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Home Occult/Spirituality Authors Foreword: Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan

Authors Foreword: Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan


Jack Heart’s New Book, the Author’s Foreword


Jack Heart



In 2012 I wrote an account of what I experienced in 1989, a testimony to my own forcible removal from the familiar surroundings of Plato’s Cave where the vast majority of the human race, live out their lives watching shadows on the wall. It’s taken eight years, and within the last year the breakdown and systemic failure of every cherished notion of what it means to be human but now maybe the last ones standing can understand the implications of what is in that book. It was published today. This is the author’s foreword.

The Human: Jack, Orage & friends. Jack Heart writings

Time has no power over the spirit and will of man

Author’s Foreword: Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan

Like nomads we walk the earth without a home, never to love, never to feel, and never to fear death because we know our souls are older than death itself. Empathy is a strange and alien emotion to us. If you can feel it for the few then you cannot feel it for the many, not as acutely as we do. We are Allogenes, strangers in a strange land, come here for a moment, one moment of truth. Miss it and we will have lived in vain. This is the story of how we missed ours. Metaphorically this is a story of how C. G. Jung and Al Capone went out clubbing and found Aleister Crowley tending bar with the Goddess on the dance floor. But do not be deceived this is the story of the human soul…   

Author’s Foreword: Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan

By Jack Heart

I wasn’t really crazy till I found out I was sane. Back in New York they called me Crazy George. That was about ten years after the facts. It was around the turn of the twenty-first century when they tagged me with that. The Sopranos got a character; George Esposito named after me. I remember when the impetus for that occurred. Somewhere back in the early two thousands an old time “Good-fellow” named Capuluiso, the cousin of slain godfather Paul Castellano, died. I was good friends with his son George so even though I didn’t know him out of the obligatory respect I attended his funeral in Brooklyn and signed the mass card. The whole cast for the Sopranos were there, which I found tacky from the get-go. When I was invited to be introduced to them, because of that and the fact that I consider them all a walking talking racial slur to Italian Americans, I not so respectfully declined.

I remember watching the Pagans motorcycle gang and Michael Franzese on the investigative discovery channel and wondering why it wasn’t me. I know Michael from way back, I know his friends, and I know his friends friends. And they all know me. Just like I know the Pagans and was intimately acquainted with their legendary “Bubba,” a man who would have scared Jesus Christ himself. Michael was the son of Sonny Franzese, a legend in his own right. A lot of these Italian dudes will play off their father’s reputations, some will even tell you who their father is before they tell you who they are, but Michael wasn’t like that.

It was somewhere around the turn of the twenty-first century and it was a slow night at the Café Royale, one the New York City areas top three strip clubs at the time, along with Scores and Gallagher’s. Michael had come in with his whole crew and that was about it. About a dozen of them were drinking at the bar. I was standing at the door being assaulted by a bevy of scantily clad woman. Who wasn’t going to make enough money to cover the sixty-dollar house fee, who wanted to go home early, and who didn’t want to work with me because my friends scared the customers away. It was one of those nights where I would be lucky to break a hundred dollars myself. I wanted to go home early.

About a half a dozen cars pull up in the parking lot by the door filled with young Hispanic men dressed to the nines. Knowing Hispanic street gangs were not allowed in the club, outside of course some OG’s from the Latin Kings whom we treated like royalty to keep the rest of them out, one guy did all the talking. I told him we couldn’t let MS 13 in the club, and he tells me they’re not MS 13 but a rival gang at the time named neta neta. I’d heard of them and I wasn’t impressed, but he takes out a wad of cash that must have been about five thousand dollars. He tells me they got no guns, and they are there to spend this money. A couple of the girls were standing at the door watching this, so I went and talked it over with them. I had to let them in now. If no one made any money it would really be my fault. I told them they could come in and wanded them with the hand-held metal detector for guns, which true to their word they didn’t have.

I told them I didn’t want any trouble and the first sign of it they had to leave and sat down at the bar with them. If looks could kill the looks my lone bouncer that night was shooting me from the mezzanine would have killed me on the spot. At first everything went smoothly, and they were spending money faster than the barmaids could pour drinks. But they were getting loaded and dancers were trying to roll them. By then I knew what was coming. One of them gets in a heated argument with a dancer and I told them it was time to go. They weren’t having it, so I grab two of them one in a headlock in each arm and start dragging them towards the door. My bouncer came flying down from the mezzanine and does the same. The rest of them start pulling out carpet razors. I stupidly didn’t check them for knives.

That was when Michael and his crew got busy. One kid James could throw kicks like Jean-Claude Van Damme. He had a body like him too and was about six foot four. The girls used to love to ogle him. He decks about a half of them with his feet. X-ACTO’s were clanging all over the floor; I would pick up about a half dozen later on. When we got them outside Michael pulled his gun and saw to it that they drove off without further incident. Michael was a standup guy, and he didn’t need his father. But I had seen and done things a decade before that would have turned his shock of jet-black hair white and everybody knew that about me.

A year or two later I had to stop working in strip clubs when a drug dealer I was extorting broke my jaw. He cold cocked me when my back was turned, it was the first time I’d been knocked down by a punch in my life, at least when I wasn’t falling down drunk anyway. I still got up and fought him to a draw but having my jaw wired for weeks forced me to admit I was getting old. Unfortunately, children grow up; my daughters did. One became a materialistic yuppie, a card carrying Khazarian princess. The other one followed in my ex-wife’s family tradition of dedicated service in the strip club industry. When the bodies of strippers and call girls started turning up at Gilgo Beach, one or two snatched from right around the block of a club she worked at, I spent many a sleepless night.

I had a friend, my best friend since I was eleven years old, probably the most feared assassin to ever stalk the underworld. Some of Johns early work with the neighbors in a house in Amityville, the next door over from the one we both grew up in, and I suspect as one of the Son of Sam shooters, is very well known. He’s dead now, so I can say it. I hadn’t seen him in twenty years and from out of the blue he called my mother’s phone early on a December morning in 2011. John left a long drawn-out message on the machine about how a friend of mine had just committed suicide and he figured that he better call me and tell me before I heard about it on the news. It turned out to be one of my wholesalers, the biggest landscape supplier on Long Island and a major player in its real estate game. Jimmy Bissett had just purchased a twelve-million-dollar home and nobody could understand why he had just blown his brains all over his car in an east end park, right before a lunch date with his best friend. I couldn’t figure out how John had known about it seemingly almost before it happened and why he had bothered calling me after all those years, on my mother’s unlisted number. I’m not that sentimental and he of all people knew that.

In the ensuing days it would come out among Long Island’s politically connected that the father, who had started the landscape supply business, a man I had known since I was eighteen, was being held by the police. The rumor was bodies or pieces of the bodies connected to Gilgo Beach were being dug up on the father’s property. The family owned chunks of Brookhaven and the good part of Riverhead, including its famous aquarium. Newsday, Long Island’s rag of a newspaper, had even printed something to the effect that the father was being questioned by police but quickly withdrew it with a disclaimer. The whole thing was covered up.

As noted on the investigative journalism show 48 Hours by the mother of Shannon Gilbert, the murdered call girl whose disappearance led to the discovery of her own and eleven other bodies around the Gilgo Beach area: Long Island is “an evil dirty place.” What she said about Oak Beach applies to most of the east end: “It’s isolated. It’s desolate. It’s a rich community. You’ve got doctors and cops and very very wealthy people who live there. No one’s ever going to think that that’s a bad dangerous area. But it is.”1 Shortly after making that statement on National TV she would be murdered by her other daughter, Shannon’s sister, who is said to be insane but appeared perfectly normal in the show. Her murder effectively ended the media investigation which Shannon’s mother had started into the blatant police cover up of her daughters and most likely the eleven other murders. (2)

When I called the number back a couple of days later that John had left on my mother’s answering machine I started to tell him what I’d heard about the suicide, which by then was major news on Long Island. He claimed he had never heard of Jimmy Bissett and he didn’t know what I was talking about. Having been through that drill before with him, I shut up immediately and never mentioned it again until now. I would find out later that the friend Jimmy Bissett was scheduled to eat lunch with was a friend of both my ex-wife Michelle and my daughter. He was a regular at the club they both worked in, if not an owner as he claimed to them. He has been very good about severing his ties with my family.

I started thinking after that about how many people had died that John may have just found offensive and how they always seemed to be found shot dead in their own cars as if their assailant had been sitting in the car with them. There were the two guys in the Pagans motorcycle gang, the stripper that got carved up in North Amityville, the wrestler at the Crazy Clown, Sleepy Joe the drug dealer who like the wrestler worked for a mob family he didn’t like, the whole thing about the Defeo’s and the “Amityville Horror” when he was only fifteen and all the urban legend whispered among the Amityville locals. Even the cops were afraid of this guy. I’d seen it myself when Michelle and I went with him to the funeral of the wrestler, who was Michelle’s boss at the time. I saw with my own eyes Suffolk County homicide, legendarily brutal cops with a 95% confession rate, stammering and groveling to John in the middle of the funeral parlor, while the widow tearfully begged him to help them. That was just what I had seen happen around me. He didn’t advertise and never ever admitted to anything. I knew how he did it; he had done it to me, right after the two incidents with Michelle that featured me being hauled off in ambulances in the summer of eighty-nine.

But sometimes in order to maintain ones roots in “the world of the living,” as Don Henley calls this, it’s necessary to compartmentalize the experiences you’ve had outside that world and lock them in the back of your brain in a neat little box labeled Do Not Open. That’s the difference between those who remain paralyzed for life from PTSD and those who have learned how to forget and are seemingly “normal” after undergoing traumatic events.

I had already been writing for a couple of years on Open Salon (OS) and people like John Blumenthal, one of the premier authors in America and editor of Playboy Magazine for a score of years, had told me I was good at it. I had been toying with the idea of writing a book but never of opening the little box. I was going to write about the strip club scene circa the turn of the twenty-first century at the Café Royale. There would be sex with stunningly beautiful woman and lots of funny stories about gangsters and celebrities. I figured I could make some money now that I knew how to type, which I had painstakingly taught myself to do on OS while being tutored in the art of writing by some of the best in the business. I had forgotten about the twentieth century. I had to if I wanted to live in the twenty-first. I had lived over twenty years in a world that I knew wasn’t real. But as Bob Dylan said in Tangled Up in Blue: “But all the while I was alone the past was close behind…”

By the end of 2011 I drank too much, ate too much and did too many drugs. I had three or four different prescriptions just to get to sleep at night, not to mention a hip that needed replacing and at least a half dozen other old wounds that gave me trouble. I made good money doing landscaping, but after thirty years there was no more future in it for me. Quiet desperation was the best I could hope for. I had forgotten all about the little box. When John dropped back into my life with his customary homicidal greeting I began to remember. I started thinking, why not write the book? Everyone else writes a book. Why not write the book?

I went to go see him at his junk yard over by Bissett’s Nursery and run the idea by him. I would never do it without his consent. His first answer was a resounding no, but when I explained to him the circumstances of our impeding old age, he lightened up. Although he still didn’t think it was a good idea. I don’t think he could get past the half dozen or so unsolved homicides he knew would come up; besides all that old stuff about the Amityville incident. But by the time I left, he had grudgingly consented.

In the months that followed he did a complete about face and started calling me up and telling me what else to put in it; including an all-night bar fight at the Coaches Four with the notorious Pagan Vinnie Gamblers old crew. That was his idea. I had already begun with two apocalyptic brawls involving the Pagans. I thought throwing in a quaint little getting to know you fistfight was too much, but he insisted. Now I think I know why. Vinnie and his girlfriend; Gracie the top billed stripper on the circuit in the late eighties, would have prominent parts in the narrative. I didn’t know that when I began the book. I had played the Fool through the whole thing. All I knew was I was giving an eyewitness account of the Babylon Working and I only knew that because Preston Nichols, the progenitor of the Montauk Projects, had clued me in years after the fact. But John knew, he had always known, probably since we were eleven years old…

After the Vietnam War, the Pagans –many of them combat veterans of Nam– had taken over Long Island’s underworld, if not Long Island itself. The papers were full of their exploits. The police had at one time attempted to interfere with one of their funeral processions which were always over a hundred bikes long and guaranteed to halt traffic three towns away. Two overzealous cops pulled them over resulting in a beating for every cop on the east end of Long Island dumb enough to respond to their call for backup. I don’t remember how it turned out legally for the club. I was a kid at the time, but I do remember that the two cops had to be put in the Federal Witness Protection program. Even the Hell’s Angels gave the Pagans a wide birth. The Angels had a really happening clubhouse in lower Manhattan and the run of all NYC, but no Angel would dare step foot on Long Island during the seventies and eighties. It was rumored that Mick Jagger refused to use his multimillion-dollar mansion in the Hamptons, because the Pagans considered him a Hell’s Angel. They had a clubhouse out in the Hamptons, but their capital buildings and the place from which they ran Long Island’s thriving strip club industry were two bars; Gaslight and Bogart’s right across the street from Babylon Town Hall. Various Norse occult insignias were emblazoned on the backs of their jackets, yet when I met her at the Pagans flagship clubs I didn’t get it. Like I said, the Fool, but John was with me. He had arranged the whole thing, he got it. He was German, and much later when I read Miguel Serrano a few years ago I would find out what I had lived through twenty-five years ago was the religion of the Nazis…

John’s been dead a couple of years now. Many of the main characters in the book have died since its completion. The last one was Gracie who died abruptly right after Peter Pan Meets Pyramid Head was published. All have died unexpectedly, some “overdoses,” some for no apparent reason at all. They ranged in age from late forty’s to mid-fifties.

By the end of 2012, the book was done. If you believed in what’s in it, and back then I still really didn’t, it’s the most important thing ever written. Personally, I just thought I’d written a best seller, as I’d intended from the start. Now I wanted the money. I read everything I could find on writing a query. Then I wrote a better one and sent it to all relevant publishers and literary agents in hard copy; along with a synopsis and partial manuscript, as required by individual submission policies. It cost me a few hundred dollars, but I figured after the initial expense I could sit back and sell to the highest bidder. All I got back was the self-addressed stamped envelopes requested in some submission guidelines for responses. They were stuffed with a form letter politely saying that my manuscript wasn’t for them.  I suspected there was something very wrong, what I’d written was an instant bestseller and I knew it. But when the post office left a note on my door to come down and pick up a piece of certified mail I was certain the worm had turned. What I got back was my partial manuscript, synopsis and query, certified mail at the publisher’s expense. This is unheard of in the publishing business. The publisher would go broke in a month. Unwanted manuscripts and submissions are discarded. No one takes money out of their pocket for an unsolicited submission except the party doing the submitting. In the packet was an interoffice memo from the office of literary agent Suzanne Gluck to the legal department of the Morris Agency in reference to my manuscript, stating: “I just wanted to make sure we have a record of receiving it. Please let me know if you have any questions.”

I’d used peoples real names in the book but by then I knew there were problems with the book that went far deeper than liability. They’d already started working me on the internet. I was being briefed into the fact that there is no reality, and events that occur in waking moments, at least for some, more resemble The Illuminatus! Trilogy than a John Steinbeck novel. Those events that we see, they manifest themselves in the world around us, and all the little pixels euphemistically known as people. What is implied in the book is all true and I would find out, long after writing it, when I was instructed to read master occultist Miguel Serrano by a famous Moto-Cross athlete that it is the secret religion of the Nazis.

That would explain my relationship to Preston Nichols, the progenitor of the Montauk Project in the nineties. Before Hollywood invented The Matrix, there was the Montauk Project. It is the mother of all conspiracy theories, and the name reversed was even the original title of hit TV show Stranger Things.

Among Nichols’ circle of friends his story was taken so seriously that John Ford, the president of the Long Island U.F.O. Network and three of his friends were given lengthy prison sentences after being implicated in a 1996 plot to poison then Suffolk County Republican Chairman John Powell, Suffolk Legislator Fred Towle and Brookhaven Conservative Party chief Anthony Gazzola by exposing them to radium. Nichols knew things and he said far more than he wrote. One of the people he said them too was me.

I had been away for a couple of years. When I got back in 1991 I had twin two-year-old girls and a trophy wife who was a part-time mother and a full-time gangster. Money, which had always come in piles I didn’t bother counting before I spent, was now hard to come by. I found myself working two jobs just to make ends meet. One of them was at a car wash by the intersection of Hempstead Turnpike and Route 109, probably the most heavily trafficked intersection on Long Island. The car wash was part of a parcel of buildings that included Total Health; a one-stop nutrition and occult store that was the hub of Long Island’s thriving New Age movement. From there the most avant-garde Aquarian lectures were coordinated all over the island and New York City. Marty Myers, my mother’s on again off again boyfriend till he died a few years ago, owned the whole block. He was the Jewish brains behind the “mafia” gas tax scam Michael Franzese talks about on TV.

Marty and my mother were very close friends with Dr. J. J. Hurtak the man who was covertly calling the shots, on behalf of NASA and the NSA, on the Giza plateau for the last twenty-five years of the twentieth century. I think it was through him I met Richard Hoagland; NASA’s pyramids on Mars guy. When I wasn’t wrestling dirt bags for a full share of the tips in the car wash I was in the store rubbing elbows with just about everybody who was anybody in the New Age movement. I think it was Deepak Chopra that I once told that he reminded me of the swami from a Frank Zappa song…

With what I’d seen and done I was hardly impressed, especially with Hurtak, his pigeon Hebrew and his “coming beings of pure light.” Which he assured them all would be arriving momentarily to take over the planet and guide the human race to a new and greater destiny. They were all attending study classes on his book; The Keys of Enoch. I remember when my mother gave me a copy. I smiled and thanked her; feigned fascination, took it home and threw it in the garbage. It was a very expensive book, but it reminded me too much of my copy of Aleister Crowley’s Holy Books which had nearly killed me a few years back. The covers were almost identical. Besides, it was payback for an English translation of the Gospel of Aradia that I had managed to obtain while I was away and sent home. Somehow my mother had got her hands on the extremely rare at the time witches bible while it was at my house and thrown it away; claiming it was evil.

Into this circus of the strange, seemingly… bumbled Preston Nichols. When I saw him in the store I immediately recognized him, having seen him once a few years ago in the strip clubs. Back then as he was now Preston was morbidly obese and dressed like he was trying to define the word nerd. Yet the night he walked into the Bogart’s club is etched in my brain. He was arguing with a skinny guy about the same age as himself over rock bands. He stopped in front of me and pronounced U2 to the skinny guy like something had been decided.

He was like that, what he said, in spite of a comical almost disgusting appearance and an unassuming voice, stuck in people’s heads like a traumatic life-defining event. He had them snake charmed in Total Health before he walked out the door on the first day. A week later I was given his book by my mother or Marty and told I just had to read it.

First thing I noticed was Nichols story revolved around Camp Hero where my father had been stationed during the Korean War. My father was 101est Airborne; Screaming Eagles, a golden gloves semi-finalist, captain of crazy Joe Gallo’s Brooklyn kiddy gang the Gremlins and about as gung-ho as John Wayne. All his friends from boot camp and he had a lot of them, had seen active combat. I had always wondered why, if the army wouldn’t parachute him in, he hadn’t swum to Korea on his own. When I asked him, he was always a little vague, but it turned out he was one of the best shots in the army. Even then if he couldn’t centre a bullseye at 300 yards “the scope needed adjusting.” He would adjust all his friends’ scopes for them when he was a hunting guide. So, what he told me, that he had been kept in Montauk to shoot for the 101est in military competitions seemed plausible.

Fleeing the Brooklyn heroin epidemic during the Vietnam War he had moved out to Long Island when I was eleven years old. I didn’t like killing animals much, but fish didn’t bother me in the least, so he quickly acquired a captain’s license to run up to ninety-ton charter boats. I spent a lot of time as a teenager out in Montauk working on those boats. The sound of the wind whistling through outriggers and water lapping boats at dockside late at night is even now vivid in my mind. There had been a very strange incident involving the abandoned base on the fourth of July when I was turning eighteen but other than that I had never noticed anything unusual about Montauk except its physical beauty. Life itself gets no better than trolling for stripers at night in the Tournament of the Full Moon, the inky darkness pierced by the lighthouse above and water roiling with phosphorescence below.

The giant radar dish my father used to help operate was to the west of the lighthouse. My father had always been adamant that there could be no such things as flying saucers because they never picked a single UFO up on that dish during all the flying saucer hullabaloo of the early fifties. But my father had also always insisted that people made stuff up about dreams. He said he had never had a dream in his life…

In one of those funny little coincidences that aren’t coincidences, I had met Michelle’s grandfather about the same time I met Preston Nichols. Her father, his son, had never been right in the head and was practically a ward of the VA. He had seen something that had to do with UFO’s when he was stationed in Iceland in the early sixties. By the time he blew his brains out in the late nineties because they had amputated his legs for medical reasons he swore he could see the mothership waiting for him in the night sky over Patchogue. Michelle’s whole family on her father’s side was military.

The grandfather was the patriarch and he specialized in setting up radio towers, had one in his back yard for his ham radio. I had only gotten to meet him because stomach cancer had gotten the better of him in Southeast Asia and finally he had to come home to die. He thought his son was a blithering idiot, but he couldn’t wait to see his great granddaughters. When he got stateside he immediately commissioned me to relandscape his North Babylon home while he and his wife watched the kids for me. I winced watching three-year old’s frolic on his stomach and moved to restrain the girls, but he just wouldn’t have it. The man never even showed signs of pain as he sat there dying yet grinning approval at his fourth-generation progeny using his disease-racked body for a trampoline.

Nichols had been talking a lot about microwaves and oscillating frequency’s and my wife had let slip that her grandfather did a lot of top-secret work with radio signals for the military, but he didn’t talk to anyone about it. At the time I knew nothing about quantum physics and even less about radio waves and frequencies so the only part of Nichols’ story that made any sense to me was the part about Einstein and the Philadelphia experiment. We were spending a lot of time over there, so I brought Nichols book over his house and asked him naively whether any of the stuff in it was possible. He told me to leave the book with him so he could read it.

When I saw him a day or two later the book was by his side and I asked him could any of it be true. He said nothing, he didn’t have too the way he looked at me and handed me the book back like he had just touched something that he shouldn’t have. He never said another word about that book. When he finally died his funeral procession closed 231, the main road North and South for central Long Island and jammed it with hundreds of fire trucks and police cars. I have never seen anything like it; it was as if the president had died.

I was always looking for explanations for what I’d seen back in eighty-nine. I’d run the gamut from aliens to Magick but had always kept Marty, my mother and Hurtak’s Team Tinkerbelle at arm’s length. I began paying much closer attention to Preston Nichols. When he came out with his second and third books which put Aleister Crowley at the centre of it all, I knew I was being set up. Crowley was at the bottom of my rabbit hole too. Besides when I first met Nichols, my ex and I lived in a place called La Bonne Vie in East Patchogue. It was an upscale apartment complex filled with mostly young married people and singles. Some of the wives there had told her they had a neat way of making fifty dollars cash for an hour’s time spent listening to music in what is now the Hampton Inn in Brookhaven, about five minutes away from La Bonne Vie. All they had to do is sit in the auditorium and listen to different music as it was played over headphones and press a response button whether they liked it or not. Since she used to go up there with about a half dozen other woman from around our courtyard I never questioned it. She was always back home within an hour or two.

One night she was overdue and since I didn’t have the kids I took a ride up there. When I got there the auditorium was just clearing out and she was getting up to leave with her friends. Preston Nichols was sitting at the podium in the front; obviously, the man from the Brookhaven Lab giving the tests. I said nothing, but when I saw him a few days later, he claimed he didn’t remember, and that kind of stuff was always happening with him. It was what originally inspired him to write the Montauk Projects. I never trusted him after that. The same thing was always happening to me too…

As far as I knew I had been in prison for two years, but there was something about my memories that just weren’t right. When I got home the first thing I did was have sex with my trophy wife. When we finally got done we were both lying in the bed naked and drenched in sweat. She suddenly got up and started rummaging through the closet for something. She came back to the bed holding a lightweight camouflage jacket and threw it at me. I asked her “what’s this?” She told me a customer who had been in the gulf war had given it to her because he had been so disgusted with the army. Curious, I examined it and could see it was full of discolored spots on the fabric where the patches and insignias had all been carefully removed as if by razor so as not to rip the jacket. I thought that was a lot of trouble to go through for a guy who was disgusted with something. So, I asked her about it. She just shrugged and said, “I don’t know, maybe he didn’t want anybody to know who he was, I haven’t seen him in a while and I never got his name.” She could do that, tell you the most outlandish lie imaginable and then never budge from that lie despite all evidence to the contrary. I didn’t bother asking her anything else, I knew that would be futile, but I did keep the jacket, mostly because she hated it and hated it even more when I wore it.

Around the beginning of 1995 we moved into a condo in West Patchogue right off of Waverly Avenue. If things had been a little strange at La Bonne Vie and they were, this place made it look like Mayberry.

About a week after we moved out of the place, two years later, we sat at the bar of Kabuki, Babylon’s best Sushi joint at the time. We started talking to this other young couple and when they found out we had just moved out of there they couldn’t wait to relate their own experiences when they lived there.

The place was three stories, with the attic supposedly off limits. But the couple was constantly disturbed by loud noises coming from their ceiling. They lived on the second floor as we did. When he went up there to investigate he found three kids growing pot up there that threatened him to keep his mouth shut. Deeply disturbed by this encounter they broke their lease and moved out.

I suspect that is an implanted memory. While living there I was attacked by globules of light in my sleep which were driven off. I found out from Preston Nichols that there had been a UFO crash that same night at the nearby park to the east, of course covered up by Brookhaven Lab. I went there and saw the downed trees for myself. My Rottweiler would frequently stand at the top of the stairs and growl down into the empty darkness below. I was just sitting on the couch one day when an ashtray on the cocktail table went flying across the room smashing violently in the next room. No one touched it, no one was even near it. Unmarked black helicopters periodically hovered at no more than a couple of hundred feet over the buildings, sometimes for fifteen minutes at a time. The noise was deafening but nobody ever seemed to notice or care.

Guys from the Long Island Lighting Company or LILCO, practically a subsidiary of the Brookhaven Lab and Long Island’s notoriously shady power suppliers at the time, prowled the grounds non-stop with hand held devices that looked to be detection meters for underground power leaks. A feeling of general uneasiness permeated the place like something wasn’t right in the atmosphere; a feeling in the air itself that usually occurs as the aftermath of a very powerful electric storm.

The courtyard was dominated by five couples, my wife and I being one of them. We were all in our early thirties and late twenties and there was an attractive woman, the same age as us that lived alone. Her I never talked too even though my kids ran in and out of her condo at will, which was encouraged by her. I was told she had a very important job with the government involving security by the other couples but with me she always kept her distance. We were the only ones with kids, and everybody partied very hard. Nobody even bothered locking their doors and we all walked in and out of each other’s condos, most of the time without even knocking. It was like a commune only everybody had money, and nobody ever seemed to work much for it, if at all, including me. Of course, my wife was making a lot of money.

There were all night keg parties in the courtyard and on sultry summer day’s family outings to Cory beach in Blue Point. Preston once told me how he liked to go to Cory beach at night and test out his homemade Orgone energy weapons by shooting down UFO’s…. He told me they were commonly seen at night over it, but I never saw one in the daytime which was the only time I went down there.

I remember a scorching summer day we spent there that is still vivid in my mind. It was one of those days where the heat actually turned the air hazy and the bayside beach was packed with young married couples accompanied by their rug rats and dragging along anything that would float.

As we passed by the concession there was a very strange looking older man by the tables who was talking real loud to no one in particular. You could hear him all the way down by the beach as he gave an historical recount of all America’s presidential administrations since Kennedy, finally concluding that HW Bush was the only one that was any good and how HW was the greatest American who ever lived. At the time I agreed with him. I think everybody on that beach did. Couples were making love right in the water with their kids building sand castles on the beach. It was like something right out of Woodstock. Michelle and I waded out to chest deep water and went at it next to a very attractive blond and her husband doing the same thing a few feet away. I think we all climaxed at the same time, but nobody ever spoke a word to anybody but their own spouse. The act itself was almost mechanical but intensely pleasurable.

We had two neighbors named Joe. One was married to a girl who was partially paralyzed from cerebral palsy. He was a military man who had been shot in the head during a training exercise, leaving him with a golf ball sized crater in his skull and a full disability pension. One night we were all sitting around drinking beer, neither military Joe nor his wife did cocaine. We were watching TV as the biggest forest fire Long Island had ever seen engulfed the Pine Barrens around the Brookhaven Lab, threatening to take out the lab itself. Miles upon miles of scrub pine were burning out of control and every fireman available on Long Island & in New York City was already there. The local news stations were asking for volunteers among able-bodied men, and we guessed we were their guys since neither one of us had to work.

Daybreak we headed east on Sunrise highway both wearing our camouflage jackets. On the 20-mile drive there I saw sections of pine bordering the highway suddenly just burst into flames a hundred feet high. The radio was explaining that this was because the pines were so dry that when an ember hit them they were like kindling but I have never seen anything like it before or since.

Somehow and I really don’t remember, we ended up in the middle of a very large open field with the woods burning around it. Smoke made it impossible to see much further than a hundred feet. Above us was a blue and white helicopter which I at first took to be a police helicopter but it was too big. It looked to be one of those luxury models. It wasn’t moving and just hovered about five hundred feet above us, the backwash from its propeller clearing my field of vision to it. A white Bronco driven by a very hard looking man about the same age as us pulls up from out of the haze and the guy, with an exasperated look on his face, starts talking to me like he knows me. He gestures with his chin up at the helicopter and says, “that’s Pataki up there in the helicopter.” Then he drove off looking disgusted. George Pataki was the governor of New York at the time.

A figure emerged from out of the swirling smoke wearing what looked to be a long flowing kimono like they wore in ancient China. He was oriental and looked to be a hundred years old. He got to about forty or fifty feet away and our eyes met briefly. I could see in his eyes a look of disappointment like I had betrayed him. Then he looked down again. The helicopter was still overhead, and the smoke abruptly lifted so I could see for a couple of hundred yards.

At the outer perimeter of my field of vision about half a dozen more figures, also wearing flowing gowns were slowly making their way toward the oriental Methuselah in front of me. The helicopter took off and so did Joe and I making are way back to the car which must have been a mile away. I don’t recall us ever having done any work or even how we knew where the car was, but it all seemed normal. On the drive back we never even discussed the oriental people dressed up like they were from the eighteenth century. When I did finally think about it when I got home, I told myself a Chinese restaurant must have been caught in the fire. Even though I knew there were no Chinese restaurants in the middle of the Pine Barrens…

It all came to an abrupt ending in the summer of ninety-six. It was the weekend, and it was my birthday. We were with Joe and his wife Laurie. We had taken their camping trailer out on the beach at Smiths Point. Laurie’s Joe was friends with the government security lady. He had the keys to her condo, which he spent a lot of time in when she was away. He was very different from military Joe and although he wasn’t a big man; right beneath his warm and friendly veneer there was something menacing about him, much like myself at the time but with Joe there was an undertone of malice.  He was the only one who would answer me back.

One night in the courtyard round about the second or third keg I was accusing them all of being aliens, haranguing all of them for being strange, Michelle too. None of it was unusual. I didn’t keep my mouth shut about what I saw and heard; leastways not to the perpetrators. As if he had been waiting for it Joe says to me “you’re always accusing everybody else of being an alien. Haven’t you figured it out yet? You’re the alien.” Then military Joe immediately jumps to my defense denying for everything he’s worth that I’m an alien and aggressively admonishing Joe for saying such a thing to me. There were about a dozen other people out there listening to this bizarre exchange intently. Afterwards no one said a thing for the rest of the night.

Joe and Laurie had a three-foot Iguana that had the run of their place and Michelle, and I had a three-foot Savannah Monitor named Gizmo that I had bought as a hatchling before I went away in 1990. Gizmo lived under the couch; usually. Joe and Laurie also shared our appetite for cocaine and sex which both were very much fueling the two-day party at Smiths Point that July weekend. The night on the beach was one of the strangest of the many strange nights I have known. But to quote Jim Morrison from Strange Days:

Strange days have found us
And through their strange hours
We linger alone
Bodies confused
Memories misused
As we run from the day
To a strange night of stone”

Around sundown a couple of unmarked black helicopters passed over, going from west to east along the surf line, which was about half the length of a football field down from the camper. No sooner had I remarked to Joe about how low they were flying than another appears in the west heading east along the beach no higher than a couple of hundred feet. Joe stepped out from the camper and walked down a ways toward the beach, so his silhouette was clear in the light of the setting sun and started signaling toward it like he was hailing a cab. By then I could see it was a brand-new Apache gunship painted gun metal black with no markings. It veered up the beach straight at us and settled over our camper so close that the sand from its prop wash was stinging my face. All the while Joe was acting like it was a joke. He continued to signal the pilot who if he could roll down the window was by now close enough to spit on him. After about thirty seconds of this, the gunship rose to about four hundred feet and took off to the east.

I don’t remember it getting dark, but I was probably in the camper doing something obscene with Michelle. When we came out there was a firework display on the bay side of the island and a lot of boats had come in close on the ocean side to watch. The barrier beach is less than a thousand feet wide at Smiths Point, so they had front row seats, along with us and everybody else who had a camper on the beach.

About a quarter mile offshore, all lit up, was a boat that was close to three hundred foot long. It dwarfed the eighty to hundred- and twenty-foot party boats that were out there. The water is no more than twenty to twenty-five feet deep where it was. I have never seen a boat that size that close to a Long Island beach. I could not see what kind of boat it was. But it was there and then it was gone, I didn’t see it coming in or going back out. When the display was over, we went inside the camper. When we came back out there was nobody, not a single soul on the beach and the campers around us looked eerily deserted; in fact, they looked like the tombstones in a graveyard.

The darkness seemed perceptibly tinged with a blue haze and the beach shimmered with a pale white glow. The only sound was the sound of the surf. All the boats were gone except for the three hundred-footer.  It was now a good three miles off the beach where it would stay for the rest of the night. It was the only other sign of life that night except for the light display that was taking place high in the eastern sky over the ocean. There were so many lights coming and going it could only have been a military exercise, but Joe started insisting they were UFO’s.

He wrapped himself in a beach blanket to look like an Old Testament prophet. He already had the long staff which he had carved from a piece of bamboo earlier. He climbed to the top of the highest dune, about thirty feet and began a sermon about how if we wanted to leave all we had to do is want them too and they would come and get us. Uncannily, one of the lights broke off as if on cue and started heading towards us. It seemed like it took forever to get to us and as it did the light on it grew brighter and brighter. When it finally got close enough to see, it turned out to be a helicopter with a search light. Joe still standing on the sand dune in his Jeremiah outfit solemnly pronounced that one of us didn’t want to see it so that’s why we all saw it as a helicopter. If everyone had really wanted to see it, it would have remained a UFO, which was really what it was. Everyone laughed uneasily.

There was nobody around, not one of the thousands of people camped out at Smiths Point beach that night was to be seen, not a soul, and we knew there wasn’t going to be any either. Feeling sensual in a very dark kind of way, Michelle and I went over the dunes to explore the bay side of the island, among other things. I don’t remember when we took our cloths off, but I remember skinny dipping in the bay. When we came out, we sat on a blanket she had set up on a dune. Suddenly, I felt what I thought was a hypodermic needle being pushed into my shoulder. I swatted at it and saw her do the same to her arm. After it happened a couple of more times to each of us, I did end up mashing what appeared to be a very large mosquito on my forearm, but she and I were just looking at each other. I lived on the water all my life and I’ve been bitten by thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of mosquitoes, never like this. We grabbed up our stuff and ran full speed back to the camper not bothering to put our clothes back on. When we broke into the path between the dunes that led to the camper, I stopped short and so did she. Right in front of us was a ditch big enough to bury the camper in. It wouldn’t be there in the morning, but that night we had to go around it to get back. We both saw it, nearly ran right into it.

Somehow I had pulled my shorts on by the time we found Joe and Laurie detaching their Bronco from the camper. Joe was making a joke out of it and saying he wanted to take a ride down to the inlet to see if there were any people left in this world, but he was really going and wanted us to come. Michelle suddenly became panic stricken, insisting that I should go but she had to stay there. As we drove the mile or so east down the deserted surf line to Moriches inlet, I rode in the front with Joe while Laurie sat in the back. I can’t recall whether the light show in the eastern sky was still going on, but I remember seeing the lights of the inlet reflected on its black water. I don’t remember anything after that till daybreak, when I was tending a bonfire in front of the camper and trying to make out what kind of boat the three-hundred-foot enigma still out there was. I never was able to identify that boat, even in light of morning. A few nights later, Michelle and I were bouncing around the bars on Park Avenue in Babylon with my cousin and his fiancé when we first heard the news. TWA Flight 800 out of Kennedy Airport, scheduled to stop in Paris and Rome, had just gone down about a dozen miles off the beach east of Moriches Inlet. Two hundred and thirty people were killed including a bunch of teenage girls who were going to see Paris for their summer vacation. The plane had gone down exactly where we had seen the light show a few nights before.

I was horrified. I actually moved out of the condo and back into my old room at my mothers. When Michelle came over with the kids I didn’t say what I suspected. I just told her I couldn’t live with the drug dealing and nonstop partying anymore. She stayed that night and early in the morning there was a knock at the door. When she answered it was the police and they had a warrant for her arrest. My sister came in my room and told me. When I went out to the living room to ask questions; I too was arrested. When they took us to booking in Yaphank in the Southwest corner of Brookhaven Township, there were about eighty people in handcuffs. I knew them all and almost all of them were involved with Long Island’s strip club industry. It was one of the biggest narcotics investigations ever in Suffolk County and our phones had been tapped for years. It may have made the front page for the day, but just like all the other news on Long Island that summer it would be brushed aside by the Flight 800 investigation in the days that followed. The cops, many of them in black hoods to cover their faces, weren’t even talking about their big bust, except for maybe the asses on some of the strippers they now had in handcuffs. All they were talking about was Flight 800. I knew I had nothing to do with their drug ring, in fact I hadn’t even known it existed. They didn’t even know what they were charging me with, I wasn’t worried. They certainly didn’t have me on a wiretap, I never sold any coke. Because of what I had seen on the beach days before Flight 800 went down I listened intently to their chatter.

The consensus among the cops was it had been terrorists and it was being covered up to avoid an international incident. Many of them had been the first responders out of Yaphank; the precinct that covers Smiths Point and Moriches Inlet. I heard them saying that a speed boat had come in from offshore and picked up something at Moriches Inlet then made its way back offshore in a hurry and shot the plane down with a hand-held anti-aircraft missile from about seven miles off the beach. They had it all on radar. The speed boat then simply vanished from the radar screen. The cops were speculating that it may have been picked up by a submarine. They had been told not to talk about it by the FBI but a couple of them seemed to be going out of their way to talk about it, in front of me.

Michelle had been charged with two high felonies and she had been bailed out the same day by her father. I was charged with purchasing forty dollars’ worth of cocaine on the phone; an E felony only to a cop with a vivid imagination and a district attorney fresh out of law school. It would eventually be plea bargained down to a fifty-dollar fine, but in the meantime nobody bailed me out, and I had to spend the weekend in the Riverhead correctional facility. It all got just too weird when they put me on the tier with John Ford; the guy who had tried to poison Suffolk County’s political bosses with radium. When I found out who he was, I told him I knew Preston Nichols and he looked like I had just kicked him in the nuts. His whole body sagged, and he turned a “whiter shade of pale” as they say in the song. He said nothing to me for the rest of the weekend. Indeed, he would not come out of his cell after that. I was bailed out Monday morning by my sister.

I was troubled a day later when I attended a lecture above Total Health. I didn’t even know who was giving it, I just needed to get away. It was a small crowd, maybe two or three dozen people. The classrooms above Total Health didn’t fit much more. Preston Nichols just strolling into one as he did that night was pretty much the equivalent of Paul McCartney popping into the local pub.

People like Nichols, Hurtak and Hoagland were booked in the lecture hall around the corner where they would lecture to over a hundred people. But nobody had seen him in a while, and everybody wanted to know what he’d been up too so the podium was immediately yielded to him. He was wearing a cast on his arm and began with a yarn about how they had tried to assassinate him with a pulse beam weapon causing him to crash his car. He seamlessly shifted to the fire, all the while looking at me while he was talking about it; saying much of the underground beneath the Brookhaven lab had been taken out in a military action by the United States, which had declared war on the rest of the world.

After the lecture, I pulled him aside and told him what had happened. It was the first time I ever really talked to him in private. He told me that he had always suspected that I was part of the Montauk Projects and that he thought he knew me, but it was useless to try to remember what you had done on another timeline because the laws of physics made it impossible. After that, we started to talk in earnest.

In which timeline did the United States silently declare war on the world? Does anybody really know what time it is?

He started to come around Total Health far more often after that. Above the classrooms on the third floor were offices that we would hang out in. One-night Michelle was up there with us while he and I discussed what really could only be described as a paranormal storm. With Amityville, what I had seen in East Islip twelve years earlier in 1983, what I had taken part in eighty-nine and now flight 800 and the great fire of ninety-six I pretty much had figured out by then that I was in the eye.

I asked him, the guy who claimed he was shooting down UFO’s off Cory Beach at night, whether he thought there was anything we could do about it. He starts talking about some Orgone machine he had built based on the orgasmic energy concepts of Wilhelm Reich and looking at my wife and I like this is what he had been waiting for. Then he says, “you two can close the portals with it but I will have to be in the room to operate it while you have sex.” She suddenly sprang out of her chair at him screaming in his face “you fat fucking pervert!” Then she bolted out the door, down three flights of stairs and out into the middle of traffic where I had to chase her and carry her back to the sidewalk.

Considering whom my wife was, it was a completely over the top reaction. She was a second-generation strip club entrepreneur. Her mother had started as a barmaid in a Babylon strip club and ended up owning her own club in Miami. I had seen Michelle manufacture cups of urine in the bathroom and sell them to patrons for a hundred dollars to be greedily consumed at the bar. Her response was particularly inappropriate since her and I had been practicing sexual Magick since the first time we slept together. Michelle was also by her own admission, at the very least, a second-generation Witch, not a Wiccan either.

During that year alone in the Condo we had opened up portals repeatedly, paranormal phenomena so real I had ejaculated blood. Another time the condo shook so bad we had to call up my mother to come get the girls out of there. It went on for hours; like a train shakes a subway platform but without the noise except for the rattling of household items. When my mother got there, we sat on the couch for a while and watched the cat chase weasel like shadows around the room. My mother who had never seen anything like it before saw that neither Michelle nor I was alarmed, other than me wanting my daughters out of there. She kept asking me whether the source of the disturbance was me or the house. I didn’t answer her.

Michelle and I had opened a portal one night which illuminated the far side of the darkened room in a deep purple hue. We were both overcome with ecstasy in its presence and I wanted to go into it and see what was on the other side. But Michelle ran in the bathroom, turned on the light and started gauging her arms with a nail file so that I had to physically stop her. Afterward she claimed to remember only the part about opening the purple portal and the intense euphoria emanating from it. But her arms were scarred for weeks.

Ingo Swann, artistic vision

Many times, I had stopped Michelle from dragging various characters into our bedroom. The fact that Preston Nichols had even brought something like that up to us, of all people, was enough to sell me on the idea of trying it but for reasons that became apparent only much later, years after I had written the book, Michelle wanted no part of it.

John would die suddenly and later in 2016 at Jacksonville the woman I was staying with from the DoD, Ingo Swan’s successor in the military application of remote viewing, would insinuate that the leader of the Gilgo Beach serial killer cult had collapsed and died in his driveway. She accused him of being a stupid brute but her and her friends were yet to be put in their place and besides, I had often thought the same thing about her.

The murdered call girl Shannon Gilbert’s Asian driver had taunted her while she was on the phone with police and cowering behind a couch sobbing that they were going to kill her. He asked her if she had ever watched Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. The movie is based on a book by Hunter Thompson. It references the harvesting of Adrenochrome from dead babies and its use as an agent to contact interdimensional entities. It’s all right there on the twenty plus minute long 911 recording, a confession from right out of the mouth of their paid coolie as to just how far elitism has been carried in the twenty-first century. But maybe that’s why the police are withholding the recording.

Long Island is an evil dirty place.

“It’s desolate. It’s a rich community. You’ve got doctors and cops and very very wealthy people who live there. No one’s ever going to think that that’s a bad dangerous area. But it is…”

John had been urging me before he died to self-publish. John Blumenthal told me the same thing. He told me that with the effect the internet has had on the publishing industry that was now the best way to go, you retain all the rights. That’s what he had just done with his latest novel Three and a Half Virgins. But I wasn’t a famous writer like him, and I had no intention of peddling my own book.

I started writing on the internet and my first serious piece; Behind the Bush: Aleister Crowley, Yeats, the Anti-Christ & Armageddon, went viral. By the end of the summer of 2013 assorted gremlins and spooks had begun to tumble out of every window I opened on the internet. From the things I saw them doing, manipulating Facebook like it was some kind of video game and indeed the internet itself, they were professionals of the highest caliber.

As time went on, they showed me other things, things calculated to let me know they were masters of this reality and the news was just stuff they invented to give the “Untermensch their daily dose of opium.” What is in the book is their bible and they are not about to let their farm animals read it.

They have dogged me for seven years now, but I am one of the two main characters in the book and I say there are plenty of Dogs left out in the yard to take it and run with it. As Jim Morrison said “Calling on the Dogs, calling on the Gods…”





1- “The Long Island Serial Killer – Uncaught Psychopath Terrorizing NY (Crime Documentary) (0:16).”

2– Ibid: whole episode.



  1. I ordered the book and it arrived three days early. quite befitting as I am iced in during this week long ice and snow storm. Have read it three times and as always with Jack Heart's writings I am not disappointed. His stories give me many points of reference to pursue in my search of truth and origniation.

    still your best piece Jack, want to remind people to re-read this, or read it for the first time, beneath this piece of work lies more truth than I care to name. With your last presidential so called election, the last brick has been removed and hell is about to reign on earth, unless the few friends left fighting for justice have one last shot at fixing this mess. I'm about done and have little energy left for this but there are a few words I have yet to publish which might help the fight, but who will read them?

  3. Lol. Yeah, you don't have to worry about guys like Randy Weaver or David Koresh and Company anymore because the benevolent government killed or jailed them for minding their own business.

    Face it, the reason you sit on your fat ass in your big house being smug about conservatives is that you depend on the evil government to send you that ponzi scheme check every month. What are you going to do when they go broke and don't send it anymore? You'll go broke too, and nothing else.

  4. "Stars in the sky
    They tell me what to do…"
    The return is only made through nature. Geometry might have gotten us here, but the circle and the curve alone can bring us home. Tonight there was a strong vibration in our Earth, much stronger than the electronic interference field of the murder cult of old Abe.
    Ings' wagon crossed the winter sky as I watched the turning and felt the deep rumbling. I know what She was telling me, and I'll repeat some of it here…
    It isn't just about you
    The changing times are here
    All of nature speaks
    She tells of magic beyond comprehension
    Shows you a glimpse
    In the setting Sun.
    Be quiet
    Down the lights
    Eternity is a moment forever extended.
    Allow yourself to release your convulsive grip
    There is no vaccine for eternity
    The change is flowing
    The string of pearls its all the lights of consciousness illuminating Her serpentine form.

  5. Said this one must love

    even an enemy

    tell us how a Christian operation should be run? Perhaps?

    My favorite recent local but yet national Politician was Tip O'Neil, a senator

    Whom said his words politically

    love is local but communications are in shatters

    I shall bring the war home

    as you have your war

  6. Jack, I need a bouncer as I would love to throw a party on the day of our next insurrection the 20th of January.

    There all tRumpies as I shall get them drunk and stoned and read them Gordon Duff articles. You in?

    It'll be on TV. LOL

    Soon, the Evangelicals will have Strippers…LOL

  7. However, my elder brother died of vaccine injury at two as Mom was devastated by that loss. No one told her it was vaccine injury as they called it crib death as that is why to this day I am anti big pharma or could we call them pig pharma perhaps?

    Do as you please.

  8. I could take said vaccine and it would have no effect upon me just like all the drugs our Jack ingested DL. LOL

    My mother whom was born in 1915 had polio when she was three and her senior year in high school was in a full body cast because of polio for a year.

    Mom took every vaccine recommended to her and lived to one hundred and two. I have good genes…LOL

  9. Apologies, D.L.
    I am currently balancing a number of disparate elements in life, and I check back here as I get a breath from each, but my time is usually limited, as apparently is my comprehension.
    Your humor is excellent.

  10. D.L., then you must find your own way. But be cautioned by those who have gone before you, you can only be what you are, and self hate breeds the bedfellows of destruction.
    The Great separation is in full swing. Most will embody it as destruction, and not see their own. You are not yet lost, D.L., and so I wish for you the path you need for your own discovery.

  11. Apophis, O Apophis, wherefore art Thou Apophis?
    8 more years, 2029, to hit, or not to hit, that is the question being proposed for an answer that is still being decided. If not then, the Red Meteor will swing around and will be back in the Sringtime of 2036, if changes are under way, the answer is No, if not, the answer is Yes, then from the Black Sea all the way across to the North Sea, the Earth will be torn open; and then in 8 short centuries there will be Paradise for the New Earth Humans.
    No escape plan for you know who or what, no matter it be in or out, up or down.

  12. Apophis, O Apophis, wherefore art Thou Apophis?
    8 more years, 2029, to hit, or not to hit, that is the question being proposed for an answer that is still being decided. If not then, the Red Meteor will swing around and will be back in the Sringtime of 2036, if changes are under way, the answer is No, if not, the answer is Yes, then from the Black Sea all the way across to the North Sea, the Earth will be torn open; and then in 8 short centuries there will be Paradise for the New Earth Humans.
    No escape plan for you know who or what, no matter it be in or out, up or down.

  13. D.,L., your ancestors called them the devourers.
    Your ancestors posess, yes I mean it in current tense, a wisdom that participates in the expression of all life.
    Who murdered Hypatia, D.L.?
    Who destroyed the spiritual heritage of our bloodline?
    Who claims to religious leadership today?
    Time is short, decisions are being made. Discover your own worth independent of those who would have you wear their diseased blanket while they laugh in their empty corruption and greed.
    Your ancestors were great men and women. The toxicity of the devourers would wreck this. Within your heart turns the energy that is your consciousness. Feel it, and be free.

  14. the ancients and aborigines of most lands have been their for millennia with hardly a trance of their impact on the land, white man has been let loose on those lands for only a few hundred years and already you can be hard pressed to find safe drinking water or air that is not full of some form of radiation, old or new. I count in that wi-fi, that will kill you one way or another given enough time, I'd say 20 years should do it. If you want more of that hurry up because that means a 20 year life cycle from where I sit. The sad thing is, I don't want it but can't duck it, because my neighbour want's it, in his wisdom.

  15. The joke here is most will beg for the vaccine, you talk about sitting back and watching the show, that's what I'll be doing, are you standing in line for a vaccine? If so you're part of the entertainment.

  16. what's in Jack's book is all that's wrong with the world, I'm picking that's why he wrote it. Keep on keeping on with what? To make money you need to rob the earth until you are sitting on and drinking your own shit. It has to stop or thechoice you you stop living. Either way it will end….one day. What most don't seem to to see, is those that are super wealthy and calling the shots, want us gone, we are using up resources way to fast, the super rich don't want to change their life style they just want us normal people reduced in number and turned into their personal slaves, that is until they have robots to do that then we'll be gone, done and dusted. We won't have to kill each other, they will do it for us, with the poison of their choice……my guess is vaccines or the like.

  17. Money talks bullshit walks. That is America as its best to create some for yourself and send the BS packing as I did when I moved to the country. LOL

    Please read Jack's book as he demonstrated that when he took over the Strip clubs in NY State that the "Boss" had a money bleeding problem as he inherited a biker gang who drove business away from his joints.

    The gang? Bad for the strip club business just like tRump and the republican party is bad for business here in America and the morons drape their language in terms of "freedom" and use big nineteenth century words to cloke their bullshit. Personally they need a fucking bullet to the head and hopefully the guard will do so on the 20th as I plan on watching the shit show. Let em kill each other. LOL

  18. D.,L., if I may, I would like to explain a little something concerning the human condition. You are free to laugh at me, snort in derision, or reject it if you wish.
    All of humanity, nee life upon this sphere has been through the completion of a great cycle. In terms of perspectives outside this sphere, not so great, but for us, here, huge.
    This previous cycle has been dominated by the cult of the warrior, and all true men are still inspired by it. The discord, as with all aspects here, realise themselves due to duality via structures.
    So what happens when that cycle completes?
    The conditions and circumstances change. They change to both express and evoke the latent possibility within the new cycle. I have written about this previously as the reveal of the light, which discussed this condition from a different perspective.
    When the light dies completely, only consciousness remains. Consciousness defines as the lower literally enlightened.
    The dying is not yet complete, although the previous cycle has closed. So, what you see echoed in the world of matter is the destructive element. Amongst certain Amerindian teachers, it's referred to as the Earth Changes.
    There will be a new cycle, a new condition, a new set of energies to populate it. These are already known.
    What you can do right here, right now, is take a lesson from those who make this place worthy, live the path with heart.

  19. that's the bane of the western world is it not Mike, if you don't have money why should I listen to what you have to say. That alone is possibly the main problem, it takes money to get into politics hence all in politics are the wrong type of people, and so it goes around and around. With the MSM being the whip master of it all. We have a lot of sacred land here in NZ, the Maori people here are very spiritual like most aboriginal peoples, did not stop them from killing each other in perpetual wars though. Hard to figure out sometimes.

  20. Personally, I laugh at myself for being born here. I've been highly educated into Americanism, and despite America's constant chest beating about being individuals, they are the last in line when it comes to individual thought.
    I have at times sarcastically lampooned America viciously. Call it retribution for the education I was given. What prevents me from entirely writing this place off as the shit hole of shit holes is the incredibly small number of Americans who endure the abuse, but are true to their hearts nonetheless.
    You will never read or hear about them, because the fucking assholes who sit on their piles of money demand everyone to write and talk about other fucking assholes sitting on piles of money.
    If you don't sit on a pile of money, you don't matter. And if what you do doesn't rake in cash, it's not worth it to consider here.
    The only saving grace are the anonymous ones with heart. They are stomped on like my airplane by those convinced they matter.

  21. ha! yes the land, you can never own it, it owns you, but the rich and uneducated so called rulers never see it that way. Lovely story coming out of Australia over the last year or so about the Aboriginal understanding of land protection. How they consider themselves custodians and protectors of the land that was until the white man arrived and started digging holes everywhere, at times in which to drop Aboriginals into.

  22. As you can see, D.L., your observations fall on dear ears.
    I can actually sum up America pretty neatly with a single statement, a highly materially advanced society populated by spiritual midgets.
    Americans are fixated on the material aspect of existence, which they attempt to balance by diving into the collective. Most Americans can't comprehend that the collective isn't the spiritual, and besides they are far too selfish and arrogant to give it a moment.
    Americans can master abrahamic math, and believe the Russians control their elections at the same time. This fits neatly into the true determiner of life in America which is money. Americans convince themselves that money makes them great. We could ask, great what?
    If you want to know the spiritual poverty of Americans up close and personal, simply attempt to protect the sanctity of a spot of land here, your education will be brutal and thorough.

  23. BTW, I come from a working class family and possibly even then at the lower end of that scale, I'm a tradie that has always worked for his money, as little of that as I have. I've looked and laughed at the average Hollywood version of the average American home, a mansion we call them here and I know that is far from the truth for the average American, I get the picture, but if you do work hard or smart here in countries like New Zealand you have a chance of a decent life style and I'm sure it must be so over there in the states, but as I said before places like India you take two steps back for everyone forward unless you are born into privilege, so the States has it's own mess to sort I know that but you have a chance so do it smartly before you become another Brazil or India. You must see what I'm getting at here. Killing your own is not what I call smart, because maybe your wrong, maybe it's you that should be the one to die, get my drift?

  24. Every country is wonderful if you a bit of money. There is no difference there, Brazil is a shit hole to live in if you are poor but some of the richest people in the world live there in gated communities and the only fear they have is car jacking at traffic lights. Don't get me wrong a know a lot about a lot of countries, including your own, but I won't expand on it because not many can stand the truth. FYI I have relatives in the states some well off some not so, I get the idea, and I fully understand as the whole world does I think that most Americans think the world stops at their shore line. The rest of the world knows different.

  25. Dragon Lord with respect as you have no clue what goes on in America. America is wonderful if you have a bit of money as one can buy a home with a bunch of land and live in the country or a suburb where life is idyllic.

    What is mystifying to many is how right wing ideas can become rampant in many wealthy communities as its probably more to do with an us vs them type of mentality. Americans are bred with the idea that you are a lone individual against the world as the idea of a larger community is a foreign concept as I believe that is what mystifies Europeans about the States. Just an observation by one old American.

    Me thinks that dueling should be brought back as an American sport as we can go full pay per view however, guys like tRump stand for nothing or no one but themselves as deep down they are cowards. I have many I know my age whom are tRumpies and my opinion of them? They are fucking retarded. And the internet was used to create them.

    However, our dear Jack has dubbed them agglutinations as it's simply the best explanation for the American phenomenon. LOL

  26. I don't live in the USA, and I'm only commenting at a citizen of the world, because this is not a large planet and we all have to live here and hopefully enjoy it 'most' of the time. I think the USA is a great nation, full of wonderful people some with great ideas, most of you live a spectacular life compared to some of the very poor nations of this world. Privileged perhaps, we have a similar life style here in New Zealand but on a smaller scale, so I to am privileged. Perhaps because of that it's harder to see what to fix, if you live in a country that can't even feed it's citizens properly it would be easy to say, just gives us food and our lives will be improved. But if you have most of everything you need what do you fix? I think America is in that situation, not saying you don't have plenty of poor people struggling to feed themselves but you already have the were with all to fix that if you choose to. Countries like India can't even if they wanted to. So if America falls due to in-fighting the scavengers will be in like hyenas picking over the bones. You guys have enemies within, that is obvious, street fighting among your own is what they want, there are atrocities being committed in your country and around the world right now with COVID used as an excuse to turn free people into slaves of the technocrats, surely you can see that? Rich men and woman, some but not all inside your own country want a slave race at their feet, COVID is a tool, not even a very good tool, as it does not work, so the MSM had to ramp it up and make it more than it is, but that's another story. But your fight is not with each other, because both sides seem to have only half the information the need to make intelligent decisions. I think that's the biggest advantage I have living outside your country. I get to see it all from a distance and not at the coal face. There is a lot more I could say, and most of you guys won't want to hear it so I'll stop here by saying don't fight yourself, you can't help but loose if you do. Get smart and learn who the real foe is.

  27. In America today, the focus is on cutting off the other guy's arm. It hasn't yet dawned on Americans that the arm they seek to sever is their own.
    As the legitimate, visible power structure is subsumed by the opaque one, the opacity waxes in might. No one is going to see this, but I'll write it anyway, for the record. Opaque power is by its very nature parasitic upon the visible, thus it cannot replace the visible. As the visible falters, so must the opaque.
    The power centers are currently most all opaque, and they feel mighty in their manipulation of the visible. They find no reason to rein themselves in. They believe they are at the threshold of destiny.
    Here, they are partially correct, but they mistake the conditions for their own intelligence, which is not the case.
    Opacity has already set the events in motion, as the condition has enabled them to do. Visible power has lost all authority, and so what appears to be a great and bold objective, is in reality just the slicing off of their own arm.

  28. Exactly Dragon, CIA, MI6, Adamus, probably Rubicon too and throw in the Jesuits for good measure. Which makes them required reading for players but I’m not playing anymore. Their problem is they find themselves in a floored Ferrari racing down a winding mountain road and they want to drive even though they’ve never driven anything but a city bus before. I guess it’s the human survival instinct. They just don’t trust us. Never the less they better hope we don’t miss any downshifts because we got a bunch a screaming adolescents in our ear…

  29. Michael and I spent three hours on the phone yesterday, of which an hour of that time was spent laughing at the Trumpsters. I think you got him confused with our cousin Andrew who is now, thanks to me, slowly coming to his senses. I love Harry Haller; some of the best comments on VT come from him. He can say in a sentence what some of the others cannot say with a thousand words…

  30. They deleted Harry's post!LOL

    It was about buying a case of 40's and going down to the main street "insurection" and passing them out to watch there insurection collaspe in person. VT wants us to take this seriously! LOL

  31. Jack, your cousin has good points on his video however, he is I believe a closet tRumpie as tell him I am enjoying my fine pension from the Feds and my large house in the country. LOL

    I am heavily armed now as all my family members are current and ex military including the Green Beret.

    Guns? Not for that evil government but for guys like your cousin whom are basically Insurectionists looking for a catalyst as they put gas on the fire.

    "Q" and all conservatives are domestic enemies as the spooks fucking outed you for what you all are. The clown show? The conservative internet funded by Amway as you all got fucking had!

    Thanks for the entertainment as I have pension money to buy beer to watch the show as you all are e en better than netflix!

  32. Jack,
    I am not a Trump supporter.
    I am an American who happens to understand that the now dead American system both served and stymied the globalist cabal.
    Like it or not, Trump stymied it more than supported it.
    The goals of globalization include a balkanization of America, a destruction of the political, and most definitely what's left of the economic systems.
    You can't point this out to anyone today, without being kicked into one camp or the other. Biden is in because he's a great and nasty whore, and has been for his entire overly long political career, spanning decades. You can't point this out, either.
    You can't point out that the TV is mind control, you can't point out that social media censoring the president is evidence of an unelected and unaccountable corporate authoritarianism. You can't even point out that firearms are power, and the people have a right to them. Point out any of this, and you are dismissed as a sad little Trump supporter.
    This little escapade into actual elections was too much for the deranged nincompoops who envisioned their purple wave of perversion, retardism, and conformity sweeping across the country, so they were determined to not let it happen again.
    Was America hanging by a thread? Was it all but inevitable with the level of corporate brainwashing that the greater populous devours that they would happily flush the remains of a rather amazing enlightenment effort down the toilet and laugh?
    On a personal level, I recognize the flow of eternity, and I see the events both characterizing and evoking this flow. The glee for punishment is going find its ascendancy, and it begins big time with the inauguration of the death of the remnant of America.
    I watch those who celebrate it, so many who've never had a truly difficult moment in their entire lives. They are the kid who stomped all over my paper airplane to kill its mystery. They get what they deserve, unfortunately, the rest of us get it as well.

  33. How about I get paid for services already rendered just like Martin Eden in Jack London’s eponymous novel, I may just give it away just like he did, after all its mine and I will do what I please with it, but I won’t be jumping off the back if any boat. All things in due time…

  34. Didn’t make a difference who got elected and it never does. When the Orange Fat Man started talking about the military distributing the vaccine he’s lucky he didn’t keel over and croak right on National TV, just like his rival Hillary did four years ago. Some of those body doubles they use to cover that up are 20 years younger than she would be, don’t tell me you didn’t notice. We won’t even talk about the fat fucks appointees. My cousin will tell you the rest of what I think.

  35. When I was very young, I had a most peculiar notion, one which was not shared with others. I made a paper airplane, and folded it very carefully. I carried it for miles, and surprisingly, I ran into another kid I knew. I was outdoors, amidst the trees, I don't expect to see anyone.
    "Hey, r u gonna fly that plane?"
    "Maybe", said I.
    "C'mon, throw it!!!"
    I threw the paper airplane, which performed a perfect half loop and stood there, motionless in the sky. The kid gasped. He began waving his arms and jumping in the air. He followed this with screams. It was obvious he was besides himself with disbelief. He started slapping me and yelled in my face and the plane dropped to the ground. He ran over and stomped on it. When I was finally able to retrieve it, it was beyond triage.
    Fuck your spirit.

  36. I often wonder how some people can demand that the corpguv should take the guns. Basic common sense dictates that such actions will merely expand the black market, as they have done in other countries like Mexico, where criminal gangs now out gun their military. However, I realise that such thinking eludes the THERE OUTTA BE A LAW thinking, if we can call it such. Most likely, it derives, as do almost all opinions in America, from the TV.
    TV is right there in your face America. It's ubiquitous, it's worshipped here, like some kind of divine communication with commercials, featuring rapt and zoned out fixation at the same time. Americans depend upon the TV. When the TV tells them that a cadre of unelected, sickeningly spoiled corporate billionaires just censored their last legitimately elected president, they whoop and cheer the punishment, congratulate each other, unable to perceive the huge change in the landscape of their lives, probably because the TV never told them to perceive anything.

  37. So, I was acquainted with Murray. He met me one day beneath the summer Sun. He has just recovered from his fourth heart attack, divorced, and was telling me he was going to Tucson to set up a new business. "Everything is perfect", was the mantra he kept repeating.
    A couple years later, I saw him again. He was looking older. I asked him about Tucson.
    "Didn't work out", was all he said.
    I considered asking him about everything being perfect, but then I realized it would just be me, being immature. I'm no Christian.

  38. I understand the statement from our nameless contributor concerning spirit. Statements such as these have fuelled the abrahamic coup since their inception. They contain a certain truth, a certain potency, which is then generalized to an assumed condition applying to everything.
    However, if we actually bother to study history, we realise that this position represents a retreat from the motion of eternity.
    The statement that the spirit is in charge was true when Christians created the very first death camps in Skythiopolis, Syria. It was true when the church decided to hide its unsolvable fixation on paedophilia, it is true as the richest people in the world are appropriating your wealth in order to better fund their transhuman experiments on you.
    Of course the spirit is in charge when the Tiger devours the Buck.
    The assumption that the spirit is going to prevent calamity, murder, ruin, runs completely contrary to how eternity unfolds.
    The abrahamics have been stealing souls with this fiction for far too long. It is a fiction that increases brutality by denying it. It sets up the child mind to embrace a terrible error, one which it rarely recovers from.
    Anoka became a Buddhist when he spotted a monk strolling unperturbed amidst the mountain of corpses from his war. The spirit was in charge.

  39. I have a good friend who always replies when I've said my piece, that everything is just as it should be, you are always in the right place, for what you need to learn and actually I guess he means, there is a plan, and we are all part of the plan, and things will work out in the end. I hope he's correct. He has more confidence that I about all this shit that's going down.

  40. Speaking of witch hunts do you perhaps wear a mask when you go out? I never have and survive and prosper as the Spirit guides me around this evil world. Masks show me that the wearer of such is not human. Its that simple. Guns? Hope creepy joe and da hoe ban them as certainly "Q" folks don't need them. LOL

  41. Jack, hold on to your horses. Social Security if based on what this nation produced would make everyone a millionaire. Not living in poverty. It's the grand problem with the internet as its given everyone an opinion as I am indeed with the founders not trusting mob rule or democracy. I for one am glad social media is censoring people like tRump or "Q" and yes they censor everyone. I told you this MK and Jack that America is run by Spirit. Believe as you please as there is a creator and a created.

    The life of the Spirit is the life of the zig and the zag through this world and its reality. That's the mystery of it all. I am watching with humor those around me going nuts with all the tRump nonsense. Its fine entertainment as if all are agglutinations as you say my dear Jack than who cares if google censors them? I am well into old age now and care little for this world. I do however, plan on seeing how things play out as I have always found my needs met through that Spirit I talk about. Believe as you please…

  42. Eight years writing the stuff I’ve written, slammed with a felony and four months in county for attempting to assist Geraldo Rivera in uncovering the “Dark Alliance” in NYC and having to live most of my adult life with that hanging over my head, and god only knows who what and where else, my memories have been fucked with, all you got to do is read the Authors Foreword to get the gist of that. And you feel I should have to live out my golden year’s dependent upon social security? No thank you I have some friends waiting for me on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge, we’ll be back…

  43. So, you speak of the American experiment, yet you disparage the result as a low IQ buffoon. I don't think you've considered the logical inconsistency of your opinion.
    For those unable to realize the circumstances, please allow me to spell a few of them out for you.
    First off is the condition where corporations, controlled by the beneficiaries of globalization are determining for you how you are supposed to think and feel about whatever they deem you should focus on. If this includes trashing your bill of rights, and pummeling your independent thought, so be it.
    Secondly, the currency you bleed your life away to obtain is currently being revamped into a tighter form of control and slavery for you. The incoming administration is poised to unleash this assault upon you.
    Third, the genetic modifications inherent in the vaccine are the first step to bend you into compliance with globalist electronic interference field. They will kill and injure quite a few of you in implementing this.
    The implication here is obvious, but let me help you, nothing above has been done with the seeking of your approval and support, but you follow along as they lead you by your nose rings.
    The country you live in is dead. Your experiment is over, and the experiment is now on you. You are about to be buried in a globalist avalanche. It was not brought to you by the low IQ buffoon.
    The disassembly of any complex structure is chaotic, and explosive. When the witchhunts move to center stage you will be told exactly how to get in line.
    There are ways through this. For most, it will be the compliance of slavery to the overprivileged suicide jocks. To others, it will be regurgitating the talking points as they watch their loved ones fail. Only a few will walk the different path.

  44. I personally will the American experiment to continue. America or Turtle Island is ruled by the Spirit. Believe as you please however, how else will our Jack survive without his Social Security?

    What is money? A blip upon a computer screen as those blips are a sort of score card for what capitalism has done which has over produced everything. America does not have a money problem but has a distribution problem for delivery for what already sits unused in warehouses all across the land as folks do without.

    And what distribution network does our dear GOP hate the most? Why the one that goes to every home in America every single day of the week that can deliver anything. Sounds like an enemy to me. Trump? A low IQ guy as look at whom follows him? LOL

  45. Those who walk the path…
    Are not willing partners to schemes of Shitstem.
    Do reserve their energies for the demands of their mastery.
    Refuse to bend out of shape whom and what they love.
    No one is manipulating those on the path. Their mind is their ally. Their heart is true.

  46. There is a kids adventure movie based on an interactive holographic computer game, it's called Ready Player One, been out for awhile, at one hour 15 minutes there is a clue for us, buy your debits and enslave you to the cause! In a computer world or electronic debit there is no where to hide until you are once again debit free so the state or company owns you and you do their bidding until they tell you to stop. So even if you are awake and know the score you are still part of their game. And its coming you can smell it.

  47. To quote Jack
    We all appear as different individuals to each other, but we are in reality one man and one woman. We are living in a fragmented dream…
    I really like that analogy Jack, never thought about it that way but it fits with the bigger picture we are always reminded of "all is connected"

  48. It always amazes me that those who use every weapon in their arsenal to deepen the ignorance and dependency are so certain they have a separate existence from it. They know the reality of the Kenoma, because they bring it up in their very heart, and they do everything they can to avoid the death they bring to others. Their reward is oblivion, extinction, it is what they have chosen.
    Yet Surt and his Siren care little for their petty plays, they have much greater dreams to evoke.

  49. The guy leading the charge with the moose suit? Just a hoot!!

    Now , they are telling tRumpies to bring g their guns to Washington on the 20th!

    Popcorn beer and Jonny Walker. LOL

  50. Just a heads up on the new strain of Virus that is being reported, I have it on good authority there is no test that can define one virus from another and there never has been, in fact you might have read the so called COVID test is totally a waist of time with about a 10% accuracy rate, so one wonders who invented this next variant when they can't tell the difference from common flu
    or COVID 19 let alone COVDT 20 ???

  51. No doubt, with a big assist from Sinmara Surtr will have the final say here, amusing isn’t it Mike? All their plans and it never even crosses their diseased little minds that they are part of the plan themselves…

  52. Consciousness projects itself.
    Creation projects itself.
    Each step, each progression is less than that before. With each step down comes the desire to return to the previous state. Each step a link in a chain, each chain, a link to another.
    This is Emanation.
    The breath in. The breath out.
    Error and variance are inherent in this process. Ignorance, which arose with the first projection, waxes with each step down.
    Demiurge derives from Demiurgos, literally God work. I have written before about the duality of place and being, the two expressions of one manifestation. Demiurge is manifestation. The triad once again.
    The vision of the Demiurge is not an externalality.
    Much of the Archontic is because of our choice to stand in a certain perspective. The energy that flows from this stance is reason and intent to horror, to parasitism, to loss, to fragmentation.
    Such is the motive behind the establishment of Dharma as correction, it is the law of energetics.
    For a parallel view, which is instructive if we allow it to be, refer to Her vision in the Voluspa'. Here there are the two powers within the potent field, the essential triad, and the God work is Surt, who sets Emanation to order, the fire projects, again and again, and each time ignorance and compromise corrode the root, and the God work must be created anew, breath in, breath out.
    The Gnosis is beyond the will of ignorance.

  53. Phil Hunter, a man with a past in the intelligence community, did not want to publish the book without a review from Alec Newald. 1989, LOL, makes me wonder. Me leaving that night at Gracie’s, her leaving that night after I beat up that mafia enforcer, none of that makes sense. Maybe we did pull it off in 1989 and this is some kind of mop up operation, in some nasty alternative universe run by demonic interdimensional beings. We got Blue Aliens and Black Goo here, that is a certainty, all introduced to the world at large by Alec whose occult origins date to eighty-nine. It’s all about the Alcheringa, the source of the hologram, and Alec is obviously an Alcheringa. The thing about a hologram is each fractal piece of it contains a complete image of it. We all appear as different individuals to each other, but we are in reality one man and one woman. We are living in a fragmented dream but with any luck someone’s fixing breakfast.

  54. The above is all the more interesting don't you think because the author spins us in a circle and ends up with Stranger Things and so we end up at Jack's door once again.

  55. You might not believe it but I had no idea this particular article had been published a few days ago, even though I read nexus news feed daily I can't keep up with it all, I do still work for a living, but this just about nails it for me, not because I wrote the article, because I did not, but because the article is about what I had written, some of it going back to that famous year 1989 LOL.

  56. What I find interesting about Jack's adventures as far as his written report goes at least is it was exactly the same time frame in which I was having a wake up call. It must be something in the water! But it appears Jack had been looking for something most of his life leading up to events described in his book, the difference with me is I'd been avoiding any calls I might have had to wake up, by focusing on personal pursuits. When I stopped all that to take a breath the heavens opened, literally and I've been wide awake ever since. Like Jack I've had visits from those that would prefer I had not woken up and to a lesser degree I still suffer from that. But Jacks life seeking what might lye in the higher realms mirrors my own and hence I felt an instant bonding with his predicament and life even if from afar.

  57. It is important for readers to know that ancient mystical systems all echoe each other, not because they derive from the same root religion, but because they reach to the same source.

  58. Archon is a Greek word which translates into the ruler of a small principality. Archons administered the ancient classical world, they were the bureaucrats of the time. However, the ancient Greeks saw their society as mirroring a higher order, and so the word Archon also referred to the intelligences that support the Cosmos.
    In order to follow the actions and influences of the Archons, one must understand that the Cosmos is alive, sentient, and dynamic. The short answer is, yes, the Archons permeate this existence, yet they are far from the only entities that do so. The term Archontic is defined as a system, or condition which is rigid and overbearing.
    Archons are sometimes Gods, sometimes Guardians, but they always structure and influence life "here".

  59. Wasn't it Lawnmower Man, where the internet became the home for the disembodied protagonist? I also believe it was Tron where an eerie cosmos existed in an electronic world. The modern mind rather enjoys these modest leaps, and they fuel the sense that humans have created a sort of life, which is at the core of most societal fantasies. We see it with the fictions all around us, though not nearly as rendered as in movies.
    The internet is no more a new world than the interior of a bus, and in many cases far less useful. It is a pattern, a wave, an energy which intrinsically wound about the megalomaniacal drives of those lost humans who like to refer to themselves as innovators.
    Ultimately, the internet is an active part of the electronic interference field which has been under construction for decades. As a tool for the repression and punishment of consciousness, it is wildly successful. These characteristics reflect a modern sense of archons today, yet it is the branch of humanity that seeks to deploy such interference that has sealed their own destiny, and this is far more important than the makeup of electronic energy.

  60. on the Gnostic thread I'd be keen to hear your take on the Archon, what you might consider them – it to be? and do they have a presence in our world (the internet?)

  61. Ah, well, there are several different levels of intent, aren't there? Certainly, when Basillides wrote of the origin, he chose words we understand today as intentionality, yet this intent is on a far different level than that required to steer the biological being, this much should be clear.
    Further, the waking mind, which we need to navigate this world, is intrinsically related to it, it's function cannot extend into the ineffable. Any attempt to do so is simply a repeat of the known set of concepts and symbols. This is a phenomenon known as the empty set, where all potential is held within it.
    However, it is here that we see the abomination of Jehovah, demanding his Jews to attack the natural world sacred to Her, for the path to the ineffable is the desire in Nature Herself. This Nature is held within our deep mind, deep consciousness. Jean Gebser wrote that as consciousness develops, it doesn't destroy the preexisting, it builds upon it. Thus what we refer to as the lower is the only capacity we can enjoy to know the ineffable.
    Norea cried out to the father, because she was his forethought.
    His Desire.

  62. I've been lucky, I've rubbed shoulders with those that read thoughts more readily than use words, it was they that told me the strongest aura emanating from mankind and other races is that of intent, they judge us quickly and accurately by reading such, it seems many other traits can for forged and so deception is possible but not so if intent is read accurately, so I might be wrong but it appears intent runs very deep in ones soul matrix and perhaps can override the outer conscious façade or veneer of the conscious mind. But I have to say desire might also be the driving force of intent. I have a drive to know, and with every extra drop of knowledge the desire remains to know still more. I should say my intent is to expand my databanks ever if the cost is dear I sometimes go where it was better I did not. But I love it, I get drunk on it, the people you meet on this road defy description except perhaps to say they are the only ones I care to hold a conversation with.

  63. A most engaging exchange, D.L., indeed.
    I would tend to treat intentionality as a characteristic more available to our waking mind, far less powerful in our deep mind than desire. This means intent can be shaped by our conditions, one might say this must be so for it to operate at all. Desire, however, has origins much closer to love, in that one might not know exactly her inception, her purpose, or her aim.
    In this, desire develops and evolves as do all skills of consciousness, if allowed to do so, without losing her mystery or her strength. She alone reveals the colours of the robe we have donned.
    The sages of old spoke of the rarified desire, and it is in this guise that I refer to Her.

  64. Yes and I define desire as intent. I have always lived my own life semi-devoid of others desire for me to conform to their sense of reality. I've always heard in the back ground why did you choose to go there? why that job? I laugh to myself and just continue to be me, thank god or whomever I have gotten where I am, with a mind at least attempting to be fully open and not afraid to change my stance on a subject if someone can present something that makes sense to me. That can happen on a daily basis of late as things in this world move around rapidly. As sickening as some events have been over the last few years it's still an exciting time to sample life on planet earth. Crossing paths with people the likes of yourself and Jack make me the richer. I look forward to the future

  65. D,L., is it that we don't get our desires met, or is it that we do, and that then opens up an entire can of worms?
    Certainly, every specific desire has its connotations. I would like to refer to Jung here, because his explanation is so compelling. We are all on this journey to a refined state, and that journey occurs in this existence which is beyond our ken. We must interact with higher power, and we must suffer the consequences of that interaction.
    Moderners are very much in love with the notion that the egoist center is who they are, and that all of existence is here to serve that manifestation. Yes, tiresomely, this concept has been the gift of the abrahamics, the Jews, Christians, Muslims and Scientism-ists who specialize in, as Hypatia instructs us, the directing and enslaving of the child mind.
    Our boundaries do not end with the establishment of ego island, and our definition of consciousness and desire are completely dis-served by the facile definitions given them by this ego tyranny. The child mind is not the plaything of a corrupt and isolated sense of I. Yet this is what we have been reduced to. here, in this time, and this is what we will all find out, if we live long enough through this rite of passage.
    There is a genuine danger, that as the powers that be finally realize they are not in charge, when they realize their knife is not decided, or defined simply by them, that they will in their rage and their anguish seek to destroy themselves and everything else. If your desire is to participate with them you will do so. If your desire lies in a higher manifestation, then no matter what they attempt, you will not share their death.
    Desire is fundamental.

  66. I've been reading of late about the power of attraction (the secret) seems the reason it does not work for all (getting your desires met) is because it comes from the subconscious not the obvious conscious need, so it seems you attach to you what you are at the base core of you, which can be vastly different from what you think you might be………hmmm we are all guilty I think of wanting ourselves to be something different to what we are at heart. I would love to be a hero and do great things for others, instead I think I'll be lucky to do a great thing even for myself. But I'm working on it, someone much wiser than me once told me it's all about the intent. No matter what the intention is the shining light.

  67. It's all in the present, when it comes to living spiritual traditions, and it's all in the past, when it comes to the abrahamics. The first is fluid, dynamic and immediate…The latter is focused on what has already been done, which in their case is everything. Everything here has to do with purpose, the abrahamic purpose is political and temporal power, the Gnostic purpose, Gnosis and the return.
    There is a subtle, but very significant difference between seeing the energetic, feeling it's flow, and fitting events into a template already constructed. The Gnostic is the Seer, no better example here than William Blake.
    None of this would matter at all if the Gnosis didn't exist, and if Gnostics were actually relegated to that footnote in history the abrahamics wish them to be. But such is not the case. The abrahamics have no say over what manifests in this energetic. The recurrence is cyclic, not linear, so the linear mind cannot follow. This is what the Scribe meant when he spoke of the angle vs. The curve.
    I will most likely write more, here, if this internet thing holds up during this time of separation. It hasn't perfected yet, because the basis of the dynamic has not yet been made manifest, however… yes this is the work of power beyond the egoic tendencies of man.
    There is a deciding being made, and the action mimicked by people is the result of this action being made. We are in the thick of it. What turns the tables is the lightest of touch, the weight of the feather, the root of the power of love.

  68. Yes Mike, I've also looked into the Gnostic world, I've even had a nod from those that should know, or at least know more than I do, that it all makes a lot more sense than the commercial world or religion. There is a dark presence on this planet and if people would take the time to read the work of Gnostic's from deep into human history, it seems they had more idea of what was behind it than anything presented to us in the last few millennia. I've had that confirmed in a rather unconventional way, but it woke me up and an open mind is all you really need to make progress in this word, but don't look to confirm any of this with Google

  69. Indeed, we in the western world are indoctrinated into the cult of the new as a matter of course. A big part of the psychological war waged against us is to instill fear and dissatisfaction through the sorcery of keeping everyone convinced that things are forever unsettled. Most of this is appearance, rather than substance, but it works wonders if the goal is compartmentalization and distraction. Add to this the conceptual front loading we are buried in, and voices outside the herd are never heard.
    I've been considering a book on Gnosticism, drawing the many threads together that parallel in pre-Christian traditions, but the problem can be summed up with two names; Jesus and Valentinus. The weight of association here is so great that it is almost impossible to separate the condition from the names. In speaking with all five people who actually can follow my points, they make it clear that the distinctions I make fall on deaf ears, so what's the point of writing it?
    I can state, and even prove that Gnosticism was not founded on any sort of Christian principles, that through the now buried work of he late Acharya S. the antiquity of Christianity is a intentional fabrication, and that the savior was first the healer, but there is a wall of disinformation stating the opposite, and people love fiction.
    In the end, it is clear to me why Jung wrote Sermons under the name Besillides, and why he refused to admit he was a spontaneous Gnostic.

  70. Mr Mike and Mr Jack have nailed it there. I once wrote a book, nothing special just something that almost explained how every works, or could work if it had not been broken by those running this show on earth. All that got me were about 3 book sales and a stamp on my passport saying don't let this fuccker travel! Some friends have tried to help me and come up with some great ideas to get the story out, guess what, nothing yet is what. Jack seems to be on the same boat dock bound, lets hope his new book gets to see some light. He tells a tale of life doing it the hard way, now we all have the internet making our life hard. Seems 'time' don't change much down here, just different ways of doing the same. Keeping them 'us' dumb and stupid.

  71. We were all sold this internet thing on the basis of free and open information for all. As usual, this was just some two faced salespeak. Another footnote from Barnum's book of ethics.
    These self proclaimed geniuses always manage to pollute the environment.
    Anyhow, for now we keep our eye on the road, our hands upon the wheel, as we were instructed by Mr. M. decades ago.

  72. Mike if I ever documented this shit I'd have another book, people would be fascinated to know extent of the control they have over the net, fascinated and appalled. If its on the internet and its not on here you can bet its what they want you think, as B told us long ago ain't nothing on the internet they don't want on it. I get a play, the book explains why but they sandbag us all the time. Sandbag means only you and certain parties can see what you have posted. Orage told me yesterday they were sandbagging the last post, me the still naïve stupid ass tells him no, never argue with Orage, he knows…

  73. A note of disclosure.
    I employ a few outmoded devices to access this site. My reasons for this are simple, its because of what I have access to when I have a moment to post. This blog has delighted in dumping my posts, changing what I write, double posting what I submit, and the like. This condition is NOT due to manipulations or contortions by Jack and Orage, but by the nature of the Google run nonsense itself. I post here because this quite literally is the only place on the internet where it is worthwhile to post anything.
    This new year, 2021 however, has seen a new type of censorship which I had never seen before. The entire year was invisible to my devices until I received an email from Mr. Jack here, which apparently created the thread to open up 2021 to my model T 'puters.
    As some of you may know, and even fewer of you care, I have a rather low opinion of the current condition of this electronic "communication" industry, yet now that opinion has broken the concrete floor to achieve new lows.
    Ultimately, there are larger forces at work. At some point I may document them. Until then, to the joy of few, and the chagrin of many, your resident Spontaneous Gnostic is back.

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