Monday, February 19, 2007 – www.divinecosmos.com
I decided it was time to bite the bullet, knuckle down, put my nose to the grindstone, belly up, face the music, (insert appropriate physical-body cliches here) and finally re-commit myself to this work, and this website, after such a long absence. This is the long-winded first edition of what will become a DAILY (yes, you read me right) series of short, less-formal blog entries, where I will try to dredge up something interesting to share with you each morning.
In order to inaugurate this new plan (which of course has been highly encouraged by many people, and now my dreams are saying I should do it as well,) I thought I’d kick it off with an orientation, so we can see where I was and where I am now – forming the basis for the daily cosmic thoughts that will follow.
Now that I’m going to do this every day, some amount of personal details are inevitable, though my point will not be to create a narcissistic self-worshipping blog in which the ultra-mundane details of my life are shared with copious specificity. (Did I spell that right?) Anyway, moving on to the specific, mundane details of my life…
As you may know from reading my discussion group, I moved out here to Los Angeles from the humble backwater town of Milton, Kentucky – which was literally like a pole shift of my own world, complete with tearing winds and tidal waves of emotion.
In the country there isn’t a lot of pressure… there was one time I hit traffic coming back from Madison, Indiana, (crossing over a bridge just a mile and a half from where I lived) and one time I hit traffic going into Madison, and that was it. Both times it was caused by an accident on the bridge, which was perilously narrow and left no margin for error. There was not even enough room for a pedestrian to walk across. The first time you crossed this bridge in a car it was quite unnerving, and my friend Vara had the pleasure of her first encounter being in a giant moving truck.
My backyard was a cow pasture – really quite a pretty view and a relaxing backdrop of animal sounds – and occasionally one got over the poison-ivy-infested fence in the backyard and had to be chased back. Gigantic hoof-holes would be left in the soft mud, which dried into five-inch-deep divots that tempted a twist of fate for your ankles while mowing the grass. I was paying 800 bucks a month for a three-bedroom, two-bath ranch house on a nice-sized 1.5-acre yard that I kept as tidy as my unpredictable schedule would allow.
My mowing efforts were always bested by the woman next door who blew out her yard with the riding lawn mower, right on cue, the day after I did my own, inadvertently making it look as if I was always letting mine go – so sometimes I did, and there’d be insects scrambling for cover like crazy when I finally felled the six-inch stalks. Her husband had passed away and now she lived alone, and the mowing was the only time she ever went outside. Since she kept the blades so low on her mower, her lawn ended up dying in the winter, so in the end I had lush, happy green grass growing next to bald, barren soil. “Nature is messy,” a friend once told me. Why should I always keep my lawn at a certain length just because “They Say” you should? I was the first person to have lived in this house, the yard was barely a year old, and I wanted my grass to root as much as possible.
My neighbors on the other side had frustrated me (phrasing it nicely) by having taken on a black dog they kept outside in the cold and didn’t really want, not offering discipline or a warmer solution for its all-night barking habit. Just when I was considering getting the police involved, (knowing it could make things very tense with the neighbor), the barking seemed to stop. A few months later, the mail carrier handed me a letter threatening that I would stop receiving mail if “my” dog was not leashed, so I wrote back saying it was not my dog, but to please take whatever means necessary to stop the problem.
Thankfully the mail kept coming, as he lost interest in the “mailman game” and moved on to the construction workers building more pop-up houses like my own down the street. Their gloves would occasionally manifest in my yard, tattered and torn. Before I moved out, someone else finally called the cops and for one day they tried to leash him to the unsightly swingset that had manifested in the backyard, amidst a panoply of other random objects strewn about that same weekend… and he went nuts. The more he tried to run around, the more his leash got wound up in the bars, and they finally had to free him because he kept choking himself. That was not a pleasant day.
After that the dog’s sense of betrayal was complete – he dumped my unresponsive neighbors and moved on to the casual care and feeding from the guy living across the way, who had often invited me over to drink, which I respectfully declined, having been clean and sober for over 14 years now. Then the weather got cold again, and not long before I moved, I noticed he was sleeping far too long in the same position by the highway – he had either been hit by a car or had frozen to death.
Yes – this is your one-stop shop for uplifting and inspiring spiritual content. We’re off to a great start!
I did end up having a healing with my estranged neighbors by choosing to be the one to inform them of their dog’s fate. I helped them bury him (learned his name was Popo) with the same tools I’d bought to go after the vines in my backyard. I had really gone nuts with these tools for a couple days in the beginning, before I realized the vines were almost entirely poisonous – three leaves and the little white berries. In that case it actually went systemic… getting into the lymphatic system, tracing a tortured red line up and down my arm from where it had started. After that, I pretty much retired from yard work that was more intense than trimming bushes and mowing the grass – but the grave-digging gave us a chance to mend the fences I wished we’d actually had the whole time, particularly after the backyard became their new storage area.
I never did any shopping in Milton, Kentucky – I made the short drive over the bridge into Madison Indiana, where everything was an hour late, so if you blew off the post office 5PM deadline on the Kentucky side, you still had an hour to go. Though only separated by one bridge and a mile or so of driving, Madison and Milton were like parallel universes. There was a small cluster of convenience shops in Milton right before the bridge on the 421, and if you walked into them at any given time, the cigarette smoke might be so thick that it would curl around you in leathery bluish-gray clouds, and completely ruin your hair and clothes within mere seconds of exposure, requiring multiple washings.
Madison, on the other hand, was a quaint little town that felt very homey and familiar. [Their big claim to fame was that Abraham Lincoln allegedly stopped in there for a one-night stay and said it was nice.] It was still a good idea to throw on a slight twang in Madison so you would not be branded as a “Yankee,” (a change that would automatically manifest in my voice upon entering any transaction with a store employee when I first got to California) but the whole vibe was far more low-key. Television programming is increasingly homogenizing the “American accent,” so only a few token changes and catch-phrases were required.
Most importantly, if you are a Yankee in the south, you learn to drop your dipthongs and say “aah.”
[Seriously! The dipthong is the “i-e” sound, such as in a conventional pronunciation of “right” – so you change the dipthong to “aah,” and say “raaht”. After a waahl it requaahrs no maahnd power, you just get ‘er done.]
Madison was an active community with lots of street festivals, most notably the yearly Regatta where many lavish ships would sail in front of the adoring crowds. The Hollywood film “Madison” focused on this aspect of town culture, providing a new talking point to replace the tired old Lincoln story. There was a street that went in front of the river all through the center of town, and the view was majestic – so every time I passed through, I’d let the big old Buick Roadmaster I’d inherited glide along at “impulse power” and just drink it in.
The riverfront street finally curved to the right and went uphill, and when you hit the second stop sign you parked and went into Local Harvest Market, www.localharvestmarket.com, the best (and the ONLY) health food store in a humanly-possible radius, unless you were ready to make the one-hour trek down to Louisville. I had been guided to patronize them as much as possible because health is not exactly a top priority in this area – so I splurged on a variety of different products and made fast friends with Elizabeth, the owner, who came in from Chicago and also had a Yankee accent, dipthongs and all.
The Market became my only social outlet – I befriended all the employees and occasionally helped out with tasks in the store, mostly just providing moral support. I did previously journal about my one-day stint as a hot-dog salesman, which was a marvelous opportunity for inappropriate jokes when a prospective customer had the right attitude… suffice it to say that I was quite good at pushing wieners. I also was delighted to be invited to Elizabeth’s daughter Roxi’s wedding and reception, which occurred just days before I would make my second-to-last trip to LA for the film. The food was fantastic, as expected.
As you may know from reading other parts of this site, I ended up in Kentucky not because Cayce had grown up in Hopkinsville, not because I was a naive New Yorker who had gone totally out of his mind, but simply because I bolted from a challenging scene in Virginia Beach to join a group of people who were forming a spiritual community, whose work had meant a lot to me over the years – namely the Law of One series. After two years of service, I relocated to Milton because they had an undeveloped rustic property out there they called Avalon, and were hoping to have the money, time and staffing to build it into a sustainable community.
I also admittedly just needed space and privacy, as at one point there were five others all living in the main house with the two owners. My own physical labors had been instrumental in building three new bedrooms in the basement, under the direction of a man who prefers to be called Lone Bear on the Internet. Everyone has since realized there are just too many issues with having others live in the same house, in case you’re fantasizing about giving it a try. Any time you’ve got that many people in one space, particularly if they are not blood-related, you’re bound to have problems. Lots of problems. I learned a lot about my Self, and my need for solitude, as a result of losing it.
I knew the only way this Avalon dream had any chance of success was if there was a separate location where the work on the land could be staged. The land itself had no running water, no electricity, a leaky, dilapidated vermin-infested shack the property assessor classified as “ruins”, and a distant ramshackle outhouse with a steel seat – great for the mornings – and that was about it.
I originally had the starry-eyed belief that I would host the hypothetical unpaid ‘volunteers’ at my house for short periods of time while they worked on the land. A great deal for a two-story 2600-square-foot house fell through at the last minute, and I grabbed up the ranch house in Milton on VERY short notice – a place I sometimes referred to as a “land-bound double-wide trailer” (LBDW). Two weeks later I was about to embark on my first cruise, where 25 people gathered with me on a Holland America ship to sail over the ruins of Atlantis, visit various exotic ports, and get turned on to my research through a series of Power Point lectures. Due to my own generosity, it was also far more affordable than other products of its kind.
I was delighted to find out that Melynda, the property administrator for the new last-minute LBDW, was a big Coast to Coast fan and already had heard me on the air with Richard Hoagland! Even right here, in the “middle of nowhere!” She’d never been to my site but certainly was interested in my work. That made it a breeze to work with her, and I had hoped that if funding had come in, I could have given her a part-time job – but that never came to pass.
Over the course of one year’s time, the Avalon project collapsed due to lack of funding and interest. This was probably for the best because we soon discovered why no one else wanted to buy “bottom land.” The soil was so saturated that nothing would grow in it, water spurting up with every footstep, and the weather in Kentucky made sunlight intermittent at best. You could not build a truly sustainable community there without serious extra work. I concocted a good plan to aerate the soil, involving porous buried pipelines that drained into the creek, but everything required money and manpower we just didn’t have.
Lone Bear did move in with me to the Milton house to work the land. He was the main engine behind the Avalon initiative, complete with heavy equipment he imported for the task. He and I decided very early along that the house was just too small to accept other ‘volunteers’, as I had originally proposed. Two of the three bedrooms were just barely big enough for a single bed and a dresser, and once you excluded the attached garage we needed for storage, the house wasn’t much more than 1100 square feet – most of which was consumed in a gigantic kitchen / dining / living room that really could have used some walls to give you a sense of separate space.
I enjoyed living with Bear. He spent most of the day doing hard labor at Avalon, and we’d watch a DVD at night. I paid the rent and the utilities for the LBDW, except for the Dish Network service. Since we were both Law of One scholars, coming at it from different angles, we had many great philosophical conversations. I volunteered a fair amount of my own time at Avalon, which landed me my first very bad case of poison ivy in Kentucky right before I was off to the Deepak Chopra / Alliance for a New Humanity 2004 conference in Puerto Rico. I did finally get a five-minute conversation with him after seven attempts during the course of the event, and he was impressed by what I had to say. It’s not easy to cram your whole life story into five minutes…
[Actually I turned him on to Russian physics and how it validated and enhanced what he was already discussing. 🙂 ]
My labors also helped manifest a new shed on the land. We dug out rocks, laid the foundation, hammered the framing together, hung plywood, cut tar paper and tacked it to the roof, et cetera – quite a process. I tried not to volunteer more than one day a week, since I knew I could get too swept into it otherwise – no one else was showing up to work – and I had to focus on paying the bills and maintaining my own ‘mission’. I still ended up doing an average of two full days of Avalon labor a week for the first six months I lived in Milton – but Bear did vastly more than I ever did.
Most of the time I lived in Kentucky, I was taking as many clients for psychic readings as my energy would allow. I could only serve one person in a day, since each dream that morning would run me through the client’s issues as if they were my own. I wouldn’t see the person in a dream and say, “Oh, there they are, and that’s their problem”; I literally would BECOME them, and experience their deepest, darkest moments and growth issues as if they were happening to me.
This, of course, included eye surgeries, toxic relationships, drug and alcohol abuse, car accidents, horrible job environments, debilitating health problems, et cetera. There are hundreds of specific examples that I will catalog and publish in the future, making sure not to share enough to betray confidentiality – the main intent being to establish the consistency of the pattern with redundant detail.
Four readings like this a week was my maximum, with one week off a month for conferences. I never charged more for each reading than what would pay my minimum monthly expenses, IF I did as many as my energy would possibly allow – but some people still accused me of profit-mongering at the 150-dollar rate. There was no profit – and I couldn’t take any more clients than I was already taking!
Some people barked, “Edgar Cayce never charged for readings,” but in fact this was only a rare exception in cases of potentially imminent death – and no one’s life depended on getting a reading from me, which only dealt in philosophical issues related to their spiritual growth. Cayce’s rate was 25 dollars in the early 20th century, and adjusted at a conservative dime-to-dollar inflation rate, it would now be at least 250 by today’s standards – minimum. I really needed to stop caring what others said, but that proved to be an acquired skill that demanded much meditation and practice.
I also managed to hit off a conference almost every month, during which time I would be mobbed by people who were all clamoring to get me alone long enough to tell me their life story. Everyone instinctively wanted to thrust me into the role of a New Age priest offering confession. No one seemed to realize that they were behaving the same way everyone else did, or that unbroken attentive listening while in a teeming crowd of people who all wanted access to me was real work, for which I was offered nothing in return.
If you tried to hurry them along, look away or cut them off, they would become emotionally charged and feel betrayed – this was their One Big Chance – and I could sense this upset very easily on the psychic level, as I would feel it as if it were my own. I was always surprised by how few people actually wanted to ask me any questions. Ultimately I would learn you had to cut in, address them like little children, patiently explain what was going on around them and in your own schedule, and politely but firmly disengage and turn away. I would come back from these conferences feeling even more drained than when I left – sort of like the feeling of eating and eating and eating your own birthday cake until it makes you throw up – and then it was right back into blending with clients each morning and talking to them about it on the phone each evening.
Thankfully the cruises and sacred tours were much cooler than conferences, because the groups were small and each person had multiple opportunities to interact, so they could be much more relaxed and talk to me like a real person, with two-way give and take. Nonetheless, after my first cruise I got extremely sick, thanks to the cheap new carpets in the house which were constantly outgassing toxic fumes, and having massively overextended myself for the participants. I hardly ever took private time, and performed a reading for almost every person on the tour, out of my own naive belief that it was a good idea, since I needed to fund the purchase of my own washing machine for the house. In that case I did as many as four a day and didn’t even remember my dreams in the morning because I was working so hard.
This crippling respiratory sickness pushed all my scheduled clients ahead for two weeks, so that as soon as I got moderately functional (right around the time Bear moved in and Bush was re-Selected,) I was running a client every day for what seemed like an eternity. My whole life increasingly felt like I was the revolving door at the entrance to a gorgeous building, and when you’ve relied on dreams for guidance for well over a decade, to have every dream require the question “is this mine or someone else’s” made it seem that my greatest levels of privacy, intimacy and selfhood had been compromised. Some people might not like it if you wander into their room… well, this was my SOUL. My sacred honor inadvertently became like a prison sentence, and as soon as I could afford to stop taking clients less than a year later, I shut the whole thing down.
This might sound crazy to you, but like in the Cayce days, I didn’t need to know anything about the person I was going to do a reading for. Their name was enough, and sometimes I didn’t even have that – I would occasionally forget I had a reading that day, but I still would have dreamed their dream anyway when the phone rang and I had to start the session.
All I was ever given in advance was a name, and the knowledge that on that particular day I had to do a reading for that person. I’d make sure I brought back at least one dream, and it would invariably give all sorts of specific details about their most pressing issues. Again, I would LIVE through all of these issues – not just the problems but what would need to be done to solve them – as if they were my own.
The most dramatic example I have is from the lady who had the eye surgery, in which I experienced the entire procedure, in all its squeamishly specific details before, during and after, as if it had happened to me. That dream really was one of the major “dealbreakers” that made me say “I really need to stop this.” Violent attacks and rapes – more often the fear or the aftermath than the actual events themselves – were also no picnic. Thankfully, the television show “Medium” has raised public awareness about how people can pick things up in dreams, so it’s much easier to talk about this now than it was a few years ago.
By the time the person called me in the evening, I felt as if I had already lived their life, experienced their own dark night of the soul, and knew exactly what they would need to heal – better than they themselves did. There were times where they hardly needed to say anything – they’d just call, I’d start telling them the dream, what I felt it meant and what they needed to do about it, and before long they’d either start sobbing or saying “oh my God” in disbelief. For me it was a daily reality. This was just a system that worked. I had a client, I had a dream, the dream was right. Simple.
All this happened BEFORE the actual reading itself, in which I would enter into a deep trance and speak from that place. People said “why don’t you just ask NOT to dream about them, since they’re booking a reading, not a dream”, and believe me I did, but it still happened anyway.
In the reading portion of the work, I used a little-known aspect of universal law to create a time portal, using nothing more than the powers of the mind. This time portal allowed my conscious mind to merge with a part of myself that I will not fully evolve into for millions of years in our time – a part known as the Higher Self. Every person on Earth has a Higher Self – each of which is the equivalent of an entire planet worth of entities that have merged into a group consciousness. Much of this blog will detail the relationship that I have with my Higher Self, and by extension what others have as well. In my own case (and many other people here on Earth as well), this collective entity has gone by a variety of names throughout time, but the one name that we can most easily recognize is what they were called by the Egyptians – namely Ra.
I certainly do not “worship the sun god” or any such nonsense, as I was once accused of. It turns out that Ra is one of a group of real entities that have evolved far past the point we’re at now, and are watching over and protecting this planet. The ‘rabbit hole’ gets really deep really fast from this point, and it is such a radical difference from the world most people know that the knowledge remains safely obscure. This website has far more scientific, specific detail about it than any other source you will ever find.
There is tons and tons of ‘channeling’ out there, on the Internet, in books and elsewhere. The vast majority of it is a blending of some small percentage of genuine ‘source’ data with a much larger percentage of ‘overlay’ from the conscious mind. True UN-conscious channeling, where the source completely takes over and you have no conscious awareness or control over what’s being said, is very rare. The only credible examples I’ve ever come across are Edgar Cayce and the Law of One series. Everything else, including my own work now, involves some degree of ‘filtering’ through the conscious mind, and that’s where the trouble comes from.
I have no doubt that people could be trained to be better channelers, and a criteria could be formed in which credibility could be evaluated. Before I ever started doing this I became very well-read on the protocols for remote viewing, that infamous secret government project in which ordinary people were trained to visit and accurately describe remote locations without ever leaving the room they started in, physically. Another part of themselves, often called the ‘astral body,’ travels to this distant location, views it and brings back the information in real time, causing the person to feel “bi-located”.
Remote viewers KNOW whether they are accurate or not – you either describe the target or you get garbage. It IS possible to train a remote viewer to be well above 90 percent accurate in his or her perceptions. The main protocol is to avoid analyzing or engaging the data with your mind in any way as it comes through; you follow the protocols, keep your mind busy, and record data fast enough that your mind doesn’t have time to stop and look at it.
This is vastly more difficult with channeling – enough so that in the last 100 years there are only a handful of sources that are even partially credible. The access to quick, instant celebrity on the Internet has made this problem far, far worse than it was when you at least had to convince a publisher to put out your book, or pony up the money to do it yourself.
The biggest problem is that sentences are coming out of your mouth, and your mind says “Oh, this is cool, I like this, I know where this is going” and starts contributing to the data. Before long, your results are largely the product of your imagination, with a few genuine ‘psychic hits’ thrown in that make more naive readers believe that the whole thing now has unimpeachable credibility. Then you end up making prophecies about a certain date, usually some kind of doomsday, and when the date comes and goes with nothing to show for it, your hand-wringing explanations are not sufficient to restore your shattered credibility among all but the most gullible of your readers.
I did not start out with smooth, flowing verse, augmented by imagination. Most channelers are speaking complete sentences when they first get started, thanks to this blending process with the conscious mind, but in my case I followed remote-viewing protocols as best I could, adapting them specifically to the collection of individual words and sentence fragments. As a result, my early results were highly disjointed and did not read very well at all. The data came through in an “encrypted” fashion, often using dream-like metaphors to establish points. In order to avoid my mind grabbing on, when the source needed to talk about me it would often refer to me in the feminine gender – essentially so that personal messages could get through and I wouldn’t have enough time to figure out what was going on.
It took a great deal of work for me to get to the point where I could hold the proper depth of trance and have the results come through as consistent, reliable sentences. Furthermore, I’d already been doing ESP exercises since I was seven years old and had a daily practice of writing my dreams down in the morning for the previous four years. Both of these disciplines certainly made it easier to go into this kind of work, but even so I had a lot of clearing to do… I had to resolve outstanding issues in my life, like my unemployment and a relationship that had basically broken up but wasn’t finalized, before I was clear enough to get a reliable connection. Very soon after I got a job and resolved the relationship issue, the contact began.
It wasn’t as if a force overtook me in the morning. I knew exactly what I was trying to do, the final piece coming in when a man named Joe Mason told me about a technique he called the “Dream Voice”, where you record the disjointed sentence fragments you hear in your mind when you first wake up, almost like there is a television on in the background. I had noticed this before and actually spoke about it in a philosophy class one time, calling it a ‘word mosaic,’ and I’d had some limited success in the past with trying to track it and finding out that there was some loose order to the apparent chaos. Now I was going to commit myself to documenting this data as specifically as possible, with no regards for whether any of it made sense. In fact, if it DID make too much sense than I was not doing it properly.
My first morning with the Dream Voice was over a decade ago, on November 10, 1996. The first three years, 1997, 98 and 99, I stayed in very close contact with the Source and was pulling in readings, first for myself and later for a general readership, at the very least two or three times a week, and often almost on a daily basis. The Source guided me in and out of various jobs, and counseled me extensively about my spiritual issues. More often than not, my biggest problems were fear and lack of self-respect. It was very easy for others to come into my life and take control, because I had very little sense of self – I genuinely was more concerned about others, and what they wanted, rather than my own needs.
Bear in mind that there were incredible, world-class psychic results happening to me while I was working in the most mundane, low-paying jobs you could imagine. Tapes would stack up on my desk, awaiting transcription, and every time I sat down to start typing in the data (which was often a month or more old), it would start describing things that had just happened to me right before I walked into the room. This might seem impossible, but to me it was just a standard part of the process.
TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW…