself to a suitable vantage point, perhaps just across the English Channel, or some thousands of miles away near the Saharan desert, such people reveal themselves to be nothing but paltry and conceited fools, and merely local phenomena, having nothing of the real wisdom of universality which one can only learn and acquire through extensive travel.

There are other ways to ensure one is not taken-in by the deadly nefarious combination of the TV alpha trance and the charming air of wit and authority which these media demagogues use to spread their own particular values, or lack of them, but they most certainly involve throwing away the television and disdaining any form of mainstream entertainment, but it is very difficult for anyone to truly live in a vacuum within a society, such people soon become seen as eccentrics, or they just don't seem to fit in with other people; not sharing cultural and social cues which people use to build and maintain friendships.

Indeed there was much work undertaken by the Conservative government of the early nineties to expressly ensure that no one had the opportunity to access any alternative lifestyle by the express use of law to shut down alternative ways of living such as that hitherto enjoyed by the travelling community. Such people were a direct threat to the cultural dominance now enjoyed by ‘their’ media and now we all obediently go to work and come home to switch on our TV sets to receive our evening dose of mind and thought control, and cultural conditioning. What’s more we pay a license fee for the privilege, it is all rather too absurd and such absurdities only become apparent once one has achieved the level of ‘perspective’ which travel, free thinking, and throwing away your TV, will bring.

Had Jesus never had his ministry and had his message never advanced like a righteous tempest through the Roman Empire the world would probably be at a kind of peace right now. The kind of peace where there is no conflict and no right and wrong. Where every child must submit to a sexual initiation in midnight wood with a strange man dressed up as a goat. The kind of world where a slave class made up of half of the world would exist, who would be literally owned by the local aristocracy and forced to wear chains around their feet. Conflict is a sign that there's still something left to fight for and the turmoil of this world shows us that they are still waging war on us because we are not yet completely under their control.

Conflict only comes because there is dispute but imagine a world, like that of the Greeks or Romans, were there was no such strongly sense of entrenched morality which Christianity has brought.

No idea of freedom, no idea of personal rights. Where a child for instance, can be sexually abused by an older man, not only with impunity but as a cultural expectation. Where madness and hysteria were part not only of the religious life and spiritual rites, but often also fully expressed in the most powerful rulers of the land, men who ruled a huge empire spanning thousands of miles and scores of languages and cultures, were completely mad.

Some writers have posited something called ‘Roman Emperor’ syndrome and explained the madness of several of the most famous Roman Emperors as a direct result of being emperor, that absolute power corrupts absolutely and that few men can remain sane given enough power. But what if somehow the Roman Emperors were offered the same deal that Jesus was offered, dominion over the kingdoms of the land if only he bowed to Satan, except that those who became Emperors were those who unlike Jesus, had accepted Satan's offer.

Perhaps Jesus too could have been something resembling a Roman Emperor, since one man is much like another, there seems to me to be little particularly remarkable about the type of men who rise to positions of great power, except for symptoms of madness and sometimes, something like a messianic zeal.

The Messiah who said YES to Satan.

Hitler himself, saw himself in Messianic terms, and he too was once nothing but a second rate painter (who seemed to have a problem mastering perspective), an occasional homosexual and later, injured army corporal. But someone or something singled him out for greatness and temporary dominion. Something made a deal with him which he accepted.


Hitler: A slight problem of perspective. 

What happened to Jesus is a perfect representation of the true nature of our world. It is a world which does not want to know or hear the truth. It is a world ruled by Satan and the easy self deception of people who will do the myriad small crimes required to maintain his dark kingdom on Earth, if only for a quiet comfortable life. But the world has been judged and found wanting and Jesus, the only righteous man to ever walk the Earth, was rejected by the Earth itself.

“Now is the judgement of this world, now shall the ruler of this world be cast out; and I, when I am lifted up from the Earth, will draw all men to myself.”

We as a species, in the majority, seem to have this fatal flaw in our psychological makeup. This is only to apparent by the fact that people still engage with modern democracy, still work their jobs, pay their taxes and have children, when it is a known fact that politicians lie to us. We vote for them again and again, as long as their lies are not too obvious and are relatively well dissimulated. The populace will vote for a liar, but not for an obvious one which would reflect badly on their own confidence in him or her.

But we love lies and deception, fraud and fakery, because it is easier to believe in a lie and know it’s a lie, than to face the truth and risk being exposed by its light.
And so humanity has learned to advance forward under the comforting shadow of reassuring lies they have learned to live with. The sure knowledge that whoever they vote into power will just continue the steady decline we all know has set-in, is preferable to being exposed to their own power and ability to take the reins of power and control their own destinies. 

Most people don’t want that because they just wouldn’t know where to begin. Being told what to do and how to exist on planet Earth, even under a million obvious contradictions and blatant injustices, allows most people to avoid the sight of total reality, because humanity has little to no knowledge of any kind of absolute reality or total truth and is in no means equipped to operate under these parameters. Some people however are and they attempt to do so. And as Bill Hicks pointed out, we tend to kill those people, not only because they threaten the institutions and power structures in place, but also because they make the general populace feel mentally uncomfortable, since dealing with the truth suddenly after being habituated to the comforting delusion of falsehood is tantamount to putting people in a forced stress position.

Few people will tolerate such discomfort for long and will rise up as one to remove the source of their torment. And so what happened to Jesus wasn’t a particular indictment against the Jewish people in particular, but an indictment perhaps, of any people, when faced with a truth which threatens their whole way of life and their continued ability to maintain that way of life. Jesus, despite being greeted and acclaimed by crowds sometimes numbering in the thousands, was still at the mercy of people’s general wish to follow the path of least resistance.

However the Jews it seems have taken it upon themselves to wage a two thousand year war on their own Messiah and the savior of humanity. The man who told the truth and for that, he had to die. Traditionally civilisations have always felt more comfortable creating their own Gods and when given a vision of God which doesn’t accord with the vision of their creation, they reject it. The Gods which human have created have tended to be brutal, jealous, destructive and capricious figures. Figures which judged humanity but which gave the comfort of exhibiting characteristics understandable to human nature. For thousands of years man created God in his own image, while writing holy books which deny the fact completely and pretend that God created man in his image.

The truth which arrived with Jesus’ ministry was not that God had created man in his image, but more that man had lost sight of God entirely, and what was worse was that the image of God man had created was almost entirely erroneous. Mankind had completely misunderstood the nature of God. It is mankind that feels the need to create rules and order and control other people, not God and this was why Jesus was at pains to say ‘that the Sabbath was made for man and not man for the Sabbath.’

The God mankind had made celebrated war and massacre, of men, women and children alike. Whether the God or Gods of the Ancient Egyptians, the Greeks, The Germanic people, or the Jews. It is fair to say that none of these people had ever properly glimpsed the true nature of God, and if they did, then they scarcely publicized the fact.

The Buddha came close, but the impersonal nature of the universe from Buddha’s vision and his story of pain and suffering being the root of existence, seems to miss the flavor of the truth, and might be the kind of conclusions, a man who, once emerging from a strictly controlled environment of harmony and peace, and to leave that artificial illusory environment to see the real world for the first time and be suddenly struck with the brute force of those new impressions and the shattering of old lies and old illusions, which of course is precisely the story we are told about the Buddha. That he was a young prince, cossetted in his palace with the royal household in an artificial paradise beyond which he knew nothing else. Almost like the character from a Night Shyamalan film. The sudden loss of any sense of reality may indeed create the lasting impression that all is illusion indeed.

Jesus is the way the truth and the life and our suffering world of turmoil is because we are living in a spiritual war-zone. But the fact that they are still fighting to subjugate and control us, shows that we are still free and above all, we are free to find the truth of Jesus, but they have made the way very narrow indeed. Throwing away the TV might be the first step to accessing his Kingdom.


Thursday, 6 April 2017

The Crata Repoa and Plato's Haunted-House Funfair Adventure.




The Crata Repoa, written by Karl Fredderich Von Koppen and Johann Wilhelm Bernhard claims to detail the initiatory practices of the ancient Egyptians. Whether there is any truth as to whether this book really did detail the initiatory practices of the Ancient Egyptians must remain moot, however it is far more likely that it reflects more the general initiatory practices of the Freemasons who claim ancestry as far back as Ancient Egypt. 

This book’s purpose was to connect Freemasonry to Ancient Egypt for the purposes of providing a hitherto secret organization whose roots stretch back to Kabbalah practicing 11th Century Jews and Ismaili Hashashin, revealing itself to its particular public of royals, wealthy parvenus, and agitated revolutionaries, a sense of continuity, pedigree and even moral authority to their order. 




The cover image for the 18th Century French translation of the original German manuscript shows an image which might be familiar to fans of 21st Century pop music. 



It is doubtful that the Crata Repoa has any authenticity and is little more than an 18th century fantasy. Its descriptions of the Ancient Egyptian initiate being given a sword and a shield has rather too much of Teutonic Germanic romanticism or a hint of Spartan military to reflect the reality of the mystical purity of Ancient Egypt. Still, the descriptions are interesting in that they evoke what kind of fantasies might be enacted in the Masonic Lodge and the kinds of theatricalities which probably took place in the mysteries of Ancient Greece, with its initiations which have become the stuff of myth and legend with its labyrinths and descriptions of supernatural beasts. 

The first degree, strangely named ‘Christphoris’ or ‘Chris’ I suppose to his friends, describes the initiate being forgotten and left to his anger for 18 months, when he is suddenly taken up and delivered into a labyrinth and assailed by agents with terrifying masks and flaming torches in their hands, while screaming the word ‘Panis’ which again makes me think of the Greek mysteries and the cult of Pan, from which we have the word Panic, and initiations into his mysteries were probably a cross between The Skull and Bones society and a Club 18-30 holiday. 

The initiate tries to battle the hordes but is overpowered by the sheer number, after which he is blindfolded and a cord put around a neck like a yoke, as result of which he is brought to the ground. This is surely more an echo of the activity of the German Masonic lodge or even the Bavarian Illuminati than having anything of remote antiquity in it. After which there are more screams. He is then taken into the presence of a bright light in a richly decorated room and given a drugged beverage which he must empty to the dregs. 

He is then ordered by a King to go into a room nearby and chop the head off a person who is found there. When he gets into the room he finds a beautiful woman, what is apparently a puppet made of skins and inflated cushions, so well made it appears to be alive. He removes the head of the puppet or it may even be a living woman, who really knows with these people, and presents it to the king. 

He is then told that this is the head of the Gorgon (which symbolically represents his own ego and sense of self). In this story it is the Gorgon who is the wife of Typhon (Set) who was responsible for the death of Osiris. 

In the same volume I found a text called ‘The Initiation of Plato’ apparently written or compiled or who knows what, signed by Marconis de Negre. Jacques-Etienne Marconis de Negre was a Freemason born in 1795 and was the founder of the French rite of Memphis, an Egyptian rite of ‘invisible’ Freemasonry, or at least he put his name to it. 

On a similar level of banal idiocy is the Masonic tale of the Initiation of Plato. I am extremely surprised by this text. Surprised that the ancient mysterious initiation of Plato seemed to resemble a cross between a scene from an Indiana Jones movie and a ride on the fun fair ghost train. It is possible that the account in the text is entirely fabricated, in which case I am surprised that Manly P Hall was taken in by it, if indeed the account is accurate, then I am surprised by the nature of the ancient mysteries and how paltry they were and seemingly wholly lacking in any supernatural element which cannot be managed by men in funny costumes. 

Apparently Plato starts by entering a narrow path in a deep cave, which may be supposed to be the Great pyramid since his initiation is said to have taken place in Egypt. Though Ancient Egypt had no shortage of narrow paths and deep caves of various sorts so the initiation could have taken place anywhere, however there is a romantic notion that the initiation took place in the Great Pyramid and for such a personage as esteemed as Plato, no other venue would appear worthy. 

Now there is a possibility that the initiation took place as described, within the various complexes of the Giza plateau, but one would hope at least for decency’s sake that the mysterious majesty of the ruins of ancient Egypt which evoke such awe and evocative contemplation of time of grandeur and majesty which we can scarcely comprehend, were not so sullied as to have been the venue of what seems to be little more than some kind of dungeons and dragons fun-fair adventure game. 

Apart from looking deep within the Giza plateau for the much vaunted hall of records of the ages maybe they might one day also find a hall of mirrors, and a fossilized freak show. At least if the account is anything to go by. 

It is suggestive of the kind of activity which day trippers to Blackpool might have experienced in the heydays of the 50’s holiday seasons and the myriad entertainments devised for the working classes for a couple of old pennies. 

To continue the account, Plato moved a metal grill in order to enter another chamber, which closed after him. This was the cue for poor Plato to be assailed by the cast of the fun-fair haunted house and no sooner had he entered a second door, and with his flaming torch sees winged dragons, horrible scorpions, and even larvae. 

Then his light went out and he is plunged into darkness. Then a voice called down to Plato to ask him if he was scared yet, and Plato bravely said no. Shadows, scorpions and even larvae didn’t shake Plato, he wasn’t the type of chap to scare easily. He continued on his path and then saw a beautiful temple lit by lamps and a voice lectured him on some nebulous banalities about how the universal cause acts to one end by different laws, and how the whole world of nature and matter presses towards a common goal toward the general good. 

There can be no doubt that the text known as the Initiation of Plato is a fanciful recreation informed by the rituals and focus towards materialism and Neo Platonism of the 18th Century. There appears to be of little of interest in the dialogue between Plato and the unknown locutor of the mysteries, except the imparting of the idea that genius is born of the immortal spirit and is facet of the soul, and that divinity is the source of creative genius, and to become an angel one has to cease to be a man. 

The voice then asks him if he wants to go back, but our brave hero replies no, he is not afraid. He wasn’t shaken by larvae, nor was he frightened by interminably pretentious new-age discourse. So he continued until he came to a burning furnace which he could cross only by walking along a narrow metal grill, at then end of which apparently was a torrent of water which he could only cross by swimming. So basically it was a little bit like It’s a Knockout and We Are The Champions, if anyone remembers that show.

And the text rather feebly describes this as a double peril, a shuffle along a narrow metal causeway may be somewhat perilous but swimming? Perhaps swimming wasn’t really a thing back then, who knows, and perhaps one only experienced the idea of crossing water while physically moving parts of your body during secret ancient initiations. Maybe swimming itself is one of the great revelatory mysteries of the ancient world.

But the text tells us that the worse is yet to come. A stairway of a few steps led to a door of ivory, Plato crossed the threshold only to find the floor crumble under him, just like in the movies. After which huge metal wheels moved with great speed being pulled by great chains, again, just like in the movies. Then the neophyte is taken by a powerful arm and taken to a ruined chapel where fallen columns everywhere block his progress. 



A man with a severe countenance is sat at a table lit by a lamp who then instructs Plato to rummage amongst a bunch of ancient tombs full of dust and delivers a dreary discourse on how fleeting life is and how sad it is to be dead. Hardly the discourse of an enlightened spiritual master, much more likely the kind of sad and dreary materialistic nonsense which comes from our age and our learned fear of death. This is yet another reason to suppose that this text is in no way an authentically ancient account but something dreamed up in the 18th Century as it has all the materialistic and atheistic baggage of that age, when people abandoned the mysteries of spirit for the sureties of science, and we entered our present spiritual dark-age with its world wars and weekly atrocities delivered fresh to a work-sodden half living mass of humans who spend most of their time on the treadmill of doing and have forgotten their being. 

After which Plato is presented with a golden horn, and yet more wise old people take their cues in the scene and start yet more interminable dialogue about sublime architects of the universe, force, power beauty and proportion. Could there be any hell worse than discovering that God was indeed an architect and was fussily poring over blueprints and dangling plumb lines while peering disinterestedly at humanity over his eye-glasses? Only the Masons in their peculiar sado-masochism could invent such an appallingly degraded vision of God. How about going one further and saying God works for the council, or is the chair of the Chamber of Commerce? 

The three old men continue and slip into something like school masters, delivering lectures on topics as diverse as the elliptical nature of the orbit of the planets around the sun as well as the moons of Jupiter. The moons of Jupiter were first observed by Galileo in the 17th Century and prove beyond doubt the dubious nature of this account. 

It is particularly interesting that this account was written by a very high level French Freemason who is one of the major figureheads of European Esoteric Freemasonry which went on to influence American Freemasonry. Since he was so able and willing to pass fantasy fictions of as secret historical esoteria how much more of Freemasonry is nothing but fanciful deception and, to be blunt, bullshit. 

Plato’s haunted house fun-fair adventure culminates, as with the previous Ancient Egyptian Initiation, with Plato being ordered to decapitate what the text says is a puppet made so cunningly of skin and inflated bladders, so as to appear lifelike. This is highly suggestive and disturbing. What would be the purpose behind decapitating what appears to be a human body if it were just a cunningly designed dummy? Aside from the suggestion that the head represents ego, what purpose would removing the head from a puppet’s body serve, particularly since it seems to be the culmination of what prior to this has after all, only been, old men reading university lectures by flickering candle light and the odd guy wearing a scary mask. 



The Initiation only really makes sense as being a profound, disturbing and transformative ceremony, about which the initiate is sworn to secrecy, if the murder were in fact real or at the very least, the initiate was led to believe it was. But how does one make skin and inflated pigs bladders appear lifelike? Such an appearance would most likely make a mockery of the ceremony in the initiate's eyes and reduce what already seems a ghost train farce to a pantomime. What ethical scruple would there be to prevent the architects of the mysteries from using a real person, likely someone who was drugged and would not be missed? Someone from the streets or even from another district. 

We can assume that the authors of the mysteries are the very people who rule our world and have always done so, have they ever shied away from bloodletting? Have they ever shown themselves unwilling to commit atrocities and butcher people? Of course not, history is an endless red sea of blood and the greater the human development the better the means the rulers of the world have to extract more and more blood and kill more and more people. In fact to an outside observer from a benign and civilized race from a distant star, they might observe that this seems to be the most pronounced activity and chief legacy of this human race. Bloodletting on an industrial scale. 

For this reason I am ready to assume that the ancient mysteries and Freemasonry did and does in fact involve the murder of an unfortunate victim. This could have been useful as a way in which the cults removed their enemies, while simultaneously being a test of the initiate's devotion to the cause and additionally, making him complicit in the crime and forever knitted to the order by his crime and the possible use of threats of blackmail of the unmasking of his crime, since it was he and he alone who committed the deed, despite doing it under instruction. This is exactly how the modern black street gang initiations unfold. In fact the initiate may well be told that the figure is a dummy and that the verisimilitude to a living person is all the skill of the art of the mystery school. 

But it is clear that the possibility of using a living victim renders so many more useful possibilities to the group and knowing how easily states and religions spill blood there is no reason to assume that a secret organization which is the very essence and distillation of the power of the state political group and the state religion, would hold back under cover of darkness. It is far more likely that here they would abandon themselves to every excess they consider useful to their aims. Furthermore, and perhaps even more crucially might be the working on the mind of the initiate of his guilt at having murdered someone in cold blood for no motive.

My point behind all this is that until very recent times, Freemasonry was nothing but a society dealing with ridiculous mythological enactments and fancy dress costumes, with the possible hint of danger with some kind of ritual murder which may or may not be anything worse than bursting a pig's bladder made to resemble a human head.

However what we have within Freemasonry now is of a very different complexion to those early fools. It was probably someone like Aleister Crowley who decided that the rituals were so much more effective and the Gods all the better invoked if real murders took place...

Friday, 31 March 2017

The Delusion of Electronic Harassment!


The Ordeal of Evelyn Waugh.

In 1957 Evelyn Waugh published a novella The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold, In it he details his experience of the descent into drug induced psychosis and madness which takes place whilst on-board a long boat journey to Ceylon which he takes to return to health and break an apparently long period of writer’s block.

The following is an account from Wikipedia for the sake of convenience:

Early in 1954, Waugh's doctors, concerned by his physical deterioration, advised a change of scene. On 29 January, he took a ship bound for Ceylon, hoping that he would be able to finish his novel. Within a few days, he was writing home complaining of "other passengers whispering about me" and of hearing voices, including that of his recent BBC interlocutor, Stephen Black. He left the ship in Egypt and flew on to Colombo, but, he wrote to Laura, the voices followed him.[146] Alarmed, Laura sought help from her friend, Frances Donaldson, whose husband agreed to fly out to Ceylon and bring Waugh home. In fact, Waugh made his own way back, now believing that he was being possessed by devils. A brief medical examination indicated that Waugh was suffering from bromide poisoning from his drugs regimen. When his medication was changed, the voices and the other hallucinations quickly disappeared.[147] Waugh was delighted, informing all of his friends that he had been mad: "Clean off my onion!". The experience was fictionalised a few years later, in The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold (1957).[148]

The story can be read here, and I can strongly recommend it. It isn’t too long and it gives a fascinating first hand account
 of the kind of thing those suffering from electronic harassment report and we can use this text which is composed in a methodical manner, as a valuable resource to identify the purpose and nature of these auditory hallucinations.

What is striking is the apparent intelligence behind these voices and the fact that they seem to operate from a different consciousness to that of Waugh’s own. It is therefore my belief that Waugh inadvertently, due to the use of several hypnotic and sedative drugs in combination, literally established contact with another non corporeal form of consciousness, commonly these are termed ‘demons’ due to their antagonism to human beings.

At this point in his life Evelyn Waugh had become very unhealthy and was experiencing problems sleeping and had become largely dependent on various prescribed chemicals. We are told that the character of Pinfold, as well as being prescribed some unidentified grey pills, was also taking chloral and bromide of potassium as a sedative and aid to sleep.


In order to discover more about these particular drugs. I did a rudimentary Google search and found the following from Daily Alta California dated Monday 22nd December 1884. This is period of time which significantly predates Waugh’s/Pinfold’s experiences, but gives an idea of the type of effect which may be expected from the ingestion of such drugs, particularly in combination with the unnamed grey pills. It is revealed at the end of the story that Pinfold’s/Waugh’s experiences are a result of combining the medication and not telling his doctor.
Chloral and Bromide of Potassium.
(From the London Lancet.)
Again we have to record with deep regret a sad proof that those who give or take chloral or bromide of potassium for sleeplessness are guilty of a deplorable error and do a grievous wrong. The narcotics which poison sleep also deprave the higher nerve centers, enfeeble the controlling powers of the will and leave the mind a prey to the depressing influence of a conscious loss of self respect and self-confidence. The cultured mind feels the ignominy of the intellectual and moral depreciation with great acuteness, and in the end succumbs to the sense of powerlessness to recover self-control and do right. The deprivation wrought is purely physical. The baneful influence of the lethal drug is, so to say, organic. The essential elements of the nerve tissues are blighted by the stupifying poison, as by alcohol in habitual drunkenness. In short, the recourse to chloral and bromide is precisely the same thing as recourse to alcohol. The man or woman sent to "sleep" — the mocking semblance of physiological rest — by a dose of either of these neurotizers is simply intoxicated. No wonder that habitual drunkenness of this class first impairs and then destroys the vitality of the mind organ, and places the subject of a miserable artifice at the mercy of his emotioned nature, and makes him the creature of his passions. When will the public awake to the recognition of facts with regard to these most pernicious of stupefacients? Persistence in recourse to them has no better excuse than unwillingness to search out the cause of the wakefulness which prevents natural sleep.

Pinfold’s symptoms take the form of auditory hallucinations. There are no visual hallucinations mentioned in the story and apart from his general poor health and hearing voices, Pinfold showed no other signs of mental illness. His delusions are focused around the use of various forms of technology being used to harass him and this delusion has its origins in two principal events which seem to have disturbed him somewhat prior to embarking on the sea voyage. One was what he considered a somewhat personally invasive and ill tempered radio interview he gave to the BBC at his home and the other was a strange pseudo scientific apparatus which seems to have had more in common with the occult than post-war technology.

Waugh writing about the BBC interview stated :"they tried to make a fool of me, and I don't think they entirely succeeded", while Peter Fleming of the Spectator described the interview as "the goading of a bull by matadors".

We do not know whether the strange occult box was a real element in Waugh’s experience, nevertheless he describes it in the following terms:

This Box was one of many operating in various parts of the country. It was installed, under the skeptical noses of Reginald Graves-Upton’s nephew and niece, at Upper Mewling. Mrs. Pinfold, who had been taken to see it, said it looked like a makeshift wireless-set. According to the Bruiser and other devotees The Box exercised diagnostic and therapeutic powers. Some part of a sick man or animal—a hair, a drop of blood preferably—was brought to The Box, whose guardian would then “tune in” to the “life-waves” of the patient, discern the origin of the malady and prescribe treatment.

Pinfold seems to have been receptive to the unusual ability of the magic-box to help and heal sickness but added that the device would be “An extremely dangerous device in the wrong hands,” and his weariness and credence in the possibility of such ‘technology’ having some effect is shown by his reluctance to tell his neighbor that he was ill for fear that he would use the box on him. This is a core theme of the story, and for me encapsulates the present issue within the conspiracy and truther community of supposed electronic harassment, which I believe is the error of giving an occult and spiritual phenomenon, the appearance of a technological one. 


This is kind of a sad symptom of human beings living in a world of technology they do not really understand and whose limits they have no way of measuring. If a man as astute and educated as Evelyn Waugh can have led himself to believe that his experiences on board the boat where caused by various disreputable people having access to exotic technology then it is all the more difficult for the rest of us, especially as we live in an age when such things are almost within the range of technological possibility. However, we have the example of Evelyn Waugh and his story ought to help clear up some of the misunderstandings of our present age, and it is my certain conviction that those misunderstanding and those who are promulgating them are doing a very great deal of harm. 

People such as Miles Johnson, UFO researcher also appeared on the Coast to Coast show a couple of years ago spreading more harmful delusions such as the idea that the electric power supply of a residential property can be used to mind control people and that the new energy saving light bulbs can also be used in mind control. The point is once you believe that your mind can be accessed by remote technology and you can do nothing about it then you are already under mind control. This idea IS the mind control and all of these people are perpetuating this like a deadly disease. He even claims that some people are being mind controlled by their radiators. This is a straight up schizophrenic delusion, the danger is when these ideas are presented on a national radio broadcast with a respected broadcaster like George Noory. This man is also perpetuating the myth of gray aliens as being behind this. These delusions are taken seriously and they reproduce in the minds of the listener. Miles Johnson also appears to be a friend of meddler and ruiner of many of the areas of UK activism, Belinda Mckenzie, a woman who seems to have had the strange power to ruin every activism movement she has forced her way into, and was apparently involving herself ‘in the background’ of the electronic harassment area.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2bmPFMrapC8&t=13s


Basically these people are really no help to anyone trying to do serious research into the Illuminati since these people have already been sucked into Cain Consciousness and seem intent on spreading the dangerous mind-virus of the harmful delusion of electronic mind control.

It is also worth noting that the murdered British truth-seeker Max Spiers was a friend of Miles Johnson, and by extension probably Belinda McKenzie as well. I would consider therefore that the man whether knowingly or unknowingly was walking hand in hand with the security services and occult practitioners and came to grief as a result of not being more assiduous to the company he kept.


Possibly Miles Johnston is just an honest mad man and does not have any sinister connections to the security services, but I personally do not know how anyone can know Belinda McKenzie and not know she is a spook. Miles Johnston at one point skirts teasingly at self awareness with Occam's Razor only for a nanosecond and almost shaves himself loose of some nonsense when he says:


What they’re doing is saying it’s a bad bulb so they’ve been able to use that excuse, and it’s a fairly good excuse it’s a good point, it makes sense…because noone would ever consider that they would use the light bulb as a means of optically transmitting pulsed frequencies into your brain for nefarious purposes, who would ever thing of a thing like that? But the point is that’s what they’re doing.

I’m not quite sure how anyone can send mind control signals optically into someone’s brain and I don’t think Miles does.

Indeed, at one point in The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold, Pinfold even believes the voices are coming to him from an electric light:

Mr. Pinfold was hungry. He ordered coffee and fish and eggs and fruit. He was about to eat when, ping; the little, rose-shaded electric lamp which stood on the table before him came into action as a transmitter. The delinquent youths were awake and up on the air again, their vitality unimpaired by the excesses of the night. “Halloo-loo-loo-loo-loo. Hark-ark-ark-ark-ark,” they hallooed. “Loo in there. Fetch him out. Yoicks."
They began to give instructions for a place of meeting. “… D Deck, turn right. Got that? You’ll see some lockers. The next bulk-head. We’re waiting for you. Better come now and get it over. You’ve got to meet us some time, you know. We’ve got you, Gilbert. We’ve got you. There’s no escape. Better get it over…” Mr. Pinfold’s patience was exhausted. He must put a stop to this nonsense. Recalling some vague memories of signal procedure in the army, he drew the lamp towards him and spoke into it curtly: “Pinfold to Hooligans. Rendezvous Main Lounge 0930 hours. Out.” The lamp was not designed to be moved. His pull disconnected it in some way. The bulb went out and the voices abruptly ceased. At the same moment Glover came in to breakfast. “Hullo, something gone wrong with the light?”

Miles Johnston perhaps, is a man caught in his own ordeal, and like Gilbert Pinfold, is entirely mistaken about the source of the voices and comically fretting over light bulbs and electric lines as being a way for the voices to transmit and harass people. However Miles goes much further than Pinfold in some of his conclusions and one suspects his ordeal has lasted rather too long and the psychological damage may be irreparable at this stage since some of his conclusions seem not to have any grounding in any reality I can recognise:

They want this physical world and all its related kingdoms. Let’s make it absolutely clear, once the holographic focus of our so called holographic reality that we consider to exist…some people call it the holographic universe, if you change that focus so another form of life can physically manifest itself all forms of life which are connected to the original holographic focus will simply disappear into nothing. So this affects everything we know that is physical including all those other realms which exist in the sub-sets of that focus, some people would call it other dimensions, some people would call it the next world or whatever, all elements connected to that are at risk if this is allowed to continue…

Frankly what he is saying is not merely bad science but bad everything. Through a lack of self awareness and inability to genuinely face reality Miles has lost himself in wild chaotic seas of unreality. I honestly think Noory doesn’t really do his listenership any favours to take all this on board completely uncritically.

Much easier to say it’s the Jewish bankers working with Satan if you ask me, but perhaps that why these people are blathering on about holographic focus, grey aliens talking to you though your lightbulb, because it keeps people from thinking about fractional banking, Israel and the Freemasons.

Project Camelot, Simon Parks, all seem to be members of some kind of schizophrenic mutual support group and their delusions are wildly allowed full reign of expression much to the detriment of anyone trying to do real research.

Miles ends his interview with George Noory realizing he can pretty much say anything he likes at this point and Noory will just make an affirmative noise and wag his tail.

He could have ended the interview by saying the Moon is artificial and full of aliens, but someone else got there first with that delusion.

“,…., they are planning to LITERALLY to replace human beings as computer programmes and license those computer programmes as valid human beings.”

Riiiight....


The electronic nature of Pinfold’s harassment is first suggested to him by the things he noticed in his cabin:

The ceiling, at which Mr. Pinfold gazed, was spanned as though by a cottage beam by a white studded air-shaft and by a multiplicity of pipes and electric cable.” Along with what is described as “the continuous insect-hum of the ventilator.

Another area in this field is the so called ‘electronic voice’ phenomenon. This has led some very foolish people into seeking to open up contact with some discarnate beings which they possibly consider to be aliens or at least, ‘spiritual’. What is said to be necessary in order to open up contact is some kind of continuous background noise along which the discarnate voice can propagate itself and many people have done this in the naïve idea that they will be able to contact some kind of benign superior intelligence. In any case the intelligences are never benign and they soon come to completely dominate the lives of their poor victims.

As in the case of the electronic voice phenomenon, in Waugh’s account, it seems that the existence of It a background sound seems to act as a kind of propagation wave to the sounds of the hallucination.

…on reaching his cabin, he found added to its other noises the strains of a jazz band. Mr. Pinfold stood puzzled.

The sound of a jazz band is his first auditory hallucination and initially he believes it to be a gramophone record but later he finds that whatever the music is, it is live. In his cabin he picks up a book and tried to read, then apparently from the cabin below he hears a group of what he calls ‘bright young things’.

“Let’s try the Pocoputa Indian one,” said the young man who acted, without any great air of authority, as leader. “Oh not that. It’s so beastly,” said a girl. “I know,” said the leader. “It’s the three-eight rhythm. The Gestapo discovered it independently, you know. They used to play it in the cells. It drove the prisoners mad.” “Yes,” said another girl. “Thirty-six hours did for anyone. Twelve was enough for most. They could stand any torture but that.” “It drove them absolutely mad.” “Raving mad.” “Stark, staring mad.” “It was the worst torture of all.” “The Russians use it now.” The voices, some male, some female, all young and eager, came tumbling like puppies. “The Hungarians do it best.” “Good old three-eight.” “Good old Pocoputa Indians.” “They were mad.”

Pinfold then comes to the conclusion that what he is hearing must be a result of some kind of quirk of technology and his erroneous conclusion in this instance will be almost entirely echoed by the electronic harassment people.

For a long time, two hours perhaps, Mr. Pinfold lay in his bunk listening. He was able to hear quite distinctly not only what was said in his immediate vicinity, but elsewhere. He had the light on, now, in his cabin, and as he gazed at the complex of tubes and wires which ran across his ceiling, he realized that they must form some kind of general junction in the system of communication. Through some trick or fault or wartime survival everything spoken in the executive quarters of the ship was transmitted to him….That alone could explain the voices which now kept him informed of every stage of the incident.

All of this was an hallucination but at the time he didn’t know this. At the end of the book Waugh/Pinfold is told by his doctor that his mind had created all of this, but what would be the purpose of a mind deciding to torment itself and explicitly attempt to drive itself insane.

Later in the book he has established a two way form of mental communication:

"You’re driving me mad.” “No, no, Gilbert, you are mad already,” said the duty-officer. “We’re driving you insane.”

Now he was struck with real fear, something totally different from the superficial alarms he had once or twice known in moments of danger, something he had quite often read about and dismissed as over-writing. He was possessed from outside himself with atavistic panic. “O let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven,” he cried.
And in that moment of agony there broke not far from him in the darkness peal upon rising peal of mocking laughter—Goneril’s, It was not an emollient sound. It was devoid of mirth, an obscene cacophony of pure hatred. But it fell on Mr. Pinfold’s ears at that moment like a nursery lullaby. “A hoax,” he said to himself. It was all a hoax on the part of the hooligans. He understood all. They had learned the secret of the defective wiring in his cabin. Somehow they had devised a means of controlling it, somehow they had staged this whole charade to tease him. It was spiteful and offensive, no doubt; it must not happen again. But Mr. Pinfold felt nothing but gratitude in his discovery. He might be unpopular; he might be ridiculous; but he was not mad.

Evelyn Waugh in the guise of Gilbert Pinfold, had failed to face reality at a critical juncture. Rather than face the possibility of being what he termed ‘mad’ he continued to support the improbably fantasy that some quirk of the ship’s electrics was allowing all of these unseen characters to communicate with him. But at the stage at which he starts directly communicating with these unseen voices there is an obvious question:



Then he pondered the new problem: how had Margaret heard his soundless words? That could not be explained on any theory of frayed and crossed wires. As he considered the matter Margaret briefly returned to say: “Not wires, darling. Wireless,” and then was gone again. That perhaps should have given him the clue he sought; should have dispelled the mystery that enveloped him. He would learn in good time; at that moment Mr. Pinfold was baffled, almost stupefied, by the occurrences of the morning and he went down to luncheon at the summons of the gong thinking vaguely in terms of telepathy, a subject on which he was ill-informed.

And ‘ill informed’ very aptly describes the growing legion of those being harassed by demonic voices in the real world at this time, and futilely misconstruing their experiences as being some kind of technology the rudiments about which they think they grasp bit like Pinfold, they are amateurs confusing themselves with half baked pseudo scientific ideas.

This tragic evasion from reality into a retreat of ready made delusion is nowhere more explicit than in parts of the homosexual community in parts of California who lately are reporting significant instances of ‘electronic harassment’.

There was a recent TV report on KMIR News which details the creation of a local community group of members reporting electronic harassment and gang stalking.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r6dk0MCOur8&t=11s

The report focuses on three Valley residents who have reported hearing voices uttering derogatory sentences. Kevin Bond, moved to Palm Springs to escape from the gang stalking and another man, Bob Stansfield was a victim of vehicular stalking. All three of these gentlemen, as well as suffering from what they call electronic harassment are also homosexual which is often a sexual developmental abnormality as a result of child abuse. The gentlemen have also created a website areyoutargeted.com and have paid for billboards to be displayed in their area. In a typically American display of poor sense and intellectual impotence such a thing as a ‘Freedom House’ and the organisation Freedom from Covert and Electronic Harassment. Derrick Robinson. and another website freedomfchs.com which will only serve unfortunately to more deeply ingrain this electronic harassment Palm Springs resident believes he is being targeted because he is gay and for me this confirms my analysis perfectly that statistically most homosexuals were sexually abused as children and that child sexual abuse is the primary cause of the onset of schizophrenia. So this man has become schizophrenic, since hearing voices is by definition, a symptom of schizophrenia and is very much

Sadly this story is symptomatic of most people's, and particularly Americans' lack of good sense and their inability of self reflection and objective reality. It is much more comforting for a man who was abused a child to tell himself that the abuse was beneficial and reciprocal, and many gay men who have spoken on this subject such as Stephen Fry and Milo Yiannopoulos all appear to have constructed the same edifice of emotional self defence. Likewise if the mind is so used to the art of self delusion then how much easier it is to tell yourself that your schizophrenia is really a covert attack on you by some government agency merely because you are gay. The Gay lobby see themselves as eternal victims despite now having far more rights than heterosexual Christians, but this sense of victim-hood is a key element of a mind dealing with fear, paranoia and mental illness. From this I would suggest that mental illness is far more common in homosexuals than non-homosexuals. For me the tell-tale signs of a sense of victimhood, in whatever political domain, tell me that we are dealing with a broken disempowered mind. I wonder too, what percentage of feminists with their eternal media howling about their victimhood are also literally schizophrenic or at least dealing with bi-polar symptoms and pre-schizophrenia symptoms such as anxiety and panic-attacks.

Derrick Robinson also featured on Coast to Coast. He was in the US NAVY Naval Air Station and said he was targeted in the 80s with organized stalking. George Noory asks Derrick Robinson if he ever doubted himself and he answers that he didn’t, because he believed that this kind of technology was well within the technological abilities of the US Navy. This is the critical problem of a lack of self reflection. One should always have the humility and self awareness to ask ‘what if I’m wrong?’ even if you don’t think you are. At least the cognitive experiment in alternative views might provide some new insights and clarity about one’s problems. 

One of the biggest question people ask is ‘why am I being targeted?’ again, with a simple dose of self reflection the answer is simple, you are not being targeted, you are mentally ill. Derrick Robinson is also a homosexual. The interview becomes a little sad, almost pathetic in the sense that the irony and pathos comes on pretty thick when Derrick claims that many people are in ‘denial’ about their experience of electronic harassment. The irony of course is that the only denial is that these people will not face the reality that they are mentally ill.

The final delusion which Waugh/Pinfold constructs for himself to avoid the reality that he is mentally ill and his problems have a different cause, is eerily similar to the modern delusion the electronic harassment people have created amongst themselves:


Do you remember the tick with a beard who came to Lychpole from the B.B.C. He is on board with a team bound for Aden. They are going to make recordings of Arab dance music. The tick is called Angel. He has shaved his beard. That is why I didn’t spot him at first. He has some of his family with him—rather a nice sister—travelling I suppose for pleasure. They seem to be cousins of a lot of our neighbors. You might inquire. These B.B.C. people have made themselves a great nuisance to me on board. They have got a lot of apparatus with them, most of it new and experimental. They have something which is really a glorified form of Reggie Upton’s Box. I shall never laugh at the poor Bruiser again. There is a great deal in it. More in fact than he imagines. Angel’s Box is able to speak and to hear. In fact I spend most of my days and nights carrying on conversations with people I never see. They are trying to psycho-analyze me. I know this sounds absurd. The Germans at the end of the war were developing this Box for the examination of prisoners. The Russians have perfected it. They don’t need any of the old physical means of persuasion. They can see into the minds of the most obdurate. The Existentialists in Paris first started using it for psycho-analyzing people who would not voluntarily submit to treatment.
They first break the patient’s nerve by acting all sorts of violent scenes which he thinks are really happening. They confuse him until he doesn’t distinguish between natural sounds and those they induce. They make all kinds of preposterous accusations against him. Then when they get him in a receptive mood they start on their psycho-analysis. As you can imagine it’s a hellish invention in the wrong hands. Angel’s are very much the wrong hands. He’s an amateur and a conceited ass. That young man who came to the hotel with my tickets was there to measure my “life-waves.” I should have thought they could equally well have got them on board. Perhaps there is some particular gadget they have to get in London for each person. I don’t know. There is still a good deal about the whole business I don’t know. When I get back I will make inquiries. I’m not the first person they’ve tried it on. They drove an actor to suicide. I rather suspect they’ve been at work on poor Roger Stillingfleet. In fact I think we shall find a number of our friends who have behaved oddly lately have suffered from Angel. Anyway they have had no success with me. I’ve seen through them. All they have done is to stop my working. So I am leaving them. I shall go straight to the Galleface in Colombo and look round from there for a quiet place in the hills. I’ll telegraph when I arrive which should be about the time you get this letter.”

Kevin Bond observes that the prevalence of electronic voice harassment in Palm Springs occurs to 98 percent gay men and this he no doubt attributes to some weird kind of idea that the Illuminati are dedicating themselves to harassing gay men. In this instance we can shave a lot of nonsense from this whole affair with Occam’s Razor which suggests that logically, the simplest answer to a particular conundrum. In this instance we have a group apparently made up of 98 percent homosexuals all suffering from the symptoms of schizophrenia. We can therefore draw the safe conclusion therefore that schizophrenia seems to be prevalent in homosexuals. The other alternative that the government or some shadowy organization has created a special network of microwave based voice technology to harass homosexuals (for some reason) just doesn’t hold water, especially since the technology described doesn’t even need to exist because we already have something called schizophrenia.

If however, you want to discuss whether certain groups are trying to induce and encourage the development of schizophrenia (for some reason) then you would be much nearer the mark to what is really happening.

A man called John Turner became involved with this FFCHS and after speaking to board member Timothy White and Howard Thompson. According to the website exposinginfragard.com, shortly afterwards John Turner bought a gun and killed his girlfriend and a neighbor, before turning the gun on himself. No doubt he believed these people were covertly harassing him since his delusions had been fueled by the FFCHS. This of course is the very real danger of allowing schizophrenics to nurture their delusions and run with them right to the end. At the end is the point at which people start to get killed.

Another member of the FFCHS named Pam Anderson killed herself shortly after joining the board, she had apparently been a victim of MK Ultra most of her life. I would suggest that she killed herself because she had allowed herself to believe a delusion from which there can be no escape from the voice. Schizophrenia is a psycho-spiritual illness and there are spiritual and psychological approaches to this illness which can prove highly effective in diminish and even completely eliminating the symptoms. 

Zen meditation,  Orthomolecular medicine, prayer and a personal engagement with Jesus Christ will all prove much more effective means of preventing the voices. The very worst thing one can do in the grip of a delusion is to seek refuge deeper in the delusion and even join with others on the same path. This will lead to total estrangement from reality and, as we have seen, possibly a premature death by suicide or stress induced heart attack.

This is the danger and prison of delusion and it is most apt that in Waugh’s experience, it was only once he no longer believed in the delusion that he was either in communication with these people as a quirk of the ship’s electrical network of cables, and after that delusion had run its course, that it was something to do with the BBC people who had some reason for harassing him just as Waugh had felt harassed during the interview, only after these delusions had been exposed for what they were that he was finally free of the voices.


“I may as well tell you the truth,” said Angel. “We never were in that ship. We worked the whole thing from the studio in England.” “They must be working the whole thing from a studio in England,” said Mr. Pinfold. “My poor darling,” said Mrs. Pinfold, “no one’s “worked” anything. You’re imagining it all. Just to make sure I asked Father Westmacott as you suggested. He says the whole thing’s utterly impossible. There just isn’t any sort of invention by the Gestapo or the B.B.C. or the Existentialists or the psycho-analysts—nothing at all, the least like what you think.” “No Box?” “No Box.” “Don’t believe her. She’s lying. She’s lying,” said Goneril but with every word her voice dwindled as though a great distance was being put between them. Her last word was little more than the thin grating of a slate-pencil.

And finally once there was no more grounds to believe the voices had any reality or reason to access you. They disappear. So giving the voices an excuse as some people do, and playing the victim ‘it’s because I’m gay’ and believing there is a technological means to access your mind, will almost certainly guarantee that the poor victims will be hounded until the end of their lives.

Just say NO to electronic harassment and say NO to the self deluded ones and charlatans who want you to believes it’s real. These voices are demonic and can only access you with the power of your belief that they can do so. It’s a nasty trap to get caught in. Please be careful and if you are caught then contact me for details of how you can escape their clutches.

I found this excellent video which explains perfectly the true cause of electronic voice phenomenon:


Sunday, 5 March 2017

Short Story: Look Behind the Curtain.

The last time I saw heard from him he was in a mess. He had been arrested for assaulting someone in a restaurant and threatening to cut his fucking head off. I couldn’t believe it. First of all I thought he’d got into the drug scene or something, but where he was living there was no drug scene. He told me. He didn’t even drink anymore. Had gone straight. Maybe that’s what did him in.

The straight and narrow is a thin red line slap bang in the middle of the road. The gutter is sometimes a much safer place to be. There tends to be a lot more slack rolling around there. A lot more room to fuck up. Anyone who has known druggies will know this. They’re all in the same boat and they have no expectations. They don’t care if you’re not always perfectly prim and proper. Drug friends will stay your friends no matter what. You can try to kill them one minute then the next day go: ‘ahhh, sorry mate, that trip was deffing me out, it fucked my head in. One moment you were there talking to me and we were having a right laugh, the next instant you turned into a fucking lizard.I thought it was the Reptilian invasion, so I grabbed the first thing to hand, the Bluebird toffee hammer and tried to save Earth. Sorry 'bout that mate.’

“Man that is some FUNNY shit right there. I can’t believe you thought I was an alien. That acid was DA BOMB! Let’s get some more.”

Well, it happened to me anyway but this is the kind of thing that happens when drug people try to kill each other. As long as the shit was good and it wears off and no one is actually killed, then it’s usually possible to explain it within the mitigating circumstance of recreational drug use.

But when you’re on the straight and narrow, drug and alcohol free, and you attack someone and threatening to chop their fucking head off, people just don’t understand. And if you say it’s because you thought they were an alien it just makes it worse.

This is what happened to my friend. At least it’s the bits that made sense between the incoherent ravings that Tuesday hated him for some reason.

This is the message he sent me, I honestly haven’t embellished the style so it sounds like something from a Lovecraft or Poe story, it’s just the way he was I’m afraid. I was thinking of trimming the flourishes but then it wouldn’t be his words it would be mine and that wouldn’t be authentic.
Here it is:

It was a Tuesday when it all started, I’ve since learned that Tuesday’s hold special significance to me but I won’t go into it here.  Suffice it to say that 9-11 took place on a Tuesday. That’s what Tuesday is. It’s a bastard. Ask the Spanish and Greeks, they know what I’m talking about. But you know each day seems to have a special feeling? You know what I’m talking about right? How a Wednesday feels? How all the days are a bit different and how certain things only happen on certain days?

That’s because each day of the week is still owned by the Gods. Always has been. Wednesday is Wodin’s day. Thursday is Thor’s day. It’s interesting how in the ancient languages the same word for Sabbath and Seven are the same or at least related, but that’s because the seventh day was a day of rest for the lord. The lord who talks to me. But the funny thing is whenever I was on holiday I would always forget what day it was and sometimes would have to Google it. I think I just completely contradicted myself. I often do that. I blame reality, it’s too fluid. One moment something works and makes sense, the next moment the world does a 180 and spins you around and upside down. Like the law of diminishing returns, there’s something encoded in reality which ensures that nothing works or makes sense consistently. Like a trick to keep us all guessing so we never really manage to figure it all out.

I walked out the office onto the balcony where the rain had just started. The children below were having their break and they were jumping up and down and messing about in the rain. Kids always stayed indoors when it rained in England. Here they went nuts running outside. The rain was an answer to prayers, it was like God was talking to you and blessing you. Like he talked to me. Though the night before I had heard the low rumble of chemtrail planes furiously pumping the lower atmosphere full of barium salts. It’s what they do. No mystery to it. I read an article about it. The government here have spent millions on the weather modification program. Just like the Greek Cypriots, they paid the Russian military for their programme and they had plenty of rain while I was there. Until the EU decided to steal all the Russian Mafia’s dirty money parked in the Cyprus banks. They’ve had nothing but drought since then. It’s alright for the Turks in the north, they’ve got a water pipeline. They’re laughing. The poor buggers in the south aren’t laughing though. Still, they make some good wine.

I was walking downstairs with my hand in my pocket rooting for a minty sweet and I ended up with my hand all over my cheap but decent Lenovo smart phone.

I popped the sweet into my mouth and walked downstairs to the bathroom. As I was sat there at my ease, enjoying a bit of peace and my minty sweet, I heard this sound. It was a sort of squeaky sound, I dismissed it for a moment as just some random noise coming from outside, but it was strangely insistent and seemed to be coming at me from quite close quarters. It took me a minute to get my head around. It was coming from my pocket. I had a sudden moment of total fear as I realized that I has accidentally pocket dialed someone by the perverse power of mobile accessibility which seems to make it possible for a strong sneeze to quick dial someone completely at random. In a superlative state of sheer panic and horror I pulled the phone from my pocket as if it was a small jabbering beast with teeth. Something or rather more evidently ‘someone’ was speaking to me through the speakers, since people were generally not contacted by things. It was usually people. Well it was always people. Usually.

I held the phone in my hand while trying to maintain my balance since I was presently engaged with an Arabic lavatory which was after all, just a porcelain hole in the ground. I held the jabbering phone and looked at the number, it was someone I had once phoned for an apartment in Abu Dhabi. With a complete lack of guilt or social unease I disconnected the call with a sudden stamp of my thumb onto the red button. It was over. The fear and terror passed. I had been lucky. I had not inadvertently phoned someone, a woman, an old girlfriend, whose number I had taken with no intention of ever speaking to her again.

So I went outside to nip out and get some fuul from the Lebanese restaurant. I checked my phone. It was now 11:18 am. I had less than 12 minutes to get to the restaurant and place my order otherwise I would miss the breakfast window. What was worse was that after breakfast there were no lunch time sandwiches available until 12pm. The worst thing was to get there after 11:30 and be trapped in the food void between breakfast and lunch when there was nothing available. I couldn’t understand why this was the case but in order to beat the void I’d better move.

I picked up my pace, doing an Olympian walk through the playground and to the door which led through the reception area of the school and out into the car park. I got to the door. It was locked. Locked as an obstacle to prevent the Emirati students from escaping. The students were always trying to escape from the school. The doors were siege points and there had been a double door leading from the reception into the playground but this had proved a weak point for the senior school managers and was difficult to defend. 

Sometimes when there were so many students shouting at the students through the wireless microphone and lashing at them with the small canes they had, was ineffectual. The solution had been, in the best tradition of siege defense, to brick up this weak point and replace it with a strong wall which now no longer showed any indication of ever having been a set of doors.

I went to the side door like a cat wanting to come in, and pawed feebly at the locked door until I caught the eye of the security guard. He came over and unbolted the door. It was now 11.20 am.

I smiled and said thankyou and continued the Olympic walking event and almost bowled into Kemal’s father. I apologized and he shook my hands and we then became trapped in an Arabic exchange of pleasantries for two minutes. When I finally got away I was absolutely crest fallen. By the time I got into my car it was 11.23 am.

I took out my car keys and drove out of the school hoping not to get caught in the Lebanese restaurant’s uncanny mid-day food abyss. When I lived in Morocco I had been with this Moroccan girl who believed most of us went through the stations of the Kabbalah without even knowing it, on a daily basis. I thought about this, how now I was at Yesod, hungry and aiming for the transcendental Kether of the Lebanese’ restaurant’s delicious fuul sandwich.  

As I drove the car out of the carpark onto the road I could hear something, it sounded like a small trapped mouse. It was my damn phone again. I must have somehow dialed someone when I fumbled in my pocket for my keys. In the old days of telephone technology dialing a telephone was a comparatively strenuous business and was the kind of action you couldn’t repeat too many times without ending up with a sore index finger. I wonder what on Earth telephone marketers used to do in the old days of rotary dial telephones when obliged to dial number upon number, day after day. I think they had a special finger shield. A kind of plastic sock for the finger which would protect their finger from the repeated contact of the resistant plastic dial. But I might have made that up. I was pretty sure I’d seen such a thing. It was flesh coloured and covered in small nodules and turned the finger into something resembling an exotic looking alien marital aid. 

The little mouse was jabbering away in my pocket but I couldn’t do anything since I was driving.

By the time I got to the roundabout two minutes later it was somehow 11:26. I was fuming at this point. Not now time thief! Give me back my minutes you just stole! I was always having problems with the time thief, I’d taken my eyes off the clock for a second and let my mind drift and when I came back to myself he’d struck, stealing the minutes from right under my nose and thinking I wouldn’t notice. I don’t know, maybe he doesn’t care if I notice anymore, after all if I start saying that someone is stealing minutes from me when I’m not looking what will they think? It’s very hard to prove something like that, but I think if I had the appropriate equipment and laboratory conditions I could probably do it. I should have been a scientist. Curse you time thief, now I was sure to miss the fuul breakfast window and tumble into the prenoon Daath of no food. The abyss of hunger and pointless wasted effort.

When I got to the restaurant I didn’t even dare look at the time and I got out and made a dash for the counter, the clock I could see had a second hand which was now 11:29 and 30 seconds. There was someone in front of me collecting a takeaway and I saw the seconds of hope remaining me crushed with the mindless exchange of trifling metal pieces of small change.  I ordered the fuul with only seconds left to spare.

“I’m sorry, the breakfast is finished.”

“I’ve got five seconds left, look,” I protested showing her the clock.

“No, that time is wrong.”

“What do you mean it’s wrong? Why is it wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t know? I repeated.” I was turning into a beast from the sheer force of hunger and the tedium of having to beg for a mere 4 dirham sandwich of cooked fava beans.

Then the manager came and I appealed to him for some fuul, he said he would go and check.

While I was waiting I checked my phone to see who the little mouse voice in my pocket had been. I had dialed my mum! My poor mum caught in my pocket talking to a pen top, a tissue and a strong mint. It’s no way to treat your mum. I felt very guilty.

I felt Gevurah admonishing me. My pocket dialing of my poor mum who no doubt must have felt some pleasure seeing that I was calling her, only to find herself speaking to a pocket full of rubbish and then hanging up whatever the literal equivalent thing is that you do to mobile phones. But then Chesod’s light shone upon me and the manager returned asking me how many I wanted.

“Just two. No make it three.” Then I thought for a moment, “Actually can I have eight.”

I decided to buy fuul sandwiches for all my colleagues and eight ought to be enough to go around.

A few moment later someone came back with a plastic bag containing eight delicious hot fuul sandwiches.

I’d done it. In spite of all the odds I had succeeded in getting some breakfast. I felt the crown of Kether descend upon me in my joy and satisfaction. I felt God had blessed me and in return I would bless the other English teachers with a hot and tasty breakfast wrap.

Just as I sat there I made a determined effort to do something about this tiresome business of pocket dialing. I found an app to prevent pocket dialing, downloaded it and installed it. That should do it I thought. I slipped my phone back into my pocket and was about to drive off when I heard that same squeaky trapped buzzy bee voice. It was annoying because I thought I’d solved the problem but sod it I thought and drove back while the fuul was hot.

As I drove the voice continued, I found it odd that they didn’t just give up and hang up. As I drove I found I could actually catch words they were saying in my pocket. At first it was just a sort of human buzz but then I heard words, random words coming out of my pocket. I wondered if it was my poor mum with the pen top and strong mint again, and for a second it sounded like her, but I heard words she wouldn’t use. Then the voice sounded male for a moment. It was hard to tell really, since I was also driving at the same time.

I wondered what on earth was going on and why the person on my phone was still speaking. It figured it was some kind of sales pitch or something, or a furious ex girlfriend delivering a lecture suddenly finding an opportunity to release or their long festered resentments composted down to the essential bitter nutrients. Just then I thought I recognized the sad pleading voice of my Turkish ex girlfriend.

“Jaymie Jan. Jaymie Jan. Oof ya.” I heard her repeat. Jan is the Turkish word life and putting ‘Jan’ after a person’s name is a term of endearment.  But I didn’t even have her number now so how could I have pocket dialed her? Besides our terms of endearment had long since come to terms and the last time I spoke to her she was still bitter and ranting about all the things she said I’d done wrong.

I tried to tune-in to the sound and Just then something came through loud and  clear.

“Look  behind the curtain. We’re behind the curtain.”

I pulled the car over suddenly. This was too strange and specific a phrase, I had to find out who it was. I took out my phone to see who had called me. That phrase ‘we’re behind the curtain’ was weird. Who would say that? except a group of children who’d had enough of playing hide and seek. I knew plenty of children, but for the most part I tried to teach them English, hide and seek wasn’t even on the syllabus.

I looked to see who had called. No-one. There had been no phone call. There was no record of anything.

Obviously it was a bug with the new software. It hadn’t worked and also had the added effect of denying all knowledge of the fact that it  hadn’t worked by refusing to reveal who it was the software had failed to prevent you from finger dialing. It seemed to have software installed which covered up the fact it didn’t work.

Clearly I needed to uninstall it and try something else. Aware that the hot fuul was cooling down, but determined to end this tedious finger dialing charade NOW, I quickly uninstalled the software and downloaded and installed an alternative. It seemed that this was a very common problem and there were at least half a dozen possible software solutions to resolving it. It just appeared the some of them didn’t actually work.

I was starving so decided to waste no more time and got stuck into one of the fuul sandwiches which God had in his mercy, given to me and my friends. I unwrapped the sandwich while looking out across the beautiful Bay of the Two Jaws. Probably the most beautiful spot in the whole county and certainly somewhere in the top ten for the whole Arabian peninsula and pondered the beauty of this place while I ate. The fuul was delicious, perfectly seasoned, like how good baby food used to taste. An unctuous tasty salty pate with fresh chopped peppers and onions.

As I was eating for some reason a long forgotten memory came to me, of a time I had been cruel to my sister with a girl from down the road. A skinny girl with drab black hair in a tight pony tail, with scabs on her knees and a perpetually runny nose. A nasty girl who incited me to do mean things to my sister. The whole strange friendship lasted from summer to deep winter, there was no sense of attraction or anything like a ‘girlfriend’ at least not for me. She brought out a strange desire to be nasty. Some people seem to do that.

This dark period came to an end and I was returned to my usual peaceful and cruelty free solitude when I threw a snowball at her bay window, all in friendly jest and certainly within the spirit, I thought, of our friendship. Her parents didn’t see it like that and I almost thought for one childish moment that I would be hauled off to Borstall, such was the overreaction which greeted me at school the next day at assembly with the headmaster making an example of me to the whole school. The headmaster even got me in his office and jabbed me with his knuckled in his special deadly Taekwondo move which he liked to inflict on naughty boys. Well if she can’t take a joke, I thought. And I never spoke to her again. I think that snowball was a blessing and whatever spirit of infantile mischief impelled me to throw it was really doing me a big favour and removing from my life, some strange unsavoury associations. Even though they were kids. Kids are the worst, most of what happens in the tiny world they live in escapes the notice of the adults living in a world several orders of magnitude larger and operating on entirely different principles, and all under the delusions that kids are cute and harmless, never suspecting the animal hierarchical hell of cruelty they can inflict on each other.

I thought of my poor sister, her childish face, four years old, four years my junior. As Vicky and I amused ourselves by telling her to eat leaves because they were ‘secret garden candy’.

At that moment with that thought I bit my finger hard. Ouch! Another pattern. Whenever we berate ourselves with some past sin karma always looks for an immediate way to make itself felt. Biting a finger while eating a sandwich, stubbing a toe, burning a finger on a hot stove. There were a million ways for the demons employed by the Karmic collection agencies to extract instant payment. I should have been a scientist. I can spot patterns where none thought they existed. Never mind watching molecules and looking for atoms, why not work with the best reality raw material we could ever have? Our own psychological interactions with reality itself.

Damn I bit my finger really hard. You have to keep your wits about you whenever you think about something you’ve done wrong. Have no hot implements to hand, under no circumstances find yourself in a kitchen, and never attempt anything with fingers in the vicinity of hot, sharp, slippery burny things. I had been caught in the Karma kitchen many times in my life and have a collections of burn scars and small cuts to prove it. The demons of Karma could strike any moment as you mind slips into a million avenues of guilt. At that point you are an easy target for anything malevolent. Undefended by your own guilty conscience.

I looked at my finger. It had two teeth marks in the skin.

I tested the new app before I set out to drive. I decided to try to call someone, my mum, since there was no one else I would willingly speak to. Finding myself approaching middle-age with no burdens of my own family and long since having given up on women, I found history repeating itself and my strongest, best and indeed, aside from my sister, my only relationship of any kind with a woman, was with my mother. I didn’t feel inwardly embarrassed by this in the least. I wasn’t a forty year old virgin, I was a forty year old child. Slightly different. Everyone in the world was turning into stone, nothing but grey faced brittle idiots locked in an eternal pose. Same job everyday for ten years, same house, same people. You might as well be parked outside the fountain a grinning piece of rock covered in moss and pigeon shit. 

I hadn’t changed much since my first dim memories of preserved consciousness around the ages of two or three. I knew even then, or at least I was learning fast, that the world was not my friend and it was filled with endless horror. It took me forty years to understand that the world is only the friend to those ‘special people’, who have the ability to trick people, the sociopaths, politicians, crooks and charlatans. Those people generally do very well and are on very friendly terms with the world and its inhabitants. Open and honest people are destroyed or driven to despair. Since I realized that the world was managed in this way I determined that I would personally bring no more beautiful innocent souls here just in order to see them either slowly corrupted, or destroyed or driven to despair. This combined with my final realization that men and women had nothing in common and would be really better off keeping away from each other for as much of their time on Earth as they are able, set me on this course of doing just what the hell I wanted with my life and totally giving up on women, children and indeed, most relationships with other humans since no one really understood my perspective. 

They were just gaudy puppets, going through the motions. I felt I had broken free of the puppeteer, whoever or whatever it was, biological imperative, social conditioning, sense and sensibility.

I dialed the number and pressed the call button. To proceed with the call it was necessary to specifically swipe my finger, the one with the teeth marks in, across the screen to make the call. This ought to work.

I finished my wrap and reversed back onto the main road back to the school.

Nothing more to report on that day.





Two weeks later I was trying to escape from Dubai. I’d found it easy enough to slip quietly into the city, leaving Khor Fakkan and driving through the gaps blasted through the mountains. The wind, funneling down tight mountain valleys and occasionally jumping out into the road and howling at my car with such sudden terrifying force that my car was buffeted sideways. I gripped the wheel tighter, shocked and alarmed at the violence of this angry dry wind which jumped out at people. Perhaps it was a collection of djin who had lived quietly and undisturbed in these dry dead mountains for centuries, playing and shrieking unheard and unsuspected. Now their homes had been blasted open now the humans in their cars teemed all over their formerly pristine desolation. Every day, endless, all day and all night. There was no respite. Even in the heart of their desolation the drumming hum of aircraft or the buzzing splutter of the near infinite army of internal combustion engine machines, carefully detonating high octane hydrocarbons in order to visit their grandmother.

I knew that the wind was alive. There wasn’t any doubt about this. I had discovered this fact in Casablanca. It had quite startled me at the time, and for a moment there was a sight risk of a loss of sanity. I had felt it slipping. The onset of terror. The realization that all around you are the countless billions of dead souls of humans, animals and everything that ever lived on the planet, was still alive and angrily swirling and chasing around the whole Earth in a constant tempest, looking to cause mischief at any opportunity. Knocking things over, scattering rubbish, escalating to tempests hurricanes and tornadoes. Concentrated demonic fury. I thought to myself, how can one be safe? Also while I was thinking this I heard them howl all the louder, I heard disemobied hands, pushing at the side of my apartment with all the rage of the djin of the Atlantic ocean weather system.

My apartment was a penthouse, well it would have been, were it not for the fact that a landlord had built a rather shabby and barely habitable shed on top of it, in which two strangely demon possessed people seemed to occasionally visit. I was sure they were demon possessed because they could read my mind and also, during Ramadan, I would hear them in their barely habitable shed committing all sorts of noisy abominations. Ramadan was supposed to be a time when one didn’t cede to temptation and avoided anything haram, but these two instead doubled down, and were riotously drunk most evenings during the whole month of Ramadan, and these excesses would be punctuated by an alternating pattern of noisy sex and violent arguments.

My apartment stood high in the air, opposite the sea lashed Hassan II mosque, and directly opposite the surging fury of the ocean. In summer it was ideal because the sea air kept the excessive heat of Morocco at bay but in the winter it was a box to be rattled and wracked by the wind while the sea tried to endlessly reclaim the land, knowing that one day it would win its battle.

The wind that had assaulted me in the mountains on the way to Dubai was of a different character, dry and hot, like a fossil wind which had been roving lost in the same desert for tens of thousands of years. But the wind was like an egregor or group consciousness, except it displayed different abilities and strengths in different places. The desert wind was harmless except in as much as it could whip up a sand storm. The wind in Morocco no doubt reported on me to the wind here and this is why I was being victimized in this way, because I knew its secret.

Once I had slid out from the mountains and hit the orange sands of the Arabian desert the situation was greatly improved. The desert was just too open for any fury to really accumulate, so the mountain tempest became a dissipated desert breeze. However once I noticed a solitary desert djinn, spinning the desert sands into a maelstrom. I stopped the car and walked behind him as he made his scurrying spinning way. He behaved very much like a nervous cat which didn’t want to be stroked. I followed him and he kept moving away from me, until once I jumped right into him and felt his spinning confusion rush all around me.  Then he dashed off at an acute angle and since I can’t run diagonally through desert sand I abandoned the chase, got back into my car and continued to Dubai.

As I said, slipping into Dubai was easy. I parked at Rashida station and slipped into the city’s elegant steel and glass metro system, but getting out was a nightmare. Always the same story with cities. They suck you in and all roads lead to them. They breathe you into their circulatory systems through a thousand different routes and inviting motorway exits. But to escape requires a lesson in patience and good driving skills. Several times while trapped on the exit of the D89 and entry to the E311, a sort of motorway limbo between worlds, where civilisations could rise and fall on distant planets and you’d have moved less than four Earth feet. The particular difficulty of a traffic jam here is that there was no sense of order. Cars would continue to fly into the stationary line of idling cars, crow-baring themselves into the exit lane at the last possible moment. Big white dusty buses full of dusty Pakistanis and bus drivers brazenly forcing their wheezy battered buses between a three inch gap.

As I was stuck there, in a rising terror of urban claustrophobia, trying to resist the compulsion to get out of my rental car and just leave it and all the chaos behind while I ran into the peace and protection of the desert, I heard a sound. It sounded like a kind of high pitched whine, like a particularly loud mosquito. As I listened the sound seemed to take form and became a woman’s voice.
“Are you there? Are you there?”

I heard it say. Not my damn phone again. I hadn’t even touched it this time and it still rang.

Then the voice changed to a man’s voice and it said:

“Hold your breath, make a wish, count to three.” I did just as it suggested, I wished that the traffic would start to move and I would be able to get home. Then I heard some music come from somewhere….and then Gene Wilder’s voice singing the Willy Wonka song Pure Imagination. Then I heard the sound of a dozen cacophonous car horns behind me which told me that seemingly a line had opened in the traffic.

To be continued.... 

I'm on FIRE with dat TROOF.

I'm on FIRE with dat TROOF.
Kundalini refugee doing a bit of landscaping.

Donate.

Morocco Snapshots.

Oman man!

Cyprus, history washing over old stones.

Egypt... getting proper stoned.

Jordan. Biblical landscapes.

Nice shots of Morocco

Moor from Morocco.

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