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Wheels by Mike Kay


He watched the lights crest the hill in his rear view mirror. Who said that mirrors lie? It was no apparition. The police cruiser pulled parallel and stopped, window to window. His left arm rested easily on the door molding, with his window all the way down he was enjoying the cool night air. He looked over casually to the cop, who had his interior light on.

“Is everything ok here?” The cop asked.

“Yeah”, he replied. “I’m just letting her cool down, then I’ll be on my way.”

The cop looked at him doubtfully.

He just grinned at the officer.

The cop knew quite well what went on out here, at night, on this desolate stretch of road. In the end, the officer had nothing to go on, so the cruiser drove away slowly, as if making a statement through a lack of speed.

An oppressive state creates a clever populace, says the Tao.

He understood the cop well enough, law and order, follow the rules more or less. It was one of a dwindling number of jobs that offered a future, unlike his …

“Why do you want to? Why do you have to? I mean, if there is a God, we’ll all find out”. Her ancestry was from Finland, and it showed in her blue blue eyes and high cheekbones.

She meant the world to him, and he wanted to tell her, to explain, to have her share in his longing. He wanted to explain the thirst to her-to really actually know. He didn’t have the words to explain those experiences, or the wisdom to tie them together. He tried to say something about the space between worlds, the place where this reality ended, and the compulsion to drive right through, but she just looked at him with a growing puzzlement, and a sadness that could have broken glass.

Hers was a belief and trust in the substance of this world. She had returned from the doorway of death brought on by Scarlet fever. The fever had left her damaged, wounded, but with a fierce desire to live here, now. She couldn’t understand anything else, to her any curiosity beyond this physical world was a waste of time. Life was better spent embracing the world with her arms. She wanted to share that with him, and that was about all that ever she did hope for.

Their eyes locked and for a moment there was no space between her femininity and his masculinity. They flowed easily together, winding in and out, a rolling current in a fresh cool stream eager to find its way down the mountain, until they reached the rapids.

“You gotta stop”, she said with so much heart that it felt like a push.” Racing isn’t the way”.

Another set of headlights broke his reverie. No cop this time, the lights were especially intense in the mirror. The car approached slowly, as if the driver had spotted him on the shoulder, yet was hesitating to drive up to him. It took a ridiculous amount of time for the new arrival to pull up beside him with the well tuned throaty mumble of a performance engine. In the drivers’ seat was Paul. He stared in anger out the passenger window where Lisa, his wife was buried in his rage. Paul now projected all of that over to him.

“So, you all alone then?” Paul stared through the dark.

“All alone as agreed, except for my co-pilot”.

Paul’s’ head jerked as he tried to stare into the passenger seat. Unable to give Paul a break, he lifted up his arm and shook a stuffed toy wolf at him, laughing.

“You always were fucking weird, man.” Paul climbed back into his seat.”I’ll see you at the strip”.

Paul’s Mustang roared and was off in a plume of exhaust fumes and burnt rubber.

He reached down and keyed the ignition. The supercharged hemi barked to life, snapping and ticking at idle due to its overcammed, over juiced tuning. The whine of the supercharger was barely audible at idle. It wasn’t even apparent, built as it was to sit underneath the shaker hood. The whole car was pretty much a sleeper, aside from the fancy Crager SS rims and the four hood pins.

The Hurst shifter fell precisely into his right hand as he slipped into first, released the clutch and drove away. In the light of his headlamps the white dashes in the center of the road blurred into a single white line. He honestly couldn’t remember what it was that made Paul turn so completely on him. All he could recall was that they were on pretty good terms, and then at one point they weren’t. It might have been that time Paul got busted for an open container of alcohol, but that was so long ago he wasn’t sure. In any case it all came down to this grudge match. They had both thrown in $500 to make it especially real, which was held by Kevin at Sadies bar and grill.

Heading to the strip, he had to admit she was right, and he needed to stop. Nobody stayed in the same place in this life for all that long, and although he was actually good-exceptional even, when it came to racing, he knew it was dangerous, illegal, and offered no future. His life was always like that, it seemed.

The street race scene was all things to all people. The dilettantes with daddy’s money could cruise around with their pretty girls mooning everyone, because they had it made. Wide eyed kids could get a load of what genuine racing machines were like. Street racing gave the cops something to do besides reducing the world’s supply of donuts. It gave young, savvy mechanics a test for their skills. It gave holier-than-thou types something to rage against. It gave girls who felt that wild streak within themselves the chance to be with the bad boys.

Then of course there were all those more serious things, lawyers making money, judges studying more law, jails justifying their budgets. Racing even threw work at the coroner.

He walked into racing the way he got into anything, by a series of events that he never intended or fully understood. Maybe it was that night he found himself at the strip after a day of too much of everything. The engines roared and the naked headers spit out nitrous boosted flames. He grinned like a fool then, something in his blood stirring.

Of course he got in at the end. Literally it was at the end. Despite society finding all forms of work and profit from racing, society was determined to give it the same fate as steam engines and slide rules. The cold tendrils of dead banality had found racing, and they were clamping down-hard.

New housing developments sprouted up like weird diseases in the forests and fields. More stoplights and more traffic and more taxes and more antennas and more TVs rotting brains and selling people a world they had no right to believe in…

“You are late! Do you know how late?” A hostile frown.

He looked into the hard, washed out eyes of the old woman. Her business suit more than hung off her frail figure. What wasn’t wizened away was her seething disapproval, and her harrumphing over his dirty hands, disheveled hair, and black t-shirt.

“I just had a death in my fam-“, he began honestly before being cut off.

“Save your sob stories” she glared at him.

It occurred to him that as usual, he didn’t really know why he was here. He already knew it was going to be a giant waste of time. She was fumbling for something, and he saw the pack of thin lady’s cigarettes, followed by a cheap lighter. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes’, he replied, more than a little vindictively.

The old woman looked genuinely surprised, and if possible, even more resentful towards him.

He could sense it all, a woman determined to win in a man’s world, who spent her life buddying up to the shallow business suit types she could out think without trying. She learned their jargon, and their mannerisms, and with that came the reason for the season, money money money. She traded in her femininity for the tough demeanor she believed she required to survive. She was her future now, with nothing more than gate keeping duties designed to keep the riff raff away. After an hour of pouring over his records, her analysis of his career prospects in the world of real jobs was unsurprisingly dim. He had none.

Top gear was always a balancing act. His car simply had too much power for the crude Detroit chassis, despite his improvements. It wasn’t that the car was skittish, or wandering, it was just that at top speed it was impossible to maneuver. The rear leaf springs hunched down with the posi-traction Dana axle. The front torsion bars, aided with a hefty anti-sway brace were only happy going forward. If any sudden defensive action had to be taken, it simply wouldn’t occur.

His ride was built for one thing, to get to top speed as fast as possible. He made it a personal rule to never check the rattling needle of the speedometer. The tach was all that mattered, watching the rpms curve upwards, and shifting to keep the mighty motor in the zone as the world slowed to a crawl even as it became a tunnel all around him. The sounds would fade, and it seemed that his corrections on the wheel happened in triple time. A million and one fateful things could happen in the tunnel, and if even one leaked in he was probably done.

Here, alone in the tunnel, with speed hurling him headlong into an unknown place he could almost taste the space between worlds. It was a feeling, beyond words, beyond even oblivion. He couldn’t picture it, but he could never dismiss that it was real.

Power down was always the time of abandonment, a return to earth, re-entry into standard time. It always seemed somewhat off, like it wasn’t truly solid, not exactly as it seemed, even as he bore the scars from it, the busted knuckles, the black grit in his pores.

From power down one arrived at the aftermath. This was when the talking returned, the aroma of the tunnel still strong, still singing the siren song. Slowly the banality would creep in, like the cold in a winter night. It would whisper about all the things it demanded from its slaves, and assure him that he was amongst the ranks of slaves.

The strip was several mile long arrow straight blacktop. The racing was mapped out along its length, in half mile sections in order to confuse the cops. The real course was a do-or–die quarter mile that ran some thirty feet above the surrounding fields, with no shoulder or turn off other than down below. It was no more than a mile from the primary staging area, and perhaps two miles from the T intersection at strips end. The road was easy to block off, and during major events it was tough for even competitors to get through. That was not going to be an issue tonight.

He slowed as he approached the strip, noting wryly that the authorities had preceded him. A mass of vehicles clogged the staging area, and no small number of them bore various types of flashing lights. Some cars were finding their way out of the mess, but he had no desire to run that gauntlet. Slowing to a crawl, he found what he was looking for, a little known and less used turn off that led to the slumping ruin of an old abandoned house.

He wove up the rough two-track, killed the lights, and shut the big motor down. Climbing out, it was only him under the stars. In ancient times, it is said, wise observers watched the stars. They stayed up all night, watching, and they learned the secrets of the destiny of mankind.

He played with his keys, tossing them high in the night air and letting them fall down into his scarred, dirty hands. It seemed then, that he faced a choice, and that choice was clear, open, yet with its own cost. He could leave it all, and return to his blue eyed babe. Kevin would keep his $500, Paul would call him a wuss and strut around with his ego on display…or he could wait it out and see if Paul was still around.

Laughing into the night he stretched out his arms, taking in a deep heady breath. Somehow the stars felt brighter, and he could see the cloudy trail of the Milky Way. The tyranny of standard time left him then, and there was no present, no future or past, there was only the flow, and the flow was everywhere and it was everything. He breathed and the flow passed through him. It felt like a near tickle, but with a force to it. He became that flow and for a moment or an hour or an eternity he was simply motion.

More than anyone else, it was the heir to Plato, Aristotle, who came up with a view on time that still has its hold on people today. Aristotle called his description a riddle, most likely because he couldn’t claim it was anything else. He said that the future, and the past didn’t exist, and that no one could describe the scope of the present, because in thinking about it, time became either future or past.

Looking to the stars, there was no riddle of time, there were only hungry wolves chasing one down, sometimes closer, sometimes farther, but never out of view. The grim cold terror of the wolves’ jaws clamping down upon his prey meant there was no past, and no future, and if there be a present at all it hangs upon gleaming canines hungry for dinner.

It was all just the flow, and some things surfaced and others sank but there was no stopping the immensity of it. And this immensity reached its shore line, and upon it he stood in silence, for the night was notable for what it suddenly lacked, the sound of vehicles.

There was the soft hissing of the breeze, upon which the subtle sounds of the night world drifted, but there were no vehicles.

The drive to the staging area was quiet, empty. Not a person, not one car was anywhere to be seen. He listened to the crackling idle of his motor. He was about to turn around, to leave it behind, when in the distance another car appeared moving extremely quickly. It was, he knew Paul rushing onwards to meet him. Just like earlier, the Mustang pulled up right beside him. Lisa rolled down her window and gave him her trademark toothy grin.

“Paul says he wants to beat your ass”. She was waving something in her hand, and he realized it was a ticket-or three. “The cops hit us with these, and now he’s mad”.

As if on cue, Paul stuck his head completely out the window, looking to all the world that he did indeed reach a new level of angry. “Get to the start weirdo, and I MEAN NOW!”

Start was a simple white stripe that bisected the road. It had been repainted dozens of times due to wear from the racing. Finish was an identical stripe, only in yellow, to alert the drivers to power down. Start was where all the action was. Whoever shaved the launch best had the advantage. If the cars were close in capability, the best start won, hands down.

Lisa was out on the road, standing at pole. Pole was right between the cars. She carefully coached the drivers to form up right at the plane of the white line. He really couldn’t believe she was going to flag start from this position. It was literally the most dangerous place for a non-racer to be. As she carefully untied the red scarf from around her neck, he realized she was putting herself there to force Paul and him to launch as cleanly, and as in control as possible. At that moment he found a new respect for her. Her courage was on the level.

If the start wasn’t perfect, if there was the slightest fishtail, or broken flywheel, or whatever there would be no more Lisa.

She raised her scarf over her head, fluttering in the night breeze, lit up by the glow of the headlights.

He knew exactly how to shave the launch. He knew the rpm threshold where the big paws would bite into the pavement without breaking loose. He knew exactly how much play was in the clutch pedal, and he took up the slack.

Lisa’s arm came down fast, and as the red scarf just brushed her knee he was gone. No fishtail, no parts flying. In the mirror he caught her image stand back up, the scarf still in her hand. She was watching them go, and for a moment she stood before vanishing into the night.

The roar of the motor was clean, the howl of the supercharger perfect. He knew Paul was behind, close behind him, that he had beaten Paul out of the hole. The tachometer tapped 6,5oo rpm, and he was into second gear and climbing. Still no view of Paul, although he felt the Mustang somewhere off his rear quarter panel, hungry, trying to sink its fangs into him.

The car hunkered down on her springs as the Hemi drove sheer horsepower down into the paws. Final gear was reached and he gave the wolf all of his legs to run to the end of the world and beyond. Ahead, in the tunnel, the glowing yellow line was in view.

In a flash he was past it. Having won, he felt the heavy change from fury to an incoming release he knew so well. He was waiting for it, as he eased off the throttle and the entire dynamic of the car began to change with it. He waited for the feeling to fully arrive, yet it never did.

Something had occurred which was outside of his experience. A brilliant multicolored yet overtly white light completely wiped out his vision. He could no longer feel his hands, or his feet, or his weight. He had no sense of speed, or of much of anything. Like the opening of a drain, a whirling disc of darkness appeared, at first small and then growing rapidly larger until it consumed him and all the light and erased him from existence.

As if suddenly, shockingly becoming aware he was rising from a great depth. The trauma of darkness released him, and he floated up, up, an air bubble in deep water effortlessly rising to breach the surface.

Where he stood, or actually hovered was between two great wheels, one above and one below. He had emerged from an endless darkness to be between them both. “Wow,” he suddenly thought,” the space between worlds.”

He saw her then, moving up through the fastness. He got the definite impression that this was no ordinary woman. She seemed at once to be gigantic and also of mortal stature in a way he couldn’t truly grasp. Her form was surrounded by a glowing darkness, scintillating. Her legs were long and beautiful, slightly revealed through her split side dark gown. She approached with a magnetic grace. The right side of her face was simply a black outline with her perfect white skull showing within. She waved her arm in a simple gesture and the mist of the wheels parted. He saw Lisa sobbing uncontrollably, and the smoking ruin of the Mustang, what had been Paul mangled within. It took him a moment to catch the scent, but he did know the aroma of his own car, and upon finding it he tracked it to discover the beautiful ruin. His own dead eyes stared at him, even as the great motor still ran, the mechanical spirit not going easily to the darkness. In a way he thought it was kind of a waste, but then it occurred to him that there probably was no other way it could have gone. It wasn’t like he ever spoke the language of this world.

‘You can stay here awhile, if you like, a lot of people do”. He felt the words inside him, and realized that it was Death herself speaking.


“Yes”, the words were soft, magnetic, beautiful.”Some with spiritual gifts remain to act as protectors for those they love”.

He watched the wheels reform and he was longer next to himself, looking into the flow, he saw his blue eyed girl, how sad she was, for far too long, and how a simple yet strong man was turned into her stream, and how her sorrow became acceptance, and acceptance became love, and they moved together away.

“I feel so light”, he said.

“Um hum”, she replied. “Nothing is holding you down anymore”.

“So even here we choose?”

“Only some get to choose”.

He gathered himself then. “So, if I stay, will it be easier, or harder on those alive?”

She seemed to move closer. “You must decide”.

His hands opened and everything fell out of them. His expensive Snap-on sockets, his drill-and-tap set, his keys, his license, his electric bill, all the harassing letters from all the agencies, all the threatening messages, all the greedy fingers wanting to squeeze everything from him, and in the end his girl with the blue, blue eyes released her grip on his fingers, and let him go.

The darkness around beautiful death seemed to grow then, until it filled all vision, absorbing all things, all hopes and all fears and all lust and all hate. The press of nothingness came on, a cool dissolving, a falling as cool and as effortless as a great foaming wave.


Into the flow falling.

His name was pulled from his lips, and like a fire it burned in geometric intensity before being absorbed. The very strands of his thought unraveled and became words in a language he could barely comprehend before whirling away and merging with great fountains of fire that seemingly just appeared. All that he was, from the pain of his mother who brought him forth with her joy and energy into this world to the blood running down his broken knuckles, to the final moment when his fragile form was torn asunder by speed and steel simply whirling into the great fire, feeding it wildly, almost exhaustively, before giving way to pure silence, pure space.

“You have chosen,” he felt her words, “to go onward”.

He expanded suddenly, a flash of invisible light. He was so much of everything, it could no longer be contained, a center of nothing, no identity. Into the vastness of the cosmos he had gone.

Cover Photo: Pinterest

Saturnday Coffee Thoughts…

Golden Torus
Golden Torus source:

“Somebody/Something” knows how to tune the ethereal electromagnetic waves that comprise physical reality as we measure it. Why is it that that we are seeing such an increase in “Foo Fighters” and glowing “Tic Tacs”, the orbs in the sky, sea and close to the ground making crop circles? These “objects”, in my opinion, are localized manipulations of the fabric of reality called space-time. Rabbit trail warning…we shall see what the Skinwalker Ranch team comes up with regarding the orbs and the Einstein-Rosen bridge they have supposedly determined is on the ranch. Can a controlled wormhole also provide means for projection of the etheric waves through space-time? Hmmm, why not? There are empirical studies showing faster than light electron pairing. But, can one make a bridge on demand?

Wormhole source:

If it is all for show, a projection upon the consciousness, “who” is the Director and Producer of the program? Is it you, or me? Are we on the cusp of discovery or destruction, or both? Is there a big picture beyond our individual bubble of perception and thought? Maybe.

From Edgar Cayce to Seth Speaks “channeling” has grown to encompass an entire corner of the internet; much like the supermarket tabloids before mainstream electronics, or UFOs. So, it appears we receiving data for incorporation of “fringe” thoughts and philosophy into human consciousness. News that doesn’t fit the good/evil, Gods/Devils seems to be the order of the day.

As I develop new patterns of thought, leading to new thoughts and actions, I ask to what end is all mainstream media manipulated? Why? As with the foregoing regarding channeling and foo fighters I am left with the question to what end is disclosure (manipulation of mass consciousness)?

There are many pieces of the puzzle shared with Jack Heart every day. Those pieces are often found in the comments offering an alternative philosophy to emerge as those thoughts once offered often become reality.

These were my thoughts this morning as I was having my coffee after Jack and I discussed the latest information passed to him and after my scan of the latest comments on the Human. I post these thoughts as an opening of discussion and sharing of the intuitive knowledge which the contributors do so well in your comments and posts.

Cheers, Phil

Was Princess Diana even REAL??? Mark Attwood’s “Diary of a Conspiracy Theorist”


The Mark Attwood Show, 9TH APRIL 2024,

Cover Photo courtesy of Pinterest

Below are two links where you can purchase Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan. I would suggest you buy it in hardcopy, not because I make more, I actually make the most from Amazon E books, but because you will avoid giving Amazon any money. Frankly you should be shooting Amazon employees in the street, Google too.

Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan by Jack Heart, Hardcover | Barnes & Noble® ( Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan: Memoir of an awakening god: 9781736288016: Heart, Jack: Books

The Truth about Flight MH370: Decoding a Decade of Deception | Redacted with Clayton Morris


“10 years ago… Malaysia Airlines Flight 370 disappeared from radar on 8 March 2014, while flying from Kuala Lumpur International Airport in Malaysia to its intended destination in Beijing. But It never arrived and neither did the 227 passengers and 12 crew members whose family members have been in anguish ever since. What happened to their loved ones? Who’s covering up the real story?

10 years have now passed and we finally might have some leads as to what caused this disappearance. Ashton Forbes has in many ways devoted his life to figuring out what happened here and we decided to invite Ashton on to talk about some of this new evidence. “

The Truth about Flight MH370: Decoding a Decade of Deception | Redacted with Clayton Morris (

Below are two links where you can purchase Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan. I would suggest you buy it in hardcopy, not because I make more, I actually make the most from Amazon E books, but because you will avoid giving Amazon any money. Frankly you should be shooting Amazon employees in the street, Google too.

Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan by Jack Heart, Hardcover | Barnes & Noble® ( Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan: Memoir of an awakening god: 9781736288016: Heart, Jack: Books

Jack Heart’s Conversations from the porch – Episode 50


I’m sorry my Muslim readers, most of you know I have far more respect for Islam than I do for Christianity but the guy in the bathrobe is in on it. If he was serious, he would have used his hypersonic missiles to take out every F35 he could, then followed it up with a massive bombing campaign and a ground attack by Hezbollah. As it is he has left the Iranian people wide open for a vicious Jewish counterattack, just like his CIA handlers asked him to do.

October 7 Was an Inside Job: Sage of Quay® Dispatch: October 7 Was an Inside Job (

Two From the Montauk Project, Courtesy of Happy Parrot:

Brutal Regime Apocalyptic Dreams :

“You see all these American politicians and Neoliberal PMCs pledging their undying support for Israel by tweet that get like 3,000 *Likes* and yet every comment is like “Fuck you, no we don’t” from people of all political persuasions – who are the *Likes* from? Are they even real?”



Below are two links where you can purchase Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan. I would suggest you buy it in hardcopy, not because I make more, I actually make the most from Amazon E books, but because you will avoid giving Amazon any money. Frankly you should be shooting Amazon employees in the street, Google too.

Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan by Jack Heart, Hardcover | Barnes & Noble® ( Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan: Memoir of an awakening god: 9781736288016: Heart, Jack: Books

France VII, in the Footsteps of Otto Rahn by Jack Heart


Any attempts to explain away the Mexican Nazi coin that do not include an explanation of the Mexican frieze below the monument at Koblenz should be dismissed off hand as the blithering of an idiot. Likewise for those who ignore the fact that a picture of Otto Rahn, the father of the SS, adorns the cover of the 1936 book, Invisible Radiations of Organisms, supposedly written by a German professor out of Cornell University of the same name but published in Berlin… ThriftBooks a large web-based used bookseller headquartered near Seattle is selling the book “republished,” with a revised cover of course. Their overview states, “This work has been selected by scholars as being culturally important and is part of the knowledge base of civilization as we know it. This work is in the public domain in the United States of America, and possibly other nations. Within the United States, you may freely copy and distribute this work, as no entity (individual or corporate) has a copyright on the body of the work. Scholars believe, and we concur, that this work is important enough to be preserved, reproduced, and made generally available to the public…” What they changed is the […]

This post is only for readers who have a paid membership subscription to Jack's work . Get yours' now! Annual Subscription Choices or Monthly Subscription Choices.

Jack Heart’s Conversations from the porch – Episode 49


Aleister Crowley, Loki’s Brood & the Fury of Hell I by Jack Heart & Orage

“The chains pulled taut around the casts and jerked me back down into the hospital bed as if I had been levitating in my sleep. I was drenched in sweat and for a moment I did not know who or where I was. The combined restraints of my injuries and the manacles had frozen my body to the bed and I felt a claustrophobic panic beginning to overwhelm me. I forced myself to concentrate and evaluate my situation. My memories suddenly came flooding back as if some great spigot had opened up a subterranean torrent of strange images and swirling sorrow.

I had been dreaming. I was in Aleister Crowley’s Boleskine House overlooking Loch Ness. There was a cavernous opening in a wall. It looked like some kind of vault. Within the vault was a gateway which was guarded by a male and a female child. The children were about twelve years old and of oriental descent. They were both wearing flowing silk robes and they did not speak but somehow I knew that Crowley had used them to carry out the instructions given in S.L. MacGregor Mather’s translation of The Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage.

Crowley had secured the house by the lake and undergone all the purification rituals prescribed in the manuscript. At the moment when the ritual is supposed to culminate with the appearance of an Angel who will transmit, through a prepubescent child, the sublime revelations that can transform a man into a God Crowley added his own little twist to the ritual. He slit the throat of each of the children and opted to forgo the ungainly intermediary’s in favor of the knowledge being delivered directly to him.

The children now stood as eternal sentinels to the portal he had opened up. They gestured for me to enter and when I did I saw that Crowley had unleashed three great demons into the world. Two of the dark Gods had already insinuated themselves into the collective soul of the human race but the third still lurked on the bottom of the lake. I saw them in their unimaginable vastness and all of the corruption they had brought upon the earth, now reeking with filth.

Suddenly I realized they were aware of my presence as was the one that was dormant on the bottom of the lake. The one on the bottom of the lake was the most powerful and maybe because I could not see it the most sinister. It rose up to meet me and I was griped with fear. I took flight over an endless roiling sea hurtling faster and faster through the grey and angry sky. The terror at my heels took the form of construction dumpsters and I could hear them clanging together as they pursued me. I flew faster and faster till my momentum hurled me across the dreams event horizon and I crashed down into the hospital bed…” – Jack Heart, Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan

It was just a dream, or was it? I know more about Aleister Crowley than any human being will ever live to know. I have been taught all his most secret traditions but the very first thing I was taught is never, never ever, read anything about Crowley that was not written by either himself or Israel Regardie, one of the few men Crowley ever let get to really know him.

Even with all that he wrote and he was a prodigious writer, Crowley has been quoted out of context more often than not. He was the ultimate narcissist and with better reasons than any mere king or queen. Crowley frequently took multiple paragraphs just to say good morning, spraying sentences like a Vickers Machine Gun belching out bullets in WW I, of which he was the primary instigator. There is basically nothing Crowley didn’t say at one time or another…

By the end of March 1933 with the passage of the Enabling Act the National Socialists had attained absolute power in Germany and by June of that year, Crowley could no longer contain his enthusiasm. In the first of a three-part series of articles for the London Sunday Dispatch Crowley gloats; “At birth I had three of the distinguishing marks of a Buddha. I was tongue-tied, I had a characteristic membrane which necessitated an operation, and over the centre of my heart I had four hairs curling from left to right in the exact form of a Swastika. Before Hitler was, I am.” (1) The I Am part means he is not just the power behind National Socialism he is its God…

To the fishmongers in the marketplace and barely literate factory workers reading the Dispatch, this may have sounded like idle boasting but to the kings and queens of the earth also reading, those that rule from behind the West’s democratic façade from high atop the pinnacle of synarchy, it sounded like a fact. It had always been their greatest fear, the sum of all fear; Crowley was going rogue and he was taking the German people with him.

Although he’d been telling the scions of synarchy, those that knew he could perform any of the miracles attributed to Jesus and so many more, that he was here to usher in a New Aeon; Crowley had but one categorical imperative and that was to kill God. Toward that end he would stop at nothing; which he spells out for the dense with his occult name; Frater Perdurabo, meaning inLatin: “I Will endure to the end…”

Crowley had been born to kill God and if I engaged in conjecture, I would say Friedrich Nietzsche wrote The Anti Christ as a Bar Mitzvah present to him. Crowley was turning thirteen when Nietzsche penned it. Although he had memorized the bible by the time he was seven years old Crowley rejected his rigid Plymouth Brethren upbringing almost from birth. He knew he was the Beast of Revelations the first time he ever heard of it. Famed mountaineer, chess master and saint of the Gnostic Church Crowley was a self-described dope fiend and had an intellect that could rival even Nietzsche. He set about the task at hand with an inhuman single-mindedness of purpose.

To Read the Rest: Aleister Crowley, Loki’s Brood & the Fury of Hell I by Jack Heart & Orage – The Human: Jack Heart, Orage and Friends (

Aleister Crowley, Loki’s Brood & the Fury of Hell… II by Jack Heart & Orage

By the end of WWI, William Butler Yeats knew exactly what was coming. The most famous poem in the Michael Robartes and the Dancer collection is “The Second Coming.” Yeats begins it: 

“TURNING and turning in the widening gyre  

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;  

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.”(13)

The Egyptian hieroglyph for Horus is the falcon. In the aftermath of WWI’s carnage, Yeats sees clearly that nothing can control the God of War and Vengeance: “The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere / The ceremony of innocence is drowned.” In the poem’s last line, Yeats asks “And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?”(14) Yet he has already described the Beast with all the skill that his prodigious talent as a poet would allow: 

“A shape with lion body and the head of a man, 

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun. 

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it  

Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.  

The darkness drops again but now I know  

That twenty centuries of stony sleep  

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle.” (15)

Yeats had been vacillating ever since 1913, when he had slain Michael Robartes in a short story titled “Rosa Alchemica.” Right before the turn of the century in The Wind Among the Reeds, Yeats had said of his muse: “Michael Robartes is the pride of the imagination brooding upon the greatness of its possessions, or the adoration of the Magi.” (16)

But by 1913, it was entirely different. Michael Robartes had now metastasized into one of the Golden Dawn’s infamous “hidden masters,” the supernatural beings whose disputed existence and direction caused a schism within the group that was settled by Aleister Crowley’s pistol. 

In the story, Robartes appears at his door after a fifteen-year hiatus and forces Yeats with mind-bending incenses to accompany him to a temple by the seaside, where they are besieged by an irate Christian mob. During the night, Yeats participates in a ceremony with a cult similar to the Golden Dawn. When he awakens in the morning, he finds that the ornate temple has now become an old barn, and he is unable to rouse Robartes and the rest of the cult who are in a trance-like sleep. As Yeats flees, Robartes and the cult are stoned to death by an enraged Christian mob.

Yeats then waxes poetic as he delivers Robartes’ eulogy, which is a reflection of his own faltering courage. Yeats renounces the deception of “Legion,” like a little Catholic boy renouncing the Devil, wrapped in the imaginary protection of his rosary beads. Yeats’ insecurities didn’t last long, though.  By 1916, his guilt for what they had done combined with his grandiose opinion of himself had convinced him that he was the incarnated Sun God and could pull off the Great Work by himself.

The first two poems in Michael Robartes and the Dancer are about Yeats’ own love life. In the first poem, the title poem, Yeats refers to himself as a “half-dead dragon” in the eyes of the much younger Iseult Gonne, whom it seems Yeats believed to be the incarnated soul of the moon. Iseult was herself of magical birth, being conceived in an act of sexual Magick, as the aristocracy has been practicing for thousands and thousands of years. She was among the kings and queens of Europe a legendary beauty and the daughter of their own residing wild woman Maud Gonne.

In his desperation, Yeats allowed himself to become convinced that he could perform the Great Work without the necessary pain, bloodletting, and details that his nemesis Crowley and his followers were apparently reveling in by 1916. Crowley says of himself in the author’s note of Moonchild that by 1917, he was exerting his best “efforts to bring America into the war.” To Crowley and his aristocratic followers, WWI was not a struggle between nations but a Holocaust, a blood sacrifice, burnt offerings to bring about the incarnation of Horus and the killing of the old grey world and its tyrannical God.

Undaunted, our rejected self-appointed Sun God next proposed to Maud Gonne whom he believed to be the rest of the Pagan female pantheon. Rejected again, our intrepid Sun God married his fellow Golden Dawn initiate, twenty-four-year-old Georgie Hyde-Lees, the witch of “Solomon and the Witch,” the second poem of the Robartes collection.

The proposals all took place in 1916, a year in which Yeats was obviously desperate to marry. The year 1916 appears in another verse of the collected works. “Easter, 1916” is a poem first published back in 1916. On the surface, it appears to be about Irish nationalism, but contains the line “When sleep at last has come on limbs that had run wild,” a sentence that could be interpreted pornographically. Easter is also the day of resurrection in Yeats’ Christian security blanket. Regardless of the ambiguity of “Easter, 1916,” Yeats’ meaning in “Solomon and the Witch” –the second poem of Michael Robartes and the Dancer– is perfectly clear.

To Read the Rest: Aleister Crowley, Loki’s Brood & the Fury of Hell… II by Jack Heart & Orage – The Human: Jack Heart, Orage and Friends (

Europe: les soldats et les jeunes fuient les armées

Les populations issues de l’immigration ne sont pas intéressées par l’uniforme militaire pour mener les guerres de l’Occident, ni les autres jeunes de ces pays. La plupart des migrants soutiennent la Russie. Les appels lancés par les dirigeants de l’OTAN pour recruter des soldats dans une croisade contre   la Russie sont boudés par les recrues qui ont commencé à fuir. 

L’armée française est face à des départs volontaires et à un manque de recrutement. Le ministre français des Armées, Sébastien Lecornu, a dévoilé son plan pour mettre fin à l’augmentation des départs dans l’armée française. «Il ne s’agit plus tant de recruter de nouveaux soldats que de persuader les troupes existantes de ne pas démissionner», stipule Politico.  «Ces conversations existent désormais dans toutes les capitales, dans toutes les démocraties qui disposent d’armées professionnelles sans conscription», souligne le média anglophone. Les armées occidentales ne peuvent plus recruter et manque de soldats.
Même l’Allemagne est touchée. Un récent rapport annuel soumis au Parlement allemand a montré qu’en 2023, quelque 1.537 soldats ont quitté la Bundeswehr, la réduisant à 181.514 effectifs. Les Européens ne veulent pas mourir pour une guerre voulue par leurs élites. Cela traduit la résistance des populations en Europe contre la guerre de l’UE contre la Russie. 

To Read the Rest and Translate into your own langauge: Europe: les soldats et les jeunes fuient les armées. Observateur Continental

Below are two links where you can purchase Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan. I would suggest you buy it in hardcopy, not because I make more, I actually make the most from Amazon E books, but because you will avoid giving Amazon any money. Frankly you should be shooting Amazon employees in the street, Google too.

Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan by Jack Heart, Hardcover | Barnes & Noble® ( Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan: Memoir of an awakening god: 9781736288016: Heart, Jack: Books

Revenant Ash by Mike Kay


The power was out. In the darkness the street seemed to glow ever so slightly in contrast to the buildings. Above me thick clouds barred any heavenly illumination. I watched as the darkness became a safe zone for humanity. With nothing observable beyond touch, the wafting of the voice, with no schedule set to satisfy the endless demands of society, with nothing for the grasping ego to attach to, all that was left was the murmur seeking connection.

I was here, alone with the darkness when she found me. A lone car made its way down the road, and in that moment when the headlights touched me I ceased being the darkness and became a man once more. She must have seen me then, her desire for interaction driving her to the next event in her life. The car passed slowly, and on she came, her feet making quick sounds across the pavement. The flame of her lighter suddenly revealed her face, no longer young, and her brown eyes reflected that flame, searching.

In that moment of the flame she had convinced herself that I was real. Her lighter extinguished and she moved closer, the afterglow somehow intensifying the darkness, the exhausting press of identity. “Quite a night”, she began.

She had thrown those words out casually, yet so much was riding on them. Suddenly my heart sank, and was crushed by a powerful sense of loss. I felt, in that simple, world weary phrase the defiance and resignation of one who never won at life. I understood her then, her desperation, and I knew in a moment where it would lead. She spoke in a slight Spanish accent, where the vowels are extended.

“I don’t mind it”, came my reply.” It’s very much like a dream”.

The lighter ignited once more as she lit her cigarette. “Do you smoke?”

“No,” I replied matter of factly.”I already have too many addictions.”

She laughed then, a sort of hoarse and low sound of genuine humor. Her dark eyes always seemed to catch a reflection of the flame, as if they hungered for something within it.

“I’m like that”, she admitted with a long exhalation of smoke.

She began her story then. It was a familiar story of being lost, of sleeping on hard concrete never knowing tomorrow. It was a story of hunger and desire and the cost of failure, of being held captive by forces too strong to resist. Her words filled the darkness with longing for what could not be given a price, after she had sold everything, even that which wasn’t hers. She spoke of a dream she had, or a vision, one night in a strange decrepit hotel room with the traffic roaring outside. Perhaps I should have shared with her my vision of the flaming rafters, that I knew when the US government burnt my home to ash, and that there is in this life the sting of death, and something in me died then. Yet these words would have somehow trivialized her story, so instead I only listened.

I understood her, when she said in so many words how she missed her previous life, but cruel fate had locked her into this unhappy place. She knew where she belonged, but was barred from ever returning.

Then I finally did speak up, and I told her that this place isn’t home, that I have memories of a world where the snow glows white as if ignited with rainbows, and the blue of the sky is no blue that anyone in this concrete palace has ever beheld with their own eyes.

She turned to me fully then, and in the light of her glowing cigarette made a quick gesture so that it streaked across my vision, leaving a trail. She seemed to be looking at me, as if to judge what to say next.

“Are you cold?”

“I am the cold”.

She told me then of all her missteps, of the grip heroin had upon her, of the lives she saw snuffed out that could never be retrieved, and that she was one. She whispered hoarsely of the lump of stuff she could hold in her fingers that had so much power over her, over everyone who fell. She spoke of that perfect high that changed the earth and sky, and her desperate love for that state. She spoke of her fear of the cops, and how she was under a spell. Then she told me of things I could never repeat, for it wasn’t about what she had done, but how something within her had vanished, and she wondered if she ever had it at all. With each sentence the desolation of her heart grew and grew. I was so close to her agony that it burned like a storm, and I saw then the terrible truth of replacing one’s soul for the torment of the high, and the addiction became its own blazing path. I was consumed by a terror of that ruin and cast into a shadow where hope was not even an idea. And when she finished her story and vanished into the dark that devoured her, a lingering odor of cigarette smoke and collapse, I was grateful to be free of the downward racing destiny so eager to plumb the depths of oblivion.

She has hid

Herself so far away.

Because of pain

And the escape.

She don’t know

What to do about it

She only hears

The whisper of a promise.

And the voices sing


And the voices sing


And she walks away.

I thought then, for a very long time, grateful for the clouds and the failed electricity that only further embraced the dark, a darkness that made it possible to feel that loss of the familiar yet wordless self, the loss of that directive energy, that wordless self all the abrahamics condemn.

It is probably very few who know that ‘Demon’ is derived from the classical Greek Daemon, a word perhaps best understood as genius, and that in the abrahamic mind all aspects of the self not suitable to their control were to be sacrificed on the altar of political power. Few understand today that who they are includes an essence beyond the physical, even as words fail to express this directly. The raw desire of the urge to step beyond, the ecstasy of escape is that base self crying out for the transcendence and participation with the forgotten genius, the divine love of the Daemon.

Modern man lives as much as he can in an embodied state. From a young age, the self is reinforced as a fact of physical existence. The open, dreaming child mind is imprinted through barely conscious methods to develop identification with the physical form as the establishment of boundaries of existence. Yet this developing self is not truly located anywhere. Modern thought establishes the brain as seat of self, a sort of default position, yet the best behavioral psychologists cannot find a biological basis to this assumption.

The tyranny of embodiment must reduce the person to a simple core, and indeed it does. The error here is the assumption that this reduction is complete. The severing of the non-physical self is a recurrent theme produced by those who see themselves at the top, with the latest example produced by the World Economic Forum, the W.E.F., all the billionaires, and dead empty black holes who see themselves as the irreplaceable ones.

The W. E. F. defines you in viciously denigrating terms. It claims that you are simply a series of electrical impulses, that your agency is an illusion, and they, your new masters have a plan for you; The mind, the self become words of no real meaning, no substance to the very idea that a self appointed group of power hungry psychopaths has some right or some authority to assert their control. They are actually quite funny to watch, their assumed sense of superiority becomes a kind of cosmic joke.

And she walks away.

Yet we can understand that the subtle communication of dreams exists, that destiny is an odd fact of life, that paranormal experience has long been proven to be a genuine phenomenon. We have for too long now been at the mercy of the merciless, those whose lust for power is so consuming that they will use any means available to secure it, and one of the primary methods for securing power over others is to steal their genuine heritage, and deliver to their victims a vision of the self that is without potential, without dignity, without grace.

The way of understanding the self must be based upon truth and reality to escape from the clutches of those shuffling dead who want you dead too, and deliver back to mankind the birthright of who they are.

In times of yore it was understood that the self was fashioned from diverse source and that the You, the I, are only centers that we learn to work from, the fire of personality that develops with the melding of the cosmic self.  For those with the sight have always beheld inexplicable things, the many colours that dance and radiate around the human form, and that the ladder of wheels always bespoke of something beyond simple comprehension. We are not one wheel, and we are not one body, and we are not one energy.

Now that we are here, arrived at the moment of change where the ways of the world are about to end, some violently, some with great upheaval, and the mourning for what was will include the loss of hope for what could have been, now is the time where it would be well to remember the essential explanation for who we are.

The first and most common aspect of self is that which dominates the daily life of the adult person. We will call this our near self, because always it is nearest as we make our way through our day. It is here, in the near self that we erroneously think “we” reside, that true “us” that thinks the familiar thoughts and feels the familiar emotions, the “us” that likes hot dogs, and movies, and tries to make sense of its journey through this life. Modern man lives as much as possible in the arms of the near self, but even so everyone secretly realizes that the near self floats restlessly upon a far larger, and far less understood second aspect of the self, which we will call the deep self.

The deep self is the unknown origin for the forces the near self constructs into a working personality. Yes, we are all miracles. The deep self holds the darkest, unrealized terrors and the strongest, insatiable desires. The deep self has no need for time, and so refuses to be limited by it. The deep self can talk to the dead, which the near self can never do. It knows things simply by contacting them. It doesn’t particularly care for standard explanations of why things work, it has its own explanations, and knows what they do. The deep self has no boundaries, as they are understood. It knows no morality, and it is consumed by the fire of transcendence.

Near self and deep self make up an essential duality. If the near self is the angel upon one shoulder, then the deep self is the devil on the opposite. The abrahamics divided this essential duality into two externalized entities, setting forth for thousands of years a way of thought and belief that ensured a civil war within the self, a war which splits the heart mind, and ails the self. The Fisher King suffers a great wound, and the salve will only partially make his life livable.

Modern psychology has only further enshrined this war, creating a set of expectations and beliefs that directly echoe abrahamic thought. There is no real healing in psychology, no dignity or honour or spirituality. Modern psychologists oversee torture, and create television commercials. Freud turned to Jung as their ship steamed to harbor in New York, and told his protégé that America believed he was bringing to them a great gift, while in truth it was a great plague.

If we are honest, we know that the deep self is the true power of the person. The motivations that move the person all derive from the deep self. Likes and dislikes, attractions and aversions, bent of character, and the residue of previous incarnations all are alive and active within the deep self. It is from here that the near self emerges to take the helm, and protect the person throughout their life journey.

Thus the deep self is the first person, and if life is kind, the near self arises as the second person from the timeless ocean of the deep self to attain a working rationality, a linear concept of a world of things and essential facts of life, but what of the third facet of the self? What of that aspect that modern life ignores, or even completely denies, that incorporeal ethereal self that is so easily lost, our elder brother?

She has hid

From herself far away.

And so she runs

To the needle every day.

It’s an empty thing

When she feels about it.

It makes her hate

The world she’s living in.

But she don’t know

What to do about it.

She thinks she lost

Something precious

She once knew.

She wants it back.

So she keeps fighting through

All the pain.

And the voices sing


And the voices sing


And she listens well.

Elder brother hovers over who we believe we are. It’s a strange kind of thing, to be aware during the day. Is he above the Sun? Is he below the clouds? You cannot see him, with your physical eyes, it’s only the heart, who knows where he lies.

We are told by the Christians who hated him that Basillides wrote of this mystery of the self. He told those who would listen that the near self could never leave its world. It could never reach above to the greater mystery of who we are, only entertain that it might be possible. He instructed that the longing the near self shaped into a recognizable image was the essence of the deep self all along. Thus it is, that only the current far below can reach up to know the Daemon, Elder Brother.

Well, one says, if this is so natural, then why is it so hidden? Why is it so easily lost? Why are we told that it’s only a dream, and we need to get real in the concrete palace? I want to know!

When we came here, from the darkness so far away, and our real parents wished us well on our way. We just didn’t know what we were getting into, and in this world we forgot ourselves through and through. The burning tears, reminded us that we knew it, but we just can’t grasp that spirit in our hands.

We need a new way, which is the old way.

The stain of incarnation, that split of everything into so many parts, is not due to itself a source of shame. Our failures are not because we lived a certain way. Mistakes we made, are not counted on our clothes. We were meant to fall, and to get up every time. The wounds we bear, we won’t ever get around them. It’s just enough to know through and through that the current runs deep, no matter what we do.

No matter what we do.

The ancient Gnostics knew no sin. The Cathari men delighted in the Cathari women who delighted in them. The bright eyed children were simply loved through and through. There was no sin.

In a world where the true wealth was in high places there were no items of value to steal. There was no sin. The books they wrote, were all burned to finest ash. The deaths they rode, are marked by disdain to this very day. Yet it was not them, who forgot the Elder Brother. It was not they who forgot him.

The deepest current, through longing flows up and away. It touches the wheel of the heart, which shines in every way. The path is clear, when there ain’t no doubt about it. The joining with him, releases the finest dew. The dew is light, falling upon your very aura, and you become complete. You are now the Tree.

She just fell in love

With something she always knew.

Her shame she left

Behind her in the dew.

She knew herself.

There was no doubt about it.

She walked the earth

Her feet were bare and brand new.

And the voices sang


And the voices sang


And she went with them.


The three part person is a very old realization. Some say it is woven from our own Wheels of Light. You can see them yourself sometimes, like pools of essential life, focused at the hips, the heart, the head, and least known, above us. It helps if one wishes to see them to rest in the darkness, and to never use the physical eyes.

This modern world, and those who think they run it, is going through a huge transformation right now. The lever pullers want you to think it is they who are calling the shots, and it is they who are making the change. Do not be fooled by their deception. They are desperately trying to ride the wave to cling to what they have, and doing so through taking everything away from you.

So they want to take from you your knowledge of yourself, which is so beautiful that they must make it ugly. Yet you can see the beauty in this life, and the wonder of existence if you stop for a moment and just live.

Happy Ishtar


The Believer, the full movie with special thanks to Happy Parrot for bringing it to us.


If you are watching crocuses in Moscow or Americas infrastructure crumble into Chesapeake Bay, please continue but don’t do it here. This is where I bring the Mandala effect home to you and if you feel there is anything in the world of greater consequence, not only to you but to your soul then you in all likelihood no longer possess a soul. The Deagel Report has already come to pass, and western man, what’s left of him, lives in the world of the walking dead.

This movie: The Believer I’ve never heard of but one of my subscribers suggested in the comment section of France VI on Substack that I watch it, even offered to send me the DVD, which I see in the YouTube comment section was going for a hundred dollars before suddenly being available for free in of all places JewTube. That’s exactly where it should be, this is a movie, by Jews and for Jews about neo-Nazis and Jewish self-loathing. For once the Jew doesn’t place the blame for anti Semitism on White supremacism but he puts it where it belongs, squarely on his own narrow shoulders.

I once had a friend, very high up on the Illuminati pyramid of power, in fact you could say he is the pyramidon. He told me, “We blame everything on the Jews it’s in their contract they wouldn’t have it any other way.” The movie does a nice job of pointing out why such a fact is a fact, but I don’t want to play spoiler. Rarely does a movie come out worth watching so please enjoy it but I will say this, its protagonist has little to do with Otto Rahn.

Rahn was pointing the accusing finger at the Christians, for defiling their own God in the name of an alien religion. As he says over and over again in Lucifers Court, “a great wrong has been done to Lucifer.” And it was not this small minority of scheming misbegotten people dedicated to the tyrannical god of darkness since the very beginning who perpetrated that wrong. Its every man and woman who ever got on their knees and prayed to an impotent Jew nailed to a stick while spewing blaspheme against the God of Light. It is them the SS, Rahn and yes Lucifer too have put in this simulation to suffer the consequences…

Below are two links where you can purchase Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan. I would suggest you buy it in hardcopy, not because I make more, I actually make the most from Amazon E books, but because you will avoid giving Amazon any money. Frankly you should be shooting Amazon employees in the street, Google too.

Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan by Jack Heart, Hardcover | Barnes & Noble® ( Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan: Memoir of an awakening god: 9781736288016: Heart, Jack: Books