Author: Gigi Laine

We are all going to die. What is it worth then? Lord, show me the way…

It’s May 7th 2022 5:49 am in Anderson, Indiana in the parking lot of the public library.

For 40 years and more I was in the desert of me. ME. Me me my my. Slowly slowly, deliberately grace Grace pulled me up out of it. By degrees and degrees this thing called Eye, it came up out of a veritable swamp of self. I couldn’t understand my whole life, nor why this is happening. Grace had led now. Struggling and desperate to understand, isolated and tortured in the mind so much, I kept trying to find solace. I kept trying to see which way to go, but it was a desolate ocean of meaninglessness.

Then through a circumstance, which literally means something that lurks at the periphery, I heard someone speaking about Gurudjieff, how he was called Miesseur Bonbon, because he always gave children candy. And a woman, not knowing who he had been, wrote about him years later, that he had fed her family during the war when they had nothing to eat. That he daily had cooked food for people and brought it to them. And I awakened, because I had fallen asleep during the video and I thought this is what we all must do. We must all get together and do this. Feed people, house them and give them meaningful things to do.

There is no other meaning in life than this now. But to show people how to live for each other, to be responsible for each other. I always felt that my life had a meaning. I knew it, but then I would forget for a time again. And everywhere I went I found that it’s not possible, nothing is possible with each person alone, taking care of only himself. It made no sense.

Indeed nothing made sense, nothing at all made sense. Without this one fact, that we are here only to HELP each other, to feed each other, to look out for each other. I don’t know why it becomes so hard to understand. Because everyone has become afraid perhaps.

And I couldn’t understand that we are all going to die, and that at the end you want to look back and say that, I did this for you. It wasn’t for me. And that it was a choice. In my life I have seen rich and poor and I have seen people who are prisoners, either prisoners and slaves of misery and poverty or prisoners and slaves of greed and selfishness. And regardless of which side, both die alone. Then, in the end, is it not it true, even if you believe in absolutely no god, at the end would it not be better to say, I spent my life making others happy by practicing compassion? If I spend my days practicing compassion, will I die alone? And even if I do, won’t I have love in my heart when I go?

So many years ago I heard the parable of those with long arms. We all have long and strong arms. The difference between heaven and hell is that some feed each other and some feed only themselves. The arms are too long. Especially now they are too long. They won’t reach to the mouth. So we feed another and have faith that we so also be fed. It’s not the airplane oxygen mask scenario in the plane that First Me then You. No. It’s so simple.

Today is 25th April, 2022. This past night I slept in a fully empty parking lot at the corner of North Anthony and hmmm…. can’t remember. I had been looking for a house that I had lived in a decade ago. I found it. 1426 C….s avenue. So, I went online and determined that the house is still apparently owned by the same person. That man had purchased the house within a short time before I met him. I met him online also, but before your imagination gets the better of you, no, it wasn’t a dating site.

The man to whom I now refer had listed on a site called “couchsurfing.com”. I don’t know that it still exists. That time was a bit crazy for me. (Well, here I have to exclaim, which time in my life wasn’t? That’s the actual question here.) Nevertheless, I satisfied myself yesterday, after a quick look online, that the house at least has not changed hands since 2008, so, I am reasonably sure that this man at least still owns the property. Whether or not he lives there, well, it would take a somewhat bolder move on my part in order for this to be ascertained. I don’t quite feel ready for that. Suffice it to say, I am happy for the moment. There is a potential friend somewhere nearby, let’s just put it that way.

So, I was asleep, and I slept really quite well. I have to say, there is something so profound about this place called “home”. The words from the Wizard of Oz come to mind easily, “I guess we’re not in Kansas any more, Toto.” That would be paraphrased, of course. Well, I moved away from this place so many, many years ago. I had what they call in German, “Fernweh”, which, if we would translate it directly, would sound very strange: “Distance-Pain”. I find it a little ironic indeed, the English translation of this word is also German! Collins calls it “wanderlust”, or the “travel bug”. But the original German word, Fernweh is somehow more descriptive for me. It’s the first thing that came to mind. It’s the ache associated with the yearning to be far from where you are, to experience something so completely different from anything you have experienced before. That would have described my state of mind when I was in my twenties. It was the need to escape from my life as it was, as it had been and as it promised to become, should I have chosen to stay put instead.

And I must admit, coming back here was not exactly a conscious choice. I didn’t set out to do it. It just kind of happened. At the end of the day, there was nowhere to go, but “home”. Sure, I could have gone anywhere, but I chose to come back to my home state, because there are still people here, people who knew me at the beginning. I wanted to see them. Or, you could say that “the horse knows the way back to its stable”. My “dad” would have put it that way perhaps.

After Florida, I started driving and I set my compass to North by Northwest and worked my way along through the southern states, traversing them from the Southeast to the Northwest more or less in each case. A few states later I reached the southern border of the northern state where I had come to see the light of day for the first time, so many decades ago. I had figured out pretty early in my current travels that I didn’t like the interstate roads at all. Aside from being stultifyingly boring to the point of being dangerous (falling asleep while driving has been known to happen to me more or less often), the gas prices on the lesser traveled roads were generally from 50 cents to $1.50 per gallon cheaper. Not only that, the smaller towns and villages, unicorporated areas etc. offered so much more to see, not to mention so much more to eat. There was always a good chance of finding some one-off Mom & Pop Shop in a little hamlet on some country road somewhere. Much more to my liking since I eschew fast food entirely, and astronomically larger chances of striking up conversation as compared to @McD’s and Co. Beyond that, the country roads were without exception much less traveled, as in un-busy, always. I abandoned then the bigger, well traveled roads in favor of the more comfortable travel speeds of the country and county lanes and byways.

There is a tale, a legend known about the travels of Louis and Clarke while they were exploring the North American Territories. They had hired Native American scouts for their journey; and they were all traveling by canoe or small boat down rivers and smaller tributaries. This type of travel had not been customary for the scouts who were used to going on foot or at the most by pony, when ponies were available, which I am guessing they mostly weren’t. The Lewis and Clarke party was pleased with this type of travel, because it was at once easy and pretty rapid, compared to travel overland during this period of history, when there were practically no trails or roads available what to speak of railways. One day early on during the trip, the party had stopped for the night and the next morning the scouts had not packed the canoes while the sun rose higher and higher in the sky. When asked they replied that they were unable to continue the journey and needed to wait. This same conversation repeated itself on both the 2nd and the 3rd subsequent mornings. At this point, the Europeans asked the Native scouts the equivalent of, “Hey, what gives? We need to get going.” I guess they were on a schedule. I am sure of it, in fact. They must have had a budget and weren’t happy to think that their supplies were being eaten up during “non-productive” days of sitting around waiting. To the repeated and more demanding query the scouts replied finally that they were waiting for their “souls to catch up”, and they remained adamant and steadfast, insisting on the need to wait until such a time as they had been rejoined by or re-attached to their lagging spirit bodies.

Perhaps there is a correlation here; for some reason anyway, I had to take a similar tack.

The range in quality and style of the alternate country roads went from generously widely laned divided highways, which were not the limited access kind, (these tended to be just slightly less irritatingly monotonous than the interstates), to twisty curvy, up and down bobbing one and a half laned county (county without the “r”) roads carving the countryside at right angles into patchwork quilt like blocks of pasture land, corn- or bean fields etc., punctuated by farmhouses, barns, grain silos and livestock, and so on. The generally arrow straight county roads proved normally quite acceptable both in driveability with regards to the surface quality, signage and general safety as well as in the quota of visually interesting diversions for the travel weary eye. These and their slightly wider counterparts were to become my favorite travel arteries on this trip. I did find that, especially while driving on the faster roads, I became intensely tired much more often and it did turn out to be generally advantageous and comforting if I were to stop and just sit in my car for 2 to 3 or more days at a time periodically during the trip. In fact, more often than not did it turn out to be so. I think there might be something to that old legend. For me, at least, it felt like it was “a thing”.

To the above end it wasn’t really very easy to configure the GPS on my phone, at least not with the app I was using. I didn’t find any setting that would have avoided any and all interstates. Maybe I just don’t do “phone” all that well. Perhaps there are different apps out there that I would have to download. It was hard enough, as it was, to stop the app from sending me on toll roads. So, I had to kind of “work with it” by carefully observing the course of the major interstate corridors leading from my current location to my desired end goal. Then I would improvise by plugging in the names of little towns no more than 30 to 60 minutes distance from my current location along that route. The result was usually quite gratifying. It took some doing, but the extra effort paid off. I didn’t actually ever run into any roads which proved less than desirable given my preferred travel orientation (slow and steady wins the race). Since I was not in any hurry, it even seemed that sometimes having chosen roads that had speed limits of less than 55, (some were 45, and in other places 35 or even 30), turned out to be quite pleasant indeed.

As I traveled along these routes, the landscape changed and these changes were also much more satisfying and noticeable than they would have been/mostly are along the homogeneously fashioned rapid transit roads. It’s kind of funny that we should feel that we have so little choice when considering traveling cross country by car. It’s either I40, I80, I70 or I10, right? I wondered more than a few times what it would have been like to have traveled during the 30s, 40s or early 50s even, or earlier still… At those times, an average speed of 30 or 40 mph would have been quite acceptable. When I happened upon a boring stretch of road in spite of my best efforts to the contrary, I often tuned into social media for a diversion. Ironically, some of my favorite videos during those stretches were ones about coast to coast cannonball tours.

I’ve described at length my mode of travel without mentioning my car. Let’s just say her name is Maddy, short for Madison. I don’t take very good care of her, I must say. It’s a bit chaotic in there most days. But that’s because I live in her belly and still I feel self-conscious about it. I find it difficult to pull up and park somewhere in public and start tearing apart my car, folding blankets and such, or organizing laundry, gathering trash to throw out etc. what to speak of actually brushing out the dust and sand from the rugs. Yes, Maddy is my home on wheels. I never set out to become a “van-lifer”. In this case I would have to consider myself a “crossover-lifer”; and it’s still a bit hard for me to part with things I don’t actually really need. So, there’s a bit more in there than I need or want, but I feel that perhaps soon I’ll relax a bit and be able to let go of some of the ballast, some of the extra blankets I don’t really need and so on.

The anxiety about living in my car notwithstanding, I’ve been able to enjoy my travel increasingly over the last weeks. This is in large part due to a connection I am beginning to feel with my past and with my country. The first time I felt this, on this trip, was in the middle of Texas, oddly enough. As a child, having traveled through 38 of the 50 continental United States with my parents and or my first husband, Texas was one of my least favorite travel destinations. The only reason we had, as a family, to travel to or through the Lone Star state, was my sister, #3. At the time she was living with her kids and her second husband in Lubbock. My sister had been widowed at 23 years of age, as the mother of 3 babies. And they were literally babies, 3 yrs, 2 yrs and 6 mos of age, two boys and a girl respectively, at the time of their father’s untimely and bizarre demise. Too soon after that great tragedy, my sister had married again; and in time she gave birth to two more children, a girl and then a boy. They all lived in a house in the most dreary place I could have imagined. Lubbock at the time, at least the way I experienced it, was a dirty, dusty, dry and dismal place. It was a desert of dead tufts of grass interspersed amongst stretches of bald, rocky, flat ground. The dust in the house was not something that could be removed for more than a few hours at a time. It was windy in that place and there was no way to keep anything really clean, as I recall. Perhaps there were other reasons for the impression Lubbock left on my young mind and feelings. I don’t know for sure, but my relationship with sis #3 never really became very warm, much to the contrary I am afraid. This, even though I had no reason to harbor any ill will towards her or her children. I just remember that, as I grew older, my sister waxed more and more unpleasant towards me. It always puzzled me, to a greater or lesser degree than it troubled me.

So, this time, driving through Texas just as dawn was slowly breaking, having crossed the border from New Mexico in the wee hours quite some time before, I was pleasantly surprised by a random accidental liking I took to the landscape in the “hat” of Texas (that’s what I call it anyway). It was quite inadvertent, this feeling, considering how it actually transpired. I had just discovered suddenly, after having driving past Albuquerque on highway I40, that I could diverge from the beaten path. It just occurred to me suddenly that “Hey, I’m not enjoying this trip; and I think it’s because of this old I40. It’s boring and the surface is actually quite annoying as well. It’s in poor repair, and the street is crowded with semi tractor-trailer rigs.” Just as I was having this thought, I spotted a sign for a gas station and the price was more to my liking than many I had seen on the previous stretches. I got off the Interstate then and pulled up to the pump and went in to have a bathroom break as well. Then I looked online and found that there was a nice little Mom & Pop restaurant across the way. I went there to have a meal. Normally I didn’t eat in restaurants at all. But this night, I thought, “I think I’ll treat myself to a sit down meal.” I chose the only vegetarian item on the menu. It was edible, for which I was grateful, a veggie burger. The price was a little high for what it was, I thought, but I was very happy about the homemade mashed potatoes, which were excellent, if not served quite steaming hot. The food was served in a timely fashion and the ambiance was quite pleasant. It was a family restaurant, very clean and obviously quite popular with the locals, as it was full. I had to wait a few minutes to be seated. The friendly treatment more than made up for the lackluster sandwich.

After I left there, I moved out onto the road and discovered that this was the perfect jumping off point into my new idea of choosing “the path less traveled”. It could not have been more perfect. I started off then down that new road and have avoided the interstates ever since. So, then, that next morning, as I made my way through Northern Texas, quite suddenly I received an unexpected text message. It was from my niece, the youngest daughter of my oldest sister. Now, this girl and I have a great deal in common, even though she has not the slightest idea whatsoever about it. It would break the boundaries of this tale to veer off into that direction at this point in the telling. I’m afraid this recounting of my journey has grown quite long as it is, but let’s just say that Sis #1’s youngest daughter fancies me to be her nemesis. I had contacted her by text message several weeks prior to setting off on my trip by car from the West Coast region of Southern California to the West Coast region of Florida. She had not answered and that being not at all unusual for my family, it had not really concerned me that much. The night before, in the middle of my first trip down county roads of Eastern New Mexico and Western Texas, my phone went off and I just casually glanced over to catch a phrase that seemed out of place somehow. At least with regard to my state of mind in that moment, it seemed not to make any sense with spurious statements. It said emphatically, “You will not come into this house to steal…” and then “you will be STOPPED!”

At this point, I said, Oh, Lord, I guess I should stop then. And I did. I pulled over right in that very moment, into a gas station in the middle of a little town. I parked the car and then read the whole message. I sat there perplexed for quite a while. I wasn’t really terribly disturbed by the message, as this sort of thing is not really that unusual in my family. But, I was a bit surprised, taken aback one could say. After some time, I just took a deep breath and said to myself, “Ok then, we shall stop here.” And I proceeded to spend a few days in this tiny Texas settlement. The Population sign declared less than 500 inhabitants. I don’t remember how many, maybe 411 or so. It was just the one convenience store on the main drag and then a really mammoth high school, a miniature public library consisting of one small room of a single story strip mall, nearby a municipal building in the same strip, a feed store, a post office, a small scrap yard and a messy looking mechanic’s locus. Off the main drag there were little bungalows, 40s and 50s builds, a few churches, one of which was quite sizable and sturdy, imposing even, made of brick and stone; I think it was Baptist. There was an antique shop and there was quite a lovely looking coffee shop, really impressively decorated, but unfortunately closed when I finally discovered it on my last day in the town. Then there was also a building that had obviously been at one time the local radio station. You could tell from the way it was built: quite low, one story, a small rectangle with absolutely no style whatsoever and the slender steel transmission tower next to it. Now it was a local craft shop, where crafts were apparently being made that is. But it was closed. I didn’t see it open the whole time I was there. There was a cafe a block or so from the gas station, also on the main street, named after the local high school mascot, run by a Mexican family, where I dined a couple of times. That was pretty much it, not too bad considering. The town declared itself to be an agricultural center, a center of exchange for farmers and ranchers. It was absolutely flat and windswept. Strangely, I began to notice, I felt quite at home there. There was something very familiar about it, and I mean that in the very “root” meaning of the word “familiar” as in “family”.

During the time previous to this stop, after I had left California, I had been quite stirred up, tense, not at all comfortable. It had been quite shocking for me to leave my home of the last 9 or 10 years or so, with not much of a perspective on when if ever I might return. Then suddenly after receiving this admittedly less than friendly missive on the part of my niece, suddenly I found myself feeling surprisingly relaxed and welcomed in this small rural Texan community. There didn’t seem to be any reason for that impression. No one was going out of their way to make me feel as if I belonged there or anything. It was just an odd feeling of “sympatico”. I think I can say now, I felt somehow less threatened, oddly, right after having received something one would have to consider to be a threat. Perhaps it was the contrast that did it. Reading this starkly negative message in a little town where any and every person I talked to showed me their face, looked at me straight in my eyes, and smiled in a genuinely friendly and open way, or so it seemed to me. Perhaps that was it, the gleaming white pearls of friendly good will against the black velvet dress of vicious calumny.

Well, this was all three days ago. It’s hard to be consistent with the writing living in my car. I don’t know why I get so distracted. Well, one this is this damn phone. The 24 hour access to ticktacktoe and the metootubi. Yes, that’s the problem. I guess it’s the dopamine. I wonder if I’ll ever get over it. I wonder. I wanted to come here and talk to my brother. I wanted to. I started to go through all this junk. It took up hours. hour and hours go by on that app. I want to throw the phone in the lake. Literally. I don’t want that thing. But they won’t let you have the phone without having that app installed on it.

THAT… was yesterday? Or day before. I guess I should say to be continued…

Once I asked my mother, “Mother, what was I like as a baby?” to which she instantly, a little TOO quickly, answered, “Oh, you kids were all alike!” And thus was my query silenced. I don’t have any snappy comebacks in my arsenal, still. And I certainly didn’t have any that day. I don’t “snap back” as it were, at all. Never have, really. Well, I’m not feeling it today, but let’s just press forward. I find, when I wake up in the morning… now anyone reading this may feel the next phrase coming… “and get out of bed”, but in this case that phrase would be out of place, if I am to be honest. To be honest? um, TBH? Where did I wake up today?

Today morning I woke up where I normally do these days, in my leased car, a 2022 import compact crossover, nondescript color, base model. I sleep usually more or less comfortably in the front seat, with the windshield blocked by sunshades, the kind that pop open when you untie them or release the elastic band from around them. Since Flagstaff, AZ, I have a wonderfully “cushy” soft blanket, a bedspread I think, made of fleece on the one side and crushed velvet on the flip side. It’s the perfect color, matches the interior of the car, so it’s not terribly noticeable. It blends in. But the main thing is that, since I got it from the homeless shelter there in that high desert town one night when it was raining like crazy, since that time I have not been cold while sleeping in my vehicle. I love it, and every night when I pull it from the back to the front and stuff the long end of the folds down under the steering wheel, which moves up and a little out of the way, to cover my feet, I feel comforted. I won’t have to freeze tonight! It’s easy to fall asleep.

That is except last night. Where did I park last night? And where did I come from? The last five or so days I have been traveling up from Florida, in fact, from the furthest point south I have ever been in this continental United States. Yeah, after I left my oldest sister’s house I sat across the bay from Saint Pete. It was odd to look out over the water and see tall buildings, sky scrapers apparently, grayish looking and distant, popping out above the water line on the horizon. I had just simply searched on my phone for a beach, not the nearest beach either. And I ended up at the end of a long and curving road, abruptly ending in a parking lot, a very small one, next to some moderately expensive restaurant, not upscale, more like lower middle class I think. The people entering the beach from the far side going around the chain link fence to find a spot in the sand were carrying their coolers and towels etc with flipflop sandals on past a sign that said, “No Coolers on the Beach”. It was a whole group of them. Some of them were mildly obese. Others, the younger ones, still looked more or less normal. They had arrived, I don’t know how. I didn’t see a vehicle capable of carrying ten passengers, probably they came in two or more cars. The parking lot was maybe 10 or so spaces wide and 4 rows deep and the beach, which was really the size of an overgrown sandbox was maybe a hundred feet wide with perhaps 30 feet to the water from the fence. There was no shade anywhere. I had been hoping for a little shade.

Before that, I had been at sister’s house, in a kind of swanky gated community 37 miles to the East, outside a little run down burrow in the midst of what had been farmland probably. It’s hard to describe those places. This is I think what one refers to as the process of gentrification. That is, the more well-heeled take over the neighborhood from those less well off, cyclically every 100 years or so, I suppose. So, farmland was giving way to generous plots of land with well manicured lawns full of “grass” that, where I grew up would have been fought as a scourge called “crabgrass” with a potent weed killer. The broad leafed variety glowed almost artificially in the brightness of the that green. But then Florida is extremely wet and there is most certainly no brown spot in any lawn especially since that wetness is augmented each night through automatic sprinklers, over “kill” in this case. The house was spacious enough, relatively new with tall ceilings, an open layout. The master bedroom at the far end tucked behind the living dining kitchen area next to the enclosed porch with it’s barbecue, was spacious with a walk in bathroom which had no door. At the front of the house were two bedrooms, a laundry room next to the garage and an alcove that probably once had served as an office, but was now being pressed into service as a sick room or recovery room I should say, for my 87 year old bed ridden sister. Who, I think might not actually recover. Or maybe she will, who knows. That depends on her alone.

By the time I reached Sis’s house, her husband of the last 12 or so years had passed away. She had been texting me messages on social media for the last several days that he was not in good shape, that her youngest daughter was not handling her care very well and could I come. I was her “last hope” was the way she made it sound. I was leery of going there, feeling that I was on very uneven ground with her. Yes, I had made the mistake of reaching out. That was on a day when I felt very close to death. And when you feel the grim reaper encroaching, all the walls that perhaps once protected you from such unwise decisions tend to melt or fall down and crumble in the sheer inevitability of your unpreparedness for that eventuality. My mind went numb, and my heart was screaming for my mother. Mother is gone, but here was one who would have been old enough to have been my mother, and indeed had already had children even a year before I had been born. And she looked like my mother, at least around the eyes.

When I reached out to her, I started spontaneously to cry and say, I want to be with relatives. I had told her that I was homeless, living in my car, and that my life had become a hell of isolation which I was unable to bear more or less. Well, I didn’t really wax all that poetic. But I gave the impression of vulnerability and helplessness. Then I said, I would like to come, that I was ready to start driving and would be there in a few days; and I could help her, take care of her, that physically I am still strong and that I have some training, at least that years ago I had worked in nursing homes. I never heard anything then for weeks, not much anyway. And I had forgotten it. That very day I had run into someone and spontaneously I had moved in with her. That was in California in the mountain town where I had been living for the past 6 years or so.

And that itself was a very odd situation. I kept getting pushed out. The town was trying to spit me out it seems. To any outside person it would have been obvious that it was time to leave. You cannot just walk away from a narcissistic relationship with a prominent personality in a town that size and expect to just get on with things. It doesn’t work. They send their flying monkeys out to make sure that you won’t. I had been warned that I would be homeless. And it seemed that there was some force working always towards that end. And who am I to argue? I don’t have snappy comebacks. But all this going back and back and back… I still haven’t explained.

Where did I wake up this morning? Well, it was an odd situation. I had driven up from Florida taking several days. I didn’t have anything better to do. I have a new car which I don’t really want to keep, but anyway I don’t have to really think that I will get stuck anywhere. I just have to try to pay attention that I don’t drive recklessly in any way. So, I thought, let me go back to where it all started, back to the Midwest, to my state where I grew up. Let me see… And I passed by even within a few miles on my trip near my oldest brother’s house. Why didn’t I stop there? Well, I was scared. His wife has always given me a very cold feeling, like don’t you even think of it! And Sis #1 had been less than happy at the end. I knew I should not have gone there. 2700 miles and that means an oil change is also pending soon.

What surprised me was that after a month in which I had not heard anything much from her, she suddenly pops up on my feed after 9 pm, that was midnight her time, saying that she had decided to “take a chance” on me. The phrasing was odd, a big red flag. I most definitely should not have gone there. But, that is where we get into trouble. Whenever there is a vulnerable spot, as in, we need something, or we want something, that is where we get into trouble DEEP. In this case, I don’t really know how much trouble. But I did express the sentiment that I was not going down the road of DRAMA with them. Well, that didn’t pan out either. It ended, if not with a bang, at least with a bump. And no, I didn’t slam the door on my way out. That is not my style. I tried to slip away quietly. Hence, my trip to that sorry excuse for a Florida beach. I think, or I should say, I know, what she thought she was getting was free nurse and maid service, and a cook also, and someone to run to the pharmacy and the store ten miles hence, etc. And she never had to pay a dime for it. There was a promise to reimburse me for gas I think, that came indirectly through the mouth of another person. Yes, and the whole time she kept bragging about how much money she had. I was not interested in that. Up front I had demanded a round trip ticket and a car to use once I got down there. Well, she never went into that. She never actually even spoke to that question. No, she started working on my consciousness from another angle. That the husband would pass away soon. Well, I had remained pretty staunchly resistant to that hype for most of the several weeks this had been going on. Finally, one night I caved and I started driving. My friend, a few streets away from where I was staying, another friend, she had told me flatly, “this is crazy-making”. She had experience with narcissists. I knew it. I knew it, but… I had to go. Those were the eyes of my mother.

But this was not the depth of the betrayal. No. The whole premise had been another story. I don’t even want to go into it here. It’s too machiavelian. It’s just too complicated. These people make your life a hell by departing so far from simplicity and straightforwardness that you end up tripping over wires and falling over cliffs, just trying to understand them. In the end I called the cops. I told them my story first, just to get out of it somehow; it was damage control and it probably didn’t work. I tried to slip away and that’s when she pulled the trigger on treason. Never leave a narcissist? They will do their utmost to destroy you. And they have the upper hand. Because usually they have all the money and that means, they look like they are the “honest upstanding one”. Because, if you live in your car, even if it is a new car, you MUST be wrong, right?

I bypassed my oldest brother’s house and I drove, I drove. I had to choose some direction. I didn’t know where to go. So, I just said, ok. Let’s go back “home”. And the thought of running into these relatives, mostly with dubious motives… well. I headed for the southern border of a northern state. Another friend told me in a text I received en route that she didn’t like the South. “Why not?” Well, she was a liberal, and this conservatism was making everyone sick. And beyond that, she’d had relatives from Georgia once. Ah… that was it? Well, if her relatives from Georgia were anything like my relatives from ANY goddamn state, then I can understand. No further need of explanation.

Ok, for Pete’s sake, where did I wake up this morning? After driving through several southern states, and by the way, it’s election season. I saw billboards, yard signs and I kid you not, there was one Sheriff Wimpee. And then there was a congresswoman I think, Wiseman. And I saw another one last night. Why don’t I just take pictures? I won’t remember the name. It was a doozy. And it just said “Believe… Sheriff Wampee”. What in the heck was that other one I saw? The thing most people don’t know is that the names are made up. Yeah, made up. It’s not their real name. Yeah, just believe. Believe that this guy is a sheriff and his name is actually wampee! Go ahead. Drat! Why can’t I remember the last one? Because it was late last night, that’s why. Kind of like Bernie Madoff. Because what did he do? He “made-off” with the bucks! 64.8 billion. That was the net. The biggest ponzi scheme in history. Wikipedia says he died in 2021 in NC. More like faked his death, if you ask me. That’s what they all do. My lord. You think I’m kidding or delusional? No, they really do make up their names and it’s just that easy.

My whole life I was really unhappy with my name. I could not figure it out. It was repugnant to me. I was disgusted with it. It made no sense. I couldn’t figure out so many things: why my “Daddy” had dark skin (I’m blonde); why he never really talked to me much or seem concerned about me for anything, even the times I would approach him, he was always silent; the way he had of tickling me walking around the edge of the dinner table in the evening. It seemed playful, but unattached; he was more like a babysitter than a father. And he deferred to Mother in everything concerning me. It was like he had absolutely no say. And why would he have had any? And when I was thirty years old and it was going to be my birthday I was homeless in NYC. I mean, I think I had a place to stay for another night or so, but I was in the middle of getting ready to fly to Europe. I had given up my apartment or something. I cannot remember all the things that were going on at that time. I just remember taking my parents to the storage locker. I picked them up at the airport in a rented car. And we had the party at my friend’s apartment. It was too crazy. I remember driving from Newark International into Manhattan and I was telling them from the driver’s seat, what the heck did you do? What was your idea? You didn’t teach me a damn thing! And they were both protesting, my mother from the back seat, that, “Yes, we did! We taught you!” And I, “No, you didn’t! You didn’t at all! Nothing!”

I guess I am proud of myself that I at least was honest with them, even though they never told me anything. Never owned up to it. And how different my life would have been if they had! Would I be homeless right now? Would I be married? Would I have children? But I have none, had no real career, had no comfort, no happy life, no wealth or harmony. I don’t want to blame them for this, in fact. No, I feel that it all must have happened for some reason, for some really glorious reason. Glory.

So, just another thing and then I will really and truly cough it up, the answer, about where I did sleep last night… I am not really stringing you along on purpose. I don’t mean to do that. It’s just that I keep finding more and more coming up. More things I want to say.

Yesterday I fulfilled a dream, well a small dream, a little fantasy. I went to see someone famous. A little bit famous. Like Andy Warhol said, everyone will get their fifteen minutes of fame. He said that before he died, supposedly a virgin, at 52 of a heart attack? In NYC in the 80s. After his protege Jean Basquiat had OD’d at was it 24 or 27? After I was pushed out of the group, after the “Supreme Divine Mother” had flicked me away, after the narcissistic abuse had “ended(?)” and I didn’t want to be homeless, I started buying cars, like mad. Really mad. I went crazy. That’s really another story, and it’s all so complicated, so machiavelianly incongruent and topsy turvy.

I first got a Ford Escort 2001. But, back up a little bit… when I left the group, I had walked out with just my clothes and a few papers. Not much else. I left a lot of my stuff there. These were things I was not able to grab at that exact minute. I barely made it out with my checkbook and a few credit and debit cards in my name. Those had been locked up in a desk in a remote office building. But one day I had gone in there; it was a few weeks before I finally departed the group suddenly, thereby surprising even myself. So, I was technically on foot. And I stayed with a man just a mile away from the restaurant, where I had worked 16 hours per day for 7 days out of each week for 6 straight years for no pay. A few weeks before I left, and I think this is the reason I don’t have all my papers right now, the reason I lost a lot of pictures and documents and precious things… a few weeks before this, one day, in the morning, right about this time, around 10 am or so, the verbal abuse had started. Someone started to poke and needle. I had done something said something, and it was this or that… blah blah blah. I just stopped them and said, “No worries, I’ll be gone soon.” It just came out of my mouth. The retort back at me was, “OH, you ALWAYS threaten, THREATEN!” I said nothing in return. It was just that. It just came out of my mouth and I thought little of it.

In fact, I had never thought I would leave, even though I had wanted to leave so many times, and yet that avenue was cut off. And what was it? There was no means of escape. There was little or no money. There was a constant threat that I would be homeless. There was nothing else to do. Where to start? If I leave, If I go, If I stop being this person, being here? Who and what am I then? I only remember for my WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE, there is the feeling of never being heard. I wanted to be heard. I wanted to say what it was that I thought. So, finally, when I did leave, how appropriate that I end up with someone who also wants to sit on my head? And I was so distraught. I didn’t know where to go then??? It’s as if the whole world… I am running and running, a little child at this time, because I certainly had not grown up yet. I was running. And I am a child in a very adult body. I am a child and I am trying to escape and everywhere I go, the same ugly faces, the same abuses, the same rigid inhuman rules. At the same time, I know it. I know that is what is there. I am seeing it. I am not able to escape. Everywhere in the town there are only two types of people, distanced, injured women instead of close and helpful friends, and men who only want to take advantage of innocence instead of heroes.

One of these men I saw in the park then. After an argument with the would be helper who had immediately turned out to be an advocate for my tormentors only, after this verbal altercation with him, I went to the park. I was confused. I had left the group where I was being tormented, but I had walked into the same story on a different street. Then this man offered and I went to his house. I took my clothes then, I went there and I ensconced myself in a room in the back of his house. It was set up like a bunker, half underground, hidden inside a warehouse type building. I have never seen anything like it before or since. It was kind of like the little cottage in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. So, I was hunkered down in the quasi bunker. It was off the beaten path. No one would find me there. I was secure for the moment. Relatively secure with regards to the threat of being discovered by the group I had just run away from.

(That was a dangling participle by the way, just now. And I also have taken the liberty of punctuating simple phrases that do not contain both a subject and a predicate with a period. Like this. Or this! Further grammatical and other anomalies are to follow soon. I am well aware but I just don’t care actually.)

After establishing residence in the little cottage inside the tin can warehouse, I immediately went on Bozonland.com and ordered two things: an emergency tent and some emergency space blankets (those plastic foil reflective sleeping bags), both screaming orange in color. The man saw these items when I picked them up (he had driven me to the post office). And he said, in a kind of denigrating way, [you know here I can’t find the darn word. In German, it’s herabschauend and the man really is much taller than I am, so he really was looking down on me, as if I were a child, because I suppose that is how he viewed women, that and the fact that they are objects for him, just for having sex, not really for much else… ah finally condescending. Gott, I have a problem now, all the words don’t fit in my brain any more. I end up getting the German ones and the English doesn’t stick any more.], he looked at me in this condescending, knowing way, and said that I would not be needing them (the tent and so on). But I wasn’t all that sure about it. After all, people don’t ever really reveal themselves in the first few minutes. Children do, but not “people”. I had revealed myself plenty. I am not sure about this. I have a theory that if you have been deprived of a connection to family as a young child, it becomes difficult to grow up. You go on and on seeking your family, but you never really mature. Again, I am not trying to blame anyone here. I am just saying. It’s unnatural. So, then, for the first part, for the first few minutes, I was ready. In case, as started to happen later on, there should be the sounds of screaming and breaking glass, etc. Yes, it did happen, but the little mixed breed chihuahua dog was the recipient of both the screams and the tantrums. Still, I knew that it would be directed at me next.

Walking around the little mountain village; you could call it “alpine”, I started to feel free. It was summer, I was outside, I felt pretty secure. I was starting my life over. I used to walk everywhere, just to get out. Not at first, at first I was still hiding. I would ride in this old yellow mini truck of this man with his dog on the way to the park, and I would duck my head when we went on the main road every time. It took months before I could hold my head up. But now, the tantrums had not yet started, I was feeling safe for at least the first part. It’s easy to suppress the knowledge that this person is not who they purport to be and that it will soon get serious again. For a little while at least, you can hide the facts from yourself. But it doesn’t work for very long. Then one day I was walking down a trail. A trail is an unpaved road, and our little mountain village had mostly trails. They were full of potholes and a lot of people owned 4×4’s or at the least some vehicle with a bit of clearance, like a pickup. Walking on one of these trails I saw this young man, quite heavy set. He said “Hi!” I said hi back. Then I just asked him, “I’m looking for a car to buy.” He responded, “you can buy that one right there.” He pointed. I never asked any other person before this man. Indeed, I never spoke to anyone. And I only had spoken to him because he spoke to me first. I ended up buying that car.

When finally, shortly after that the glass did begin to break, and the little dog ran to hide behind the piano, I was ready. The day I went to the city to get brakes on the car was a revelation for me. It was the first time I was making decisions about what to do, without anyone else’s help. It was daunting. It was dangerous. It was risky. It was grace. And when I came back with the brakes totally repaired, it was exhilarating. I’m not sure; maybe they took way too much money. I don’t know if they did good work. I trusted the mechanics I chose, at random so to speak. I spent a lot on that car. I had a lot of work done on it because I wanted it to be secure. I didn’t want to end up somewhere stranded. In the end I sold it for much less than I had invested in it. But there were factors which contributed to this decision. First, someone was pressuring me from outside. Second, I was myself not sure that the vehicle was even worth much. Still, I screwed up my courage and demanded at least 30% or more over the price I felt I could get. I got it immediately, without the man even trying to bargain with me. That should have told me something. Nevertheless, the car was gone. Then I had another car and it turned out that I would not be able to use it the way I had planned. So, suddenly I sold that car and then I was again without wheels. This time I was again living with the first man who had taken me in after my exodus from the cult. And this man had not really reformed his behavior. He was still professing to know what was good for me better than I did for myself. Even though he is young enough to be my son, had I had one.

I always had a problem with someone trying to push me around. Maybe that is why I had been bossy at times. It was a kind of pushback. But at some point I succumbed and decided that maybe this man actually knew better. He would get angry with me when I would not listen to him and he would become threatening. Like, if you don’t like what I say I don’t want to talk to you. To be clear, it meant I could just go on and move out. That was difficult. It’s very strange how these things get so twisted around. In the end I left. It was not an agree to disagree situation. It was push coming to shove. I couldn’t handle that sort of environment, not after living with a group for 10 years and being told every day that I’m worthless and don’t know anything and that I’ll be homeless without them. The leader had decided everything, right down to the type of underwear I would wear. But I did, I decided ok, let him tell me what to do. He was saying, get a new car. And I didn’t want to. That was one of our arguments. I wanted to get a used car. I showed it to him. He had picked out a new car for me and he was getting ready to take me to the dealership to pick it up. And I told him, no, I have decided to get a used car (at a third of the price) and he got really mad and then he was on strike. He was not going to help me. So, I was stuck there without a vehicle. I started to look around for another car. He was again becoming threatening, that, you better not buy another old car (he had pushed me into selling the old one). But I did. I bought another old car. Then at some point I gave in and we went and leased this car. And I am sitting in it now. The old car I had, well, I learned to do the repairs myself. It was crazy. At the end, I wanted to keep the old car and get rid of the new car. But how to get out of the lease? Much too complicated.

I ended up selling the old car, the one I had fixed up. I had repaired just about everything on it. I had not touched the fuel pump yet, though. And I felt the started could eventually go out as well. But aside from those two Items, I had done a lot with that car including wheel bearings and a lot of the front suspension. I sold it for what I had in it, not more. It was again, a lot, but at least this time I got my money back out of it. Now, I had gone down the valley and tried to get the dealerships to offer me a decent amount for the new car. But they wouldn’t offer me enough. I knew they stood to make a good 3-5 grand even if I took a bath by forfeiting my 2k down payment. But they were greedy and said they would only give so much. I decided to pass.

Then I sold my “baby”. And started driving east. So, I had it in mind to go and see my friends. Well, they didn’t know me. I knew “of” them, from social media. Like I said, they are stars. And I even felt, well, maybe we could work together. They had been saying in their videos, that help was needed and I feel I have a lot of experience, maybe I can help. But I also felt pretty shy to just burst through the doors and say, “Y’all don’t know me from Eve, but I’m great and you should just hire me!!” So, yesterday I met them. I walked into the “dealership”. And it was a bit tense for me. But I just pretended that I’m not desperate. Well, actually, I AM less desperate than I have been. I pretended not to care that much. I pretended to have a place to drive to after this. And after leaving the dealership after an hour or so, I DID drive in a direction, a certain direction. I did. I drove to my youngest brother’s house. I found the address. Sis #1 had given it to me.

So, by this time, anyone who has made it this far really wants to know, “where did you finally sleep last night?” And it was like this. I drove to my brother’s house. I had driven all country roads up through the bottom of the state. I didn’t want to go on the interstates. They bore me. The little towns, the country, that’s all cool. You drive and then you slow down. You see houses, animals in fields, barns, churches with huge cemeteries. I think the biggest cemeteries are the ones in my original home state. I’ve never seen such mammoth cemeteries anywhere else on earth. Not anywhere. So, I drove and sometime late at night a text message came through from a friend back east. And I couldn’t answer the text message. I was driving down a rolling county road in the middle of nowhere and I finally pulled over at a church. It’s so odd how many churches there are in my home state. And it was a huge church. Out in the middle of the countryside and hard to imagine how so many people live out there to fill up a church that size. And that was not the only one. There were others that were double and triple that size. I had seen them on the way. I had passes dozens of churches. Each tiny little podunk town seems to have about ten churches. So, I pulled over and then I was hungry and then I finished eating. I was less than an hour from my brother’s house. Well, if the address was correct. I could not know if it was. I just didn’t know. He never ever answered me on social media before. Not once. So, it was late by that time. I considered whether or not to park right there in the countryside under that bright light in the parking lot of the church, but I decided that was an invitation to a conversation with the county deputy. I moved on. I kept driving. Finally, I pulled into the mid-sized midwestern town in the southern part of this northern state. And I noticed as I was driving that I was on the “wrong” side or the “poor” side of the town, near the railroad tracks, as I quite expected.

I found the house then, or the address that was purported to be my little brother’s house. But I still didn’t know. The house was dark. There was no vehicle parked out front. The size of the lot is what we call “postage-stamp”. I assume that the separate garage is accessible only from the alleyway. If you opened the side door, you probably would be able to reach out and knock on your neighbor’s window without stepping out of the kitchen, the houses seemed that close to me. I felt pretty shy then. What if I would be sitting there and he would drive up in a pickup truck? I felt reasonably certain that he owns a pickup. I don’t know why, I just felt like, let me not sit right here out in the front. What if he called the police that there is someone sitting in their car in front of my house? So, I moved on down the block. There was a dead end. I turned around somewhat awkwardly, having to drive on someone’s grass to do it. There was no culdesac, no such thing. Then I pulled on the grass again, outside someone’s house across from a lot of cars parked in the yard of the house opposite. I tried to hunker down a bit and watch some videos on my phone. Shortly, there was a knock on the passenger window. I looked up. It was an older man, a shorter darker man. I felt no fear or trepidation, neither any embarrassment. I was in a dirt poor neighborhood. there were several boarded up houses on every other block. They were all these tiny little one story bungalows, built right around between the two world wars, the kind with tiling on the outside that looks like painted slate but is some kind of composition board. I suppose I could be afraid, but at this point I was past it. I fumbled to roll down the electric windows. The man asked me what was going on, I suppose. I don’t remember the conversation, but then a younger man came along. He got interested in our conversation and asked me about my brother. I said I was waiting for him. And he started to say things like, “Was he in the military?” Yes. “Does he keep to himself?” Yes. “He’s about this old?” Yes. “Has some health problems?” I told him about my brother’s old injury. Yes. “Well, that’s the only guy I know of by that name.” Then he told me my brother’s house and what it looked like, where it was and the sort of thing that was sitting in front of it etc. and it was the same house. So, I got my confirmation. My brother still lived in that house. Then then asked me to please move and just go and park in front of my brother’s house. They said they needed the room to turn their cars around. And indeed, they had lots of cars and little room for turning around.

Then I went and parked in front of my brother’s house the whole night. I woke up at 5:30 am and left. I have no idea what I will say to him, after 39 years just walk up and knock on the door? I couldn’t somehow. Anyway, it didn’t even look like anyone was there. In the morning I needed a restroom. I went looking for one. I searched for a gas station. I found one a couple of blocks away. When I went there I was not sure what to do. The neighborhood is SO poor. I finally pulled up to the front of the store after some time. I had been sitting down the block for maybe half an hour thinking about what kind of life does my brother have to live in such a place. I got out of my car and went into the store. There was a terrible stench inside. It smelled like a barnyard. Only now does it occur to me that it was probably a backed up sewer under the store. Most modern gas stations have nice concrete around them. This place was a dump. I was afraid to drive in the lot. I’ve gotten a lot of punctured tires before driving on lots such as that one. No chance of using the bathroom. It was locked and a sign hanging, out of order. The young dark foreign born man behind the cash register (which was in something that looked like a kitchen cage) asked nervously what I wanted. I left.

I started driving out of the neighborhood. I noticed how bad the streets all were. Yes, this is the type of town I grew up in. But it was a long time ago. A world away, and that time there were no foreigners running all the shops. And that is not a racist comment. It was just that it was a different time. I wondered what my brother does every day. I thought, he has disability from his injury. He doesn’t work. He just collects his check. He eats the equivalent of tv dinners and drinks beer. I doubt if he smokes. But he probably does pot. Yes, in fact, sitting in front of his house I could not sleep. I did say that, I couldn’t sleep and that is unusual for me. When I feel like sleeping and even when I don’t, I can lay down and I’m gone. No waiting.

No, last night I could not sleep. I was no longer excited or feeling embarrassed. I was itching. I felt like I had a huge contact high. I was not smelling anything, but my skin all over my body was itching like when I had been smoking pot. It has been years and years. I never smoke pot. I smoked it maybe ten times in my life. But I still remember how my body used to react. That is how I felt sitting in front of my brother’s house last night. Somehow I was able to ignore it and go to sleep.

well, finally then I found another gas station. I went inside. This time the asphalt in front was clean enough, no potholes. Same chicken caged store clerk as before, an older version, perhaps the uncle of the other store clerk. When I asked for the restroom he did not understand me directly, such was his English. Then the light went on and he said, “Yes, Yes, use it.” He pointed to the other side of the store. It was clean enough. Just barely clean enough. And thankfully no sewer stench in that store. I noticed the items they kept in that store, charcoal, old refilled 5 gallon propane canisters, very scratched up, things like that interspersed with those plastic shrink-wrapped 24 bottle packs of drinking water. The lotto area was a machine, an automat, as they say. You press the button and you can get your lottery ticket. You put in a credit or debit card. There’s also a slot for cash up to $100 denomination. The top buttons were $50, $30, $20, $10, right down to $2. I felt shocked to see that, that someone would come in and spend $50 and of course, not win. $50. It just made me feel bad.

After all this I left the store. I grabbed one of those little magazines on my way out that advertises used cars. They are always free, printed partly in color on newsprint. I drove next to the library and I’m still sitting here. I haven’t moved, but one time. I first parked down the other side of the lot next to a flashing bright advertising sign. Then I came down to the this end, but not before getting my laptop set up with the library wifi, which is working great, by the way. I signed up for a library card but of course I can’t get one until I can prove I’m a resident. They also have a non-resident card for which you pay, but you also have to prove you have a local address before you can get it. So you have to be a resident to get the non-resident card, right? The library actually called me as soon as they opened. I had put in my application online and here they were calling me back right away. How spiffy is that? Well, that’s the efficient German heritage Midwest for you. All the towns around down at the southern border had names like Brandenburg and such. The signs of the law offices all had German sounding names. So, the librarian calls me and then we had an awkward interview. I told her I just got here last night and I came straight to the library, that’s how much I love books. Well, that was a lie. I like books. But I have not set foot in a library in years, you know? But she laughed. I grilled her on why a non-resident card applicant has to prove to be a resident, but in the end it was half hearted. I knew that this is just silly.

So, I am writing this report. And it’s not finished even yet. How many words this must be. It’s dreadfully long already. I feel like Forest Gump sitting at the bus stop waiting for his bus, talking to everyone and not realizing that Jenny is only a few streets away. I sat her for such a long time. I started to mindlessly watch tiktok and then I stopped again. I plugged the laptop into the battery, the jakery, bluetti whatever it is and then I arranged the seat a bit different, so that I could sit comfortably and write. I found out I could lay the seat back and use it as a bench if I turned sideways and crossed my legs. That worked for a while. The milk has coagulated in the meantime. Thankfully I only got half a gallon. I might just shake it up and drink it anyway. It tasted fine. I was writing this and writing and seeing the way that I walk backwards and back and back in my tale. Starting from here where I find myself and then having to do this maneuver which is called in German weit ausholen. And every part of the story I had to start again and take another and then another and another step back. It turned into a dance.

Finally, at a point sitting here I decided to text my brother. Sis had given two phone numbers. I tried both. I texted “Mr. G. I want to see you before I die”. Nothing. Hours later nothing. And suddenly it didn’t matter. I had done what I could. I came here. I don’t know why I should feel as I once did while a teenager with a crush on a boy, driving far out into the countryside, hoping to spot him driving in his car somewhere. Yes, hoping to spot him, but then too shy to do anything if I did. Now, why should I feel like that towards my own brother? I felt a release suddenly, as if I didn’t need to even worry about it. One more try, then maybe I will move on. I don’t know what type of a person that is, who lives for years and years without talking to anyone. I don’t know what kind of stress it is that leads to such a life. But then again, maybe I do know.

They say there are lies that come in different sizes. There are big lies and small, white lies and tall tales, baby lies and grown up lies. Then there are big Fat ones and itty bitty ones. How did we comes to give such attributes to something so black and white? I’m not really sure but I would like to puzzle it out here somewhat.

Deception is deception. That’s the first thing. Facts can be used to obscure the truth, in fact, I think that only facts are mostly used for that, in other words, most of the time factual material is what the big lie is made up of. I mean to say that big and Fat ones aren’t “pure” lies always, though That’s what the general parlance would point to. A big Fat lie is normally seen as a fact that is obviously wrong and would stand out in a crowd. That is, the lie is the “creepy perp” who sticks out in the line up, the “obvious” one, the one who can’t hide. But more often, even most often, I think, the biggest and fattest of lies are the deceptive maneuvers which are built up over time. And so-called facts are the building blocks upon which these are based.

These facts are isolated little bits of info or let’s call them intel, which are woven together into a blanket of subversion. That blanket becomes so thick over time, that any individual person is hard pressed to dismantle that web in order to get to the bottom of the story and find out the simple truth of the matter. And, not to get ahead of myself, but the Truth is always pretty simple. I think that is why we call this process “dis-cover-y” because the work of getting to the bottom of the matter involves simply a method of uncovering the “real deal” layer by layer by layer.

This disCover process is made up of a few steps which, like when knitting a scarf or a sweater, are repeated at intervals in order to bring out a recognizable pattern. For example, knit two, perl two, rinse and repeat. This is how we get something useful out of the chaos which normally inhabits our befuddled brain.

Now, above I postulated the “fact” that the most damaging or the biggest lies are often or even mostly made up of small “truths”. So how is this possible? Most everyone reading this will know the answer I’m about to reveal, but do not dismay if you don’t get my drift. It wouldn’t be your fault at all. I’d have to say it would be quite normal not to see where I am going with this whole tirade about these two poor abused words of the English Language. So, how is it actually possible to deceive using pure facts? Easy. You just leave out little essential parts of the story or you put them together in such a way as to convey a wrong impression. That’s it.

Or you tell the whole story, but you make sure that a part of the story lands on this side of the fence and the other parts land in other areas. You “dissect” the truth as it were, and that makes it unrecognizable. Voilá, a big Fat lie is born. Let’s call it the art of deception. Too bad for the poor little three letter word “art” here. Now you carry the signs and the stigma of becoming a 4-letter word, sorry for you.

That is the truth about lies. Now I want to tell a few things people generally don’t understand about the Truth. This should come in handy if you feel confused in your daily life and you really really Really want to get to the bottom of it.

The lie that is so often told about the Truth, is actually a half-truth and goes as follows: “You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free”. The other half of this, the flip side of the coin is that “The truth always hurts”. Now, what is the problem here? Someone offered you the truth on a silver platter, but, and this is a huge BUT, “but”, they tell you, “there is a price tag” on this truth, you can get it, but first you must pay for it. And the price is Pain. “You can have the truth, after which you will be free, but it’s gonna cost ya”. At this stage of the bargain, most people just throw up their hands and say, I already have too much pain and cannot afford to take on any more. I guess I don’t want the truth then, it’s gonna kill me.

The big lie is that the pain of NOT knowing is what is doing the damage. It’s the pain of living under the blanket of the subversive reality, in the shadow world of the illusion that is your “story”. Those of you who are philosophy aficionados are most welcome to pontificate in the comments here. You know who you are. Go right ahead. Be my guest. Yes, this is the death by a thousand cuts. Now you have thought to yourself that you might like to know the real truth, but you feel that the pain of it would send you over the edge and I will tell you that it very well could. But there are things that can protect you from falling off the edge of this, our funny flat earth, or if you are a globist, this is the gravity that will keep you nailed down to our spinning blue planet, roaming endlessly through space. That glue is connection.

Now, don’t be frustrated. Let me explain. What’do I mean by connection? By connection I mean connection. ANY connection. There is just one problem here. And I have a sneaking suspicion that it is very simply the FACT that we do suspect already, we feel, somehow we know, that if and when we ever do really connect, this will mean that the dog and pony show will suddenly end and we’ll need a new job and a new life… and since that space has been obliterated in our perception of the world, we opt to continue receiving the tiny tiny cuts of our “daily lives”. Hence we shun away from connecting, and we go back to live in the shadow world again.

But there is a bright spot here. If we are very perceptive and open, and this comes as a result of the fact that we FINALLY CONCLUDE that we cannot live if we don’t get to the truth, so, finally, if we really want to see it, we will notice that there is something standing in the way of knowing the truth and that is shielding us from the connection. And the words here are agency and media. Two 3-syllable words, which mean to say that we are blind to the truth by virtue of being cut off from the very connective nature of our human psyche.

The first thing people used to say when there would be a problem was to pray. Let us pray. Please pray. Prayer is a way of connecting, yes, but oddly, it doesn’t work somehow. It’s broken, you see. It doesn’t work because this thing is in the way. There is an agent, and it’s a double agent. There is one on the outside and one on the inside, too. And the one on the inside is just a mirror of the one on the outside and that agent is called religion. It is an agent. And the belief system in your head is a reflection. This thing tells you to pray this or pray that way, or to say this or that thing, to believe this or that about a concept called God. In fact you can’t believe a thing, but you can only ever experience a thing through connection. And that connection has to be unmediated, that is connection. If there is an agent in the middle, which can be put in and taken out then it’s not connection. It’s mediation. Means you are only able to connect when the agent or medium is available. If the agent is not there, you are SOL. The pastor has no time, the church is not open, you have no church, etc. Now you can’t pray.

Wait, you say, but I can pray. No, you believe something but you are not in communion with it because your feeling for yourself has been interrupted. You have been violated. You have been assigned this agent whose job it is to make sure that you do not connect on your own, without their permission. That is the church, the great religion, which is in fact a deception. The deception is that you need the agent in order for you to feel ‘you’. You don’t need it, but we are so conditioned to need it that we rebel. We are so invested in the lie that we will fight tooth and nail to keep it the way it has been established. What do we need? We need to feel and for that we need nature. Inner and outer nature. But we can’t just go and do whatever we want. No. Nature includes the others. We are not alone here. And that is the other connection we need. We need Inner and outer connection. And it is this gentle and loving connection which saves us. We connect to others without violation. With respect. With feeling. How do they feel? How do we feel? And this connection is without a medium because it happens through feeling.

We connect to the other by feeling our own self. It’s not about us or them. They are not objects and so are we not objects. We connect through our inner feeling and that connection builds a fabric of society. This fabric of society is not about using others, it is about respecting our own selves and doing the necessary. Now I am afraid I have gotten very abstract here.

The truth is quite simple when we remain in connection. It becomes hard when we are pulled out of our feeling into the degraded thinking mind and the thought constructs become a medium or agent to the process, effectively causing the process to come to an abrupt halt. We lose connection and the mind becomes overwhelmed. This is because the mind is being called upon to perform a duty foreign to its very nature. We cannot be guided by the mind. Only feeling can guide us well. Feeling then becomes frustrated. And insult is heaped upon injury. All because the system has become polluted through an outside agent, which then becomes internalized. And this injurious movement repeats itself over and over again.

But what is the solution then? The solution is quite simple. Or it would be, if we were to come to know the nature of the chain that binds us to the repeating cycle of injury and defeat. The solution is to reject and to connect. Reject the agent and connect to each other. And here I mean to reject the medium, or media and you can put all the alphabets in here. As in the ” don’t be evil” companies. Because they are. Evil. All the zoom and vroom and abc cbc nbc cbs and so on and so forth. Get rid of all that and connect. Sit down together and share a story a song a meal. Old fashioned togetherness. Because now we have all these robots telling us that they need to be in the middle. But they don’t, and we must not let them. We have to turn it around. And we can.

That is when we will suddenly uncover the truth, about Truth. And that is, that it is knowable. That it is easy to know. It was right there all along. The problem humans are facing right now stands on two legs: confusion and isolation. Knock down the right or the left. Better to start on the right. Knock down isolation. Get together. And the way to do that is to agree to disagree but to stay in touch. Reach out to those with whom you have lost touch. We lose touch. Touch is feeling. We have to feel through connecting to each other. My mother always used to say, we don’t discuss politics or religion. Because this divides. And where does that live? In the mind. We have to return to our feeling selves. And after that the confusion will dissipate naturally. Because connecting to each other has a way of connecting the dots for us. In many ways. We learn from each other. And we are not learning the little isolated facts and the do’s and the don’t’s from each other. We are learning to feel again our selves. By being who we are, together and apart. Now when we again begin to feel our selves and to trust this feeling, we then can be guided by an inner principle and compass which is connected fully to nature. And I don’t mean “Do whatever you like”. No, that goes against our feeling in fact. Because when we feel through this process of knowing, it is very clear to us what is right and what is wrong. We know instantly what to do and what to avoid. We are not confused, because we are connected to our feeling self, to our gut. We know that this hurts and this other thing feels right. We know instantly and we trust that.

Reject the dastardly alphabets and come out of the isolation. Slowly slowly confusion will abate and you will know. You will just know. In the beginning it’s hard. You have to swim against the tide. You have to fight your own urge to go back to the old habit of deferring to the agents, of living shielded always by the medium, buffered by a filter. Once you develop a taste for it, that bitter pill of truth turns out to be, if not sweet, at least worth dying for because it allowed you to live. Your life, to be in life, in love with it. Deception always enters through the filter of the mind. Truth is always there right in front of us but we turn and take the middle path of agency. And then we end up on the weeds and we wonder why.

Before we are thinking beings we are knowing and feeling ones. And now I have the feeling that I have bogged this down.

I wrote the above piece sitting in Flagstaff, AZ some weeks ago. It may have been more, it may have been less time. Now it seems like months, but I know it wasn’t that long ago.

I write, but I don’t edit. I just keep going. I remember writing this piece and there was a feeling of concepts opening up and they would be flowing out in different directions. Just like the bifurcation of a stream. The stream of thought was taking multiple directions but it was not possible to de-lineate. Dialog, being linear, had to stay on “track”. And so, the full spectrum, the whole idea, which is more like a holograph than a photograph, cannot be really inspected. The whole point is that the Truth is multi-linear, because it is experienced and experiences defy description. You have to be inside of them. You cannot look at them from the outside, because, when it comes to experience, though we have the five senses, with regards to experiences all these senses are useless to describe the whole picture, the “holograph”. It is truly like that old analogy of the blind men and the elephant. One man said, the elephant is like a snake, because he was holding the trunk. Another said, the elephant is like a tree, because he was standing next to the leg, and so on.

And so, I was trying to describe something so multi-faceted that it was eluding my every attempt. This is the very problem we face, when we live primarily in sensory space. When we connect with outer things, we “experience” them through color, tone, flavor etc. But there is a unity, a wholeness we cannot experience when we are in the thinking mind. We have to go INTO the thing, become one with it and finally BECOME IT. Then and only then do we really begin to know it. We can’t really know anything about that entity up until that moment, because, living through the senses and the mind, we are doomed to reside OUTSIDE. We will never enter into the inner tabernacle, the inner sanctum. We have to become it and experience ourselves AS IT, and then we know it. That is, we experience it only then when we cannot tell the difference between us and the thing itself. We experience it when we forget who we think we are. We experience it when we dive deep away from the sensual information towards a feeling which, again, I am helpless to describe. Focusing on the senses leads us away from the object and into our own mind. It creates a barrier between us and this thing, because this other thing has its own consciousness. We cannot connect to it in order to know it because we have become distracted by its attributes. And this always leads away from the innate consciousness to the storage box which is called mind or memory. That kills it. It becomes 2d. What to speak of 3d, life is so multi-dimensional that it’s really like a fractal.

Have you ever seen a fractal? There was a mathematician in France. He was French with a German name. Mandelbrot. I read that they were trying to figure out how to accurately measure the coastline of a country. Say, we want to know the most accurate measurement of the coastline of England. How to measure it. The problem is, as the coastline is measured more and more accurately, it’s measurement grows and grows and expands. the number of vectors increases infinitely and the length of the coastline eventually becomes infinite. There is no way to do it. You cannot “accurately” measure the coastline. Ever. It is always a guess, always approximate. The more you strive to do it perfectly, the more you “mess” it up.

That is the problem with Truth. You can only live it and experience it. You cannot tell it. But living and experiencing Truth DOES lead to an integral life of feeling and respect. In the above diatribe I was trying to approach the problem from a dual perspective. There is truth and there is untruth. The reality is, there is only Truth. But, and it is a huge “but”. But, you have to experience it and live it, you cannot profess to know and tell it. It is an elusive concept when you try to shrink it into language that fits neatly in the mind of a single person. Perhaps trying to hold truth in the collective mind would go further to serve the broader truth. Then we must struggle to break the control of the media INDEED, of it’s stranglehold on our sensual perceptions.

I could go on and on. But I think I would rather get back to my experience.

4/25/22 9:55 am EDT, Franke Park, amphitheater, Fort Wayne, Indiana USA

What was the true Red Pill: I know that this is the Meme that is Hated the Most by the PTB (powers that be). The RED PILL. I was red-pilled really hard. After months of surfing the net, surfing videos… at first I was just looking at videos at night trying to find something to distract myself from my predicament.

I had left the “group” and before I left I had been told repeatedly, it had become a mantra of my handler, that I would be homeless if and when I ever left them. And, I can now say, it was not only a mantra, it was a ‘promise’. And they did plenty to make good on that promise.

I used to surf vids etc at night sometimes for hours just to find a way to decompress from the pressure of the constant threat of being thrown out onto the street. At first I just watched random videos. I liked to watch videos of kittens, cats, dog, puppies. I thought this was innocuous, but now it gives me the creeps. These videos are a little too ubiquitous. Perhaps it’s only the ‘algorithm’ trying to sync up to my previous ‘pet junky status’. Otherwise I don’t know why there should be so many of these types of videos and such little information about what is truly going on. That’s why I don’t watch them anymore that much. Either way it give me the willies.

I hated the amount of time I was spending in these one minute or less vids. But I could not stop and I started to see things, just little things would pop up. Finally at some point I got on an alternative channel and one night I was looking at a face, a picture that was changing transparency overlaid on top of another photo and it was the same face. One image was on top, the other underneath, and it was two faces ostensibly. One of the pictures was of the face of a notorious dictator. I would wager, there is no one in the entire world, perhaps with the exception of some of the most remote and uncivilized places on earth, who has never heard of this criminal. These two photos were laid atop each other and the voice in the audio was saying, these are the same person. The transparency kept changing so that I could see that both men had exactly the same features, it was undeniable.

The second picture, the one at the bottom was ostensibly again of another person, a Hollywood celebrity. Again, I can say that except for in the most remote parts of the earth, probably every person on the planet knows this man. I don’t think there is anywhere where this man is not known and loved. The two photographs were undeniably similar, exactly the same actually. The differences were very slight, just a mustache was different on one and the other had bushier eyebrows, things like this, hair color perhaps. And then the host went on to show the pictures of the wives of the two men and again it seemed to be very similar, perhaps the same person. Then he showed the homes of the two men, and how they were the same and he went on to show other proofs.

At first, while I watched the video I couldn’t decipher what I was looking at. I couldn’t fathom what the host was describing. It had started off showing the houses, the homes of the two men respectively, and how one of the two pictures had been flipped horizontally and vertically to hide the fact that it was the same domicile. It made no sense, but then as the video went along, I could grasp finally that I was being told that history had been faked. Not just a little history, a lot of history. Strange. My mother used to always quote to me what this man had supposedly said, “He said: ‘If you are going to tell a lie, make it a huge lie; and tell it over and over and over again.'” I grew up with these words in my ears. I can’t remember why my mother would have said that. She never gave the impression that she was a liar. But on the 2nd of February of this year when I found out that the man I had called “Daddy” my whole life was very probably not my father, it started to make a little more sense to me.

The thing is: I have been around the world in several different countries and have spoken to many different types of people and have lived in different cultures. As it started to sink in about the writers of history and who they might be, I began to think of the history of deception, what very little I had heard of it. I had gone to Europe and even to Russia during the years immediately preceding perestroika, and I had met people there who had told me of things that I had never heard of before. One of these things was the “Bohemian Villages”. What the person actually told me was that when Richard Nixon had visited “Leningrad” (now St. Petersburg) in the 70s, people had been contracted, workers, who would paint buildings in the city. But these buildings were not to be fully painted and restored. Indeed not even the whole city or a portion of it was to be fixed up. Only along a certain route of travel was any work to be done; buildings to be painted and cleaned and only on the bottom two floors. If the building was four stories high, only from the ground floor up to the second floor was painted, and only along the parade route of the limousines in which the foreign dignitaries were riding, since, reclining in the back seats of the limos, they would not be likely to see above the second floor of any building.

I say Bohemian Villages, because that was a saying in German, “Boehmesche Doerfer”. What I have kept in memory is It was said that if the Russian czar was to become restless to see how the people were faring on the land he would command his subordinates that he should ride in a carriage and be taken into the villages to visit his people. Then, and this was most likely at least in good part in the purview of the military men to arrange, a group of carpenters, painters, set designers and actors would be sent out ahead of the czar’s entourage in order to build, furnish and people ‘sets’, whole towns and villages along a specific route that was to be taken during the king’s trip. The monarch would then be driven along this specific route, not deviating from it in the least according the pre-planned route, and he would see his “people” and how they were flourishing, all happy and fine, with plenty of food and livestock, clothing etc. The buildings would be nothing more than storefronts propped up on planks at the back. Perhaps there would even be little dramas enacted for him along the way in order to assure him that whatever reports he had been receiving of ill-doings or problems were without substance. Reassured that he had done everything in his power for his populace, the king would return to his castle, fully satisfied that everything was okay. So, there in my mind, the seed of early “shadow government”.

Just now I was looking in a search engine for the term “Bohemian Villages” and I can find nothing. Apparently this has been turned into the name of a video game. How convenient. Now I am looking to see if I can find the source of this story that I have in memory, but I have not found it. I did find that this is not something that originated in Russia, at least the German term, but perhaps came out of the Habsburg Monarchy, centered around the current Czech Republic. Apparently the saying comes in many different flavors, there are “Spanish Villages” and other types also. But I am wondering how did I come to think of Bohemian Villages in this way. What they are saying in the search engines is that this is simply a way of expressing, “I don’t know much about this”, that it is referring to the fact that the names of so many Bohemian Villages all sounded similar to each other and that they were not easy to pronounce. Hence, the meaning of this idiom should be more closely related to “that’s Greek to me” than to the concept that I have had of it. But this seems strange. Where did I pick up this idea?

Well, let me not get bogged down in that story. I’ll let it stand, this is what I was thinking about when I saw the picture of the dictator/actor and I started to guess that history just might not be what it’s cracked up to be. After all, how hard can it be to the pull the wool over the eyes of generations of people if an elite group control the press, the media, in whatever form that might be? Even when I was coming of age back in the 70s there was constant talk of media being a monopoly with Rupert Murdoch buying up so many newspapers and television broadcasting corporations all over the world. Digging around lately into this type of thing I came upon reports somewhere that the the three networks, ABC, NBC and CBS were all owned by related people if you go into whichever big banking institutions were involved. Then if you see that the commercial sponsors are all the same, it doesn’t really matter anyway who might own the actual corporation, as the piper calls the tune. Finally, when it comes down to it, one corporate entity, run by one man, seems to own 10% of the GDP of the entire world. So, this guy and his cronies have their fingers in virtually every pie. I think, and eventually, at least conceptually, I would like to prove that this has always been so. It has always been the same entity. Just think about re-litigious organizations, the HRE and the CC. Then it becomes abundantly clear, doesn’t it?

I remember being with my parents briefly in their Florida home back in the mid 80s. I was then living in NYC and working in a firm that did publishing for a well known Wall St firm. My father was ensconced in his easy chair with the remote in his hand watching his daily programs and my mother wandered in from the kitchen where she had been preparing some food, in an apron with a kitchen towel in hand. She stood next to my ‘father’ as they watched some TV news broadcaster telling about a report that had been seen on “Pravda” (Truth). I don’t remember what was going on and what the Russians were saying. It was a short little blurb that lasted only a few seconds, after which my mother proclaimed “and they (the Russian propagandists) will tell them (the Russian populace) only what they want them to know” and returned then to the kitchen to finish cooking the dinner. I didn’t say anything, but even then I was WellAware that our own news media was little more than a propaganda machine for the masses and that WeThePeople knew virtually nothing about what went on ‘behind the scenes’ in our own country or anywhere for that matter (and even this little idiom is very telling here, ‘BehindTheScenes’ indeed).

At this point many people could be feeling very uncomfortable and I have to say, if that is the case, then, if you have not already done so, by all means, please click away. What is coming next is not for those who are satisfied with the ‘history’ which has been fed to them as the God’s Truth. We have all heard in the past at some point or other that “history is written by the victors” but after seeing what I have seen in my life up to now I think it is better to say that “the victors don’t write history, they invent it and then let their stooges write about it.” In the meantime, since this latest “red-pill-moment” I have found so much more evidence, that I am often overwhelmed with this sensation of a new reality overtaking me, and that my life as I thought I knew it never actually existed, somewhat akin to Neo in TheMatrix. At first it was a shock, and I was fully taken up with researching it and trying to figure out how deep is the “rabbit hole” here. The the dark truth sort of sets in, only to be disrupted by newer and deeper revelations. On and on it goes until at some point I throw up my hands and ask myself “can I know anything for sure about the world or this time?” to which I must respond, “no, I cannot”.

I continue to say over and over again, “you shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free.” Why? because after you see the Truth, it just appears in front of your nose over and over, multiple times a day, many times an hour, you cannot escape it. It’s really like those dot pictures from back in the 80s and 90s that were so popular. There were books printed with these pictures. You had to stare at them for a long time and suddenly the neurons in the brain would make sense of the pattern and unconsciously suddenly you would just “see” whatever was in there. And afterwards for as long as the page was open and you looked at the picture, you would not be able to “unsee” the representation of whatever it might have been. Patterns develop over time during a life lived and things begin to make sense in light of the new information over time. This new perspective becomes the string that ties everything together. It becomes the red thread of the Minotaur’s cave. Ariadne gives Theseus a red ball of string for him to take into the labyrinth, so that after defeating the half-man/half-bull he can come out again with ease. In the case of perceived reality/history, things are never as they appear to be. Confusion is everywhere, but when the secrets are “aired out” one can get to the root of every twisted tale through this process. It becomes so obvious what kind of deceptions are afloat, because truly there is nothing new under the sun, and they become really quite easy to spot. Criminals usually don’t vary their MOs. They pick something that works and use it every time, until they are finally caught. I find that the case of world history is not different. The same swindle has been perpetrated over and over again and it is about to be finally uncovered. This generation will do it.

It is fantastic to me that people could be so gullible and easy to deceive. It is as if we are all very much like little children, either that or hypnotized and fully asleep. It is one or the other. And the PTB don’t want anyone to air out all the dirty laundry. No, because it is the same thing always over and over again and always has been. They have not changed their MO since the beginning of time. Once people start to catch on to such a bold and depraved deception, if and when that should come to light, and I believe it will very soon, it will become a tidal wave, unstoppable. All of official history is simply a house of cards waiting to be blown over. The only thing that is keeping it afloat is our manipulated perception of it. Seeing this video of the merging faces, that was somehow the key to unlock the door to the truth for me. I started to see this reality everywhere. It tied everything together for me. Everything made sense suddenly, because not only had this portion of history been faked, but these PTB were actively rewriting history on a daily basis. Everything was being rewritten all the time and I could see examples of this everywhere. In the grocery store I stopped in the magazine aisle and picked up an issue dedicated to this Hollywood personality who apparently had been an actor on a stage in another country for years and had remained undetected in that role. Talk about “all the world’s a stage”. There on page after page it was all very clear, the evidence was there, hidden in plain sight as it were. It was quite plausible, but the very fact that it is being done so openly would preclude its discovery. Anyone you tell about it will immediately block your number, even your oldest and best friends. You will immediately be declared insane, and the excommunication from society at large will be final. But once you see the picture, you cannot unsee it. You won’t find any smoking guns, I couldn’t, though they probably exist, but the thing was a done deal for me anyway. I just knew there was more than a little something to this theory.

Slowly I start to feel as if humanity had progressed very little since the middle ages. We are taught to believe that we are so great and that we are so technologically and socially advanced, so far superior to what we were in centuries past. But apparently we are all still ignorant serfs in many ways. Technology may have moved forward quite a bit, but we are still in the same type of mindset as before, still so dependent on re-litigions and our so-called ‘leaders’. The PTB have given us a form of education, to which we must adhere and pay homage, but the true education, which is, how to think for oneself and how to question what you see and hear remains very far from us. After having this revelation about the dictator/actor, I went about my life in a different way. The next thing that happened to rock my world and destroy my reality was the revelation about my true parentage; and after that I suddenly knew that I had been right about everything in my childhood, but people had forced me to put doubt upon my feelings and not to trust myself. Suddenly I knew that I had always been right and that I could really trust my feelings about whatever was going on around me. At least these became a more or less reliable barometer in reading the ‘room’. There was a confidence all at once, that I truly knew what was going on in my feelings, that whatever was missing would become apparent shortly, and that it was not dangerous to trust oneself, but that this would be much less dangerous than not to trust oneself.

At right about this time I was in the middle of a decision making process. And this was agonizing. I had to make up my mind whether or not to go to India. I mentioned in a previous post that I had been invited to go to India by one man. And he was supposedly my guru. I had considered him to be my guru for over 20 years. I had been invited previously, but it had not been possible to go. A lot of things had happened which I may explain later. This had posed problems for me which had been very difficult for me to solve, really impossible. I could not figure out what to do, whether to go or to stay.

I almost made up my mind to go twice. But then I stopped. At the end of it all I had to hang on to two things; two very important facts became clear to me: first, I could know nothing about the man that he had himself not told me. In other words, I could never know if this man who insisted that he was my guru was truly who he was telling me that he was, because every single piece of information I had about him had come through his own mouth only and had not been corroborated through any other source. The other thing that was bothering me was that it started to seem to me that he only ever made me afraid. Fear was the result of our every communication. Just about whenever he wrote to me it was to tell me something that would upset me. I started to pull back and observe at this point. I put off the decision as long as I could and just watched.

Again the next time he wrote, right there it was; he was injecting fear. I pulled back some more. There were other signs also that were red flags for me. I don’t want to go into it here; that is a story for another day. Suffice it to say, I found out that I could not trust this man. And that was a very painful discovery, because I had been invested in believing in him and his so-called mission for over two decades. I had lived my life according to his suggestions and ideas. Now I could not truly believe or trust any more. But still there was doubt. I was unsure of my conclusion. Maybe I was deluded. I still did not know if he was a real guru or not. Still there was a measure of doubt about whether or not I was making the right decision. Mostly I was still frightened by things he had said. His message was always, if you don’t do what I am telling you to do, You are f_cked. I decided finally that right there, that was enough to tell me to stay away from him. I felt, anyone who was really loving, who had my best interests at heart, would not do that. What would be the need to manipulate using fear always? It was just always present. There was always and only fear. It was never encouragement, no. If that man had been a true guru, would he be writing to me in ALL CAPS that “I AM YOUR GURU, BE SURE OF IT.”? I somehow didn’t think so.

But for weeks still I was not sure. The threats still carried weight for me. And this is natural. The thing you want the most in life, someone is promising it to you. You have been groomed for this. Your entire life makes no sense and this is by design. Then you find a person, a supposed teacher, and that person tells you, I can solve this for you. You just have to do what I tell you. And believe me, things he told me to do often had made no sense at all. I started to pray to God. I started to say, Please help me to know what to do. After that prayer, the next morning I woke up and there was a flash of something across my consciousness that allowed me to see that the person I had been blaming, the person I thought was mostly responsible for the dilemma up until this point was actually also a victim of this man. This woman, this Sinran, as I call her, she was not the one to blame, but actually she was also under his spell, I felt. The real culprit in this situation was this man, this Indian supposed guru in a white cloth.

Here I have to interrupt my story and start over again. The missing part of the tale is here. I had seen this video and there was a person telling me that these two people, a ruthless leader, a criminal, and a beloved Hollywood personality were one in the same entity, and that this person was an actor, an actor in both arenas. That is, we could not trust that he was really being himself in either case. Then I found out that the man I had considered to be my guru was probably also not genuine. I had deduced through his behavior, in that he was constantly threatening me with something bad happening, constantly threatening that I would never reach my spiritual goals in life, that he was always trying to make me afraid of something and this meant for me that I could not trust him. I found that this was manipulative and I could not fathom why he would do that if he were indeed a truly spiritual person.

The next thing was, however, that this man, this supposed guru was telling me that the person whom I had exposed to be a truly narcissistic abuser was the Supreme Divine Mother. I could not buy that, not at all. There was no way. She was purely an abusive person. She did not have my best interests at heart. That proved itself out many times after I left the group. I think the only way that I actually escaped from the group was because they did not really suspect that I would leave on my own or as soon as I did. Otherwise they would have cleared out my bank account before I was to leave. People generally did not leave of their own volition. Even though it was said that she never kicked anyone out, but there were reasons a person might want to leave and she didn’t want anyone to leave on their own free will. No narcissist wants that. They want to kick the person out and make them really suffer as much as possible. I know that anyone who reads this who was present at the time may disagree with this point, I don’t really care. I know that this is what they were preparing for me. They had already stolen papers from my room. I know that they did this, because these were the papers that I had guarded most carefully, and the day I left they were nowhere to be found. The only way that these didn’t go with me and that they were not immediately found when I asked for them (which I did several times during that period) is that they were purposely pilfered from my room some time before I left. There must have been a plan afoot to push me out in some way. And I know why the papers were taken. I don’t have to prove anything here either. This is simply my story. Let it be fiction if you want. I know what I experienced in that group.

Now, the thing about the dictatorial leader is that there was a passage of a spiritual book I read once where this man came to be mentioned. And the book dealt with certain happenings in the world at that time and the story went that a particular spiritual leader had traveled to meet that man in the subtle plane (not actually gone to see him but somehow had visited him out of body) and had had some influence on him. That man supposedly worshiped a spirit of light, a god of sorts who in actuality was a fallen angel or a devil one may say. This is how the story was portrayed. In this story, the spiritual leader had reproduced that sort of appearance in the subtle plane in front of this dictator and had so instructed him, pretending to be his god, that he was to take certain actions. These actions consequently had led to his loss of control and power and collapsed his plans for world domination. Hence, the spiritual leader I am speaking of had “saved” the world from this monster. This was the story, in any case. Now, you have to realize that many thousands of people read this literature and that this type of story adds to the mystique of this spiritual leader or saint, building up a legend around them, that they are so spiritually powerful etc. And who prints this legend? Why, it is printed by the printing companies and paper making industry etc. that was started by that very saint themself. How convenient.

I was thinking of this and wondering about it. It became like that ‘itch inside the brain’ which Morpheus mentions to Neo, because if that man were the same man as the beloved Hollywood personality, then what in the heck had really happened? How could it be that this spiritual leader all the way over in India had flown disembodied somewhere in the subtle plane to see that man? Did the saint fly to H-wood or to the battlefield in the foreign land? And how is it that this man had then “lost” the power and control due to the actions suggested to him by the so-called saint? Because the host of the original video (my red pill) was saying that the whole thing was a psyop and coordinated. In other words, the H-wood celeb playing this dictator was on both sides, which means that the US and the foreign country with which we were at war were being run by the same people. It didn’t add up then that there was any need for the saint to do that, and they should have known what was truly going on if they really had this sort of spiritual power to go into the subtle plane and see this leader. What COULD have added up would be that the so-called saint and the so-called dictator, as well as the so-called celebrity were all playing on the same team. That is when the penny dropped for me. That’s when a whole new line of thinking started to open up.

Then I started to think about these people. And my jaw just dropped. It was all right there.

My guru, so-called, whose name is Sri A, whom we have always called Swamiji (Lord) or Bhagavan (Great Lord/God), has said many things to me in the 23 years I have known him. One thing that sticks in my mind is when he said that “We know our heritage.” He was describing how it is that Indians are aware of their lineages. They know to which dynastic lines they belong. They are aware of their castes. They know which names belong to which bloodlines and so on. I don’t remember which context it was mentioned in, but it was somewhat recently that he said that. It seemed innocuous enough when he said it, but still somehow it didn’t really fit into the context of that talk. He was asking, “do you all know where you have come from? I know that you don’t know, but we DO know where we come from”. He was saying this like that. It was a kind of superiority thing. He was comparing Westerners to Indians. The meaning behind what he was saying was, “you bloody stupid Western people have no lineage, no heritage. You just breed like animals. We don’t. We know who we are and where we have come from.” Now remember, until recently, and even today. most marriages in India are arranged by not only the parents. Indian households are virtually always multi-generational. The grandparents are there and other family members, cousins, uncles etc. play a role in family decisions.

Then I was listening to a talk by a woman who was studying lineages in connection with the Illumin.. and she was discussing how all of these families come from Iranian stock according to her research. Then it sort of all started to click for me. She said that these were light-skinned peoples essentially, that they had often this recessive gene of red hair and blue eyes. So, the hair was light colored or ginger, and the eyes were blue or grey or green, I think she said. And then she mentioned that the bloodlines were very carefully curated and that it was a matrilineal system. That this is why we have not been able to directly see what is going on. Also they often breed outside of marriage, in so-called bastardizations, this she said speaking of the monarchies and PTB. She said that they are told who to breed with and that these people willingly acquiesce to this. And this is the way they have kept their lineages together and still kept them secret from us. They also regularly change their names, which is something us normalos rarely or never do.

Then I started to take a look at these Indian saints and it became clear to me what we are dealing with. In the first place, I am talking about Sri A. That man was born in Bengal of an “illustrious lineage”. So far, that is all I can find out about his lineage. They just declare it to have been illustrious, but they don’t say why. His father was said to have been an anglophile in the official version of the story. That is, the father loved England and the English and was more than likely loyal to the English crown. He supposedly and apparently did not like India or Indians. I would guess here that the father perhaps wasn’t Indian at all. And it is logical to assume that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Why should we assume that the son would then love India and Indians? Why should he suddenly become a freedom fighter and proponent of home rule for India? (I am going to go ahead and dare to guess that the family was perhaps even Iranian. Who knows? From the amount of faking that has gone on and goes on on a daily basis in the world, I cannot even fathom as to whether the man even at all existed or not.) The son was sent along with two other brothers to England to be educated. He was educated in the traditional English way in preparatory schools and then at Cambridge and Oxford. During his time in England the boy and his brothers lived with a clergy member’s family. The official version of the story is steeped in rags-to-fame type of lore. The boys had had a difficult time of it and had gone without meals and were poorly housed and clothed while abroad. I say to this BS. This is the story that is ALWAYS trotted out, ie, we were soooo poor and downtrodden. Please. How on earth did he enjoy such an education in these elite institutions? Oh, I forgot, he was so brilliantly intelligent. Scholarships, sure, okay. The boy ended up learning several languages before returning to India at around 21 years of age. The languages included I think Greek, French, Latin, and a few others, seven or eight in all. When he returned to India, he had had to relearn his mother tongue of Bengali. And there were the tales of family tragedy. Plenty of that sort of thing. Anyone who knows anything about saints in India, you already know of whom I speak.

This man had one life that was supposedly devoted to the re-establishment of Indian home rule. But I am not sure that this was a sincere undertaking. Let us suppose that this is the official narrative but that the reality could have been other than this. I think there is a possibility that he was a shill, a plant, that he was groomed to infiltrate the home rule movement. He produced more than a little propaganda to this effect through is newspaper business. I believe they even printed those on their own. Eventually, there was a bombing and he was taken to jail and supposedly remained in jail for a year. During that time, again, I say, supposedly, he had a spiritual awakening, and again, supposedly, he was miraculously released from jail, though he should have swung from the gallows for insurrection. This sudden unexpected release was then attributed to some spiritual power or the intervention of God, whatever it may be. I think it might just have been a type of design of the PTB. I feel it was concocted BS in any case Who knows how much of the story is true? How can we confirm it or corroborate it? It’s a hundred or more years ago now and how much of the story even happened at all, we have no way of knowing.

Next there is the counterpart, the woman from France, who comes to India in search of this man, again, supposedly. And she has by this time been married twice and the man to whom she is currently married is a devil, a really bad person, a political figure apparently. Now, it was said that she had married him because she thought she could save him. People always felt a little funny about this little French lady. Why was she married so much and divorced so much and how is it that a supposedly enlightened spiritual person has this type of background? But wait. Then these two, the former freedom fighter, supposed, and the French divorcee from a Jewish elite family with a background in heavy occult groups move in together in the French-controlled area of India, supposedly because Sri A is still being sought or is still in danger from being captured by the Indian Government. And this may or may not have been true in some regards. I think that the sorts of plans and machinations I am alluding to probably would have taken place as a result of designs having come down from the very top, from the highest PTB elites. Perhaps very few people in the official Indian government actually even could have known of such a devious and twisted agenda.

And this is what I think could have happened. This is all pure conjecture, but it would fit the pattern so, here goes. I think that the British, after 250 years, knew that their hold on India was tenuous at best as at that time the Indians had had it with the Crown and were pushing hard for home rule. I think that they thought, okay then, if they want home rule, they shall have it, but on OUR terms. So, rather than waiting and watching and allowing it to happen or trying to stop it from happening, they decided, we will ourselves cause the insurrection and the secession from British rule. Then we choose the leaders, the freedom fighters or at least we infiltrate them heavily and then we can control how it happens. We can then continue to rule India under the guise of home rule.

Now, I don’t really care what anyone thinks about this. BUT IF IT HAD BEEN UP TO ME, THAT’S WHAT I WOULD HAVE DONE. I mean, would that not have been the smartest way to retain a hold on the Indian mainland? And how hard is it to understand this? Then, I don’t think that Gandhi was even real. I don’t think Sri A was real either. I don’t think that any of them were real, Nehru et al. I think they all played their parts. The point being, Sri A down in Pondicherry had also told that it would happen exactly on his own birthday and that this would prove that he was behind the whole thing and had been working towards this on the so-called subtle plane! So, that establishes him again as such a powerful spiritual person. This is how he faked being a saint. Beyond this, I do believe that the Sri A that is seen in the pictures of the young man, when he is at his post in Baroda, and the Sri A who is pictured as an old man who sits in his room in Pondy, writing supposedly for 12 hours a day and never leaving that room, these are two different persons. I believe it. I always looked at them and could see no similarity. I just always had this feeling like, is that really the same guy? Even when I was taken up with the whole illusion. That is also a thing, they say that “look, his skin was so so dark at the beginning of his life and look at him at the end, he is so light skinned”. And they use this to say that he “evolved” and become more en”light”ened etc. that he had “transformed physically”. Preposterous.

And then there is the fact that very few photographs were ever taken of him. Again, how convenient, and we have seen this tactic elsewhere in these psyops. Yes, I think the whole thing is made up. That man was never a saint, and probably he didn’t really even spend that much time in Pondy. Who knows? Did he even exist as such, or was the whole thing staged? Was that an actor? Were those pictures even real? Supposedly, for 26 years he never set foot outside his room except for two times during the year. There will be these witnesses who will say this and that happened, or that this and that person was his constant servant etc. Who cares? How can we know that this really happened? I am saying there are precedents for this type of practiced mass deception, and there are things that are very close to patterns I am seeing in other areas, and I want to look at this carefully and not just buy into the established narrative like a sheeple.

Now let us talk of the woman who accompanied him supposedly for so many years. She was born of Jewish parents. She came from France. Her parents were Turkish. She was herself light-skinned. They were well connected and well to do. Before she went to India she was an occultist. It is said that she learned occult sciences from a man who called himself Max Theon (the Great God), and his wife. This man was also Jewish. Not that I have anything against Jews, but it does seem that this ethnic group is a bit over represented in the Illuminnti legends. Next, what was she doing in Japan? There are so many masonic temples and connections in Japan. This needs to be researched. Then there is the little thing of the symbol she developed for Sri A. This is like a mashup between the 6 pointed star of David and the Sat nic 6 pointed star, with a box in the middle which is a symbol of slavery for the sa=tanic occultists, I have been told. Then, to me it is so convenient that these two persons promptly declare each other to be divine beings. No one else has to corroborate. Mother just tells everyone that “I never experienced so much silence” in the presence of another person, etc. and so on. And this establishes Sri A as a bona fide saint, then Sri A turns around and declares the woman to be a saint, “The Mother” and writes a book about her. Voila, we have a new religion! Huzzah!

For me, it is just too too convenient. Just too lucky. I am researching this Great God character and have found that he belonged to a group known as the O.T.O. Look that up. I have found that a lot of information on him is not available. It has perhaps been scrubbed from the internet already. The OTO is there though. You can say that they are purely sat0nic from the perspective that the law they follow can be summed up in the following words. “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.” In other words, anything goes. The name of the group that the GG (great god) started was the Cosmic Society. And I am trying to find out what he taught. I am willing to bet almost anything that the supposed Sri A, if he existed at all as a single individual or not, was not an original thinker. Most of “his” writings have been kept secret until now in any case. How convenient that! I’ve seen references that his writings were influenced by such movements as the Cosmic Soc.

We are always taught to think and believe as if these are spiritual groups and things. We have to start to get clear about this, that these are, have always been, or certainly have morphed into *mili_ry Psy0ps*. Think! How long have we had the m)litary? How long have we had these PTBs? What is their highest objective? We always have believed (as per Nineteen 84 lore) that it’s about this country vs that country and so on. NO. It is about the established PTB and their cattle, their possessions. The whole thing has been directed at US. Like Pogo said, we have met the enemy and it is us.

Then there is all the bruhaha surrounding his accident (Sri A) and then the cloak and dagger drama of her passing. It’s too convenient that there were all these people that supposedly wanted her dead and that they pushed out SatPrem upon her demise and stole so many of the cassettes and the documents. I would never be surprised to find out that she herself had arranged it and told them which things to steal, which to keep secret, etc. Then there is the fact that she forced so many people to work at menial tasks for their whole lives after they surrendered to her. This is also what happened to me. What better way to keep people silent, and to keep them from discovering the real hidden agenda. And these were people who had very high educations and who had had a lot of money. There were reports that she took all the money and then didn’t even give the person a proper room to stay in. There is so much here. It all fits the profile of the usual suspects.

Now, there are a lot of people who have experienced things, things they cannot explain. This is where I was also a bit confused and then I came to be able to pull the whole thing together. Let the Lord judge me then. I feel that it is all faked, and I know how they did it.

I myself have had these experiences. I felt that I am somehow special. I heard the voices, and I felt the peace and the wonder. I never experienced a lot of thoughtless state. That much I will admit. But I have yet to speak to anyone who has experienced that. And I wonder if this even exists in our group anywhere. I had a few moments of it, but that is all. There were little things that happened and I think that these things could have been easily managed with the technology that is and has been available for years.

We are talking about people who control the largest military budgets in some of the largest and most powerful countries in the world. Why would they not have the power to fool us and fool with us?

Now, my own supposed teacher Sri A was associated with a few other teachers, and mainly he mentions Satya Sai Baba (the 2nd) and Sri Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. He tells particularly a lot of stories about the latter. But any of these stories can be fake. He doesn’t have to have told us the truth about this man, about his own self, or about anything. There is no corroboration here. He did says that he traveled the world over for this man and that he was the financial director for him, and he tells of the fabulous wealth that man possessed, of the truckloads of money that arrived every year on his birthday and of the gold crowns and the real estate and the sheer opulence available to the man, that he went to Africa for him and that he entered a country without a visa when it was at war. Supposedly he should not have come out alive, but miraculously his life had been spared. He is very big on telling of all these miraculous things, but again, where is the proof? He also said that he had taught TM for him at Buckingham Palace, and that he had met many many world leaders. He alludes to having met even her Majesty, the Queen. Now, why should he have access to all these people? That is not an accident. And I rather think that it is not a miracle either.

Beyond that there were these other “miracles” in that he knew who was going be president before they were elected. He told us that he had chosen for these men to take office because of certain characteristics that they had. And he also knew about 9/11 before it happened. The day before the attack he brought his group together and told them there was going to be a very severe attack. I was not there and I don’t know what he said, but he has made these types of predictions before. I also feel it is suspect that he so often tells his followers that this or that war is going to happen somewhere and that he is doing some sort of ceremony or some meditation with his followers and that it is their intervention alone that prevents these wars from becoming hot etc. I feel that he is just manipulating people into feeling that they are somehow special and powerful and making them feel that he has special powers. In fact, I believe he is simply a part of the cabal and that he has knowledge and so-called power only because of who he is connected to.

I believe that the PTB aka Illmnt are also present in India. B-wood is just as powerful and similarly influential in India as H-wood is in the States. The thing works the same way on both continents. If you view it like this it begins to make a lot more sense. Then in the case of Sinran, she is a Sikh. They are military, period. And was it not the Sikhs who supposedly assassinated Indira G? Are the Punjabis actually Indian? Or are they Aryan? And who else was interested in the “Aryan” race, who actually stem from Iran in fact? The whole thing is too convenient. There are too many connections and too many red flags. This is all theory, but the patterns are starting to pop out of the background and build a picture.

Now to the way they have been manipulating us: it is all MC (aka ultra). It started very long ago with the P-clip Projet. So Aryans are everywhere and we have no real idea as to the extent of the technology. I have read a book that was written in 2006, published then, which means it probably was written a year or more earlier than that. That is now 17 years hence. You can be sure that the technology that was being written about during that time was already well out-dated. What is possible today we can only guess at. Top military secrets rarely come out and when they do it might be up to 50 or 75 years before we know the extent of it, if we ever do.

I HAVE seen videos of conferences given to cadets at Wst Pnte by the head of Drpa. That was in 2018 and the catchphrase of the night was “the weaponization of consciousness”. The man spoke primarily of turning humans into machine like weapons. He said he could control people and make them do anything. Then he delineated several things he would like to do with weaponized humans.

I think that this is a pipe dream in a way. Though I suspect that the military have had some limited success, I think that they are still a ways away from truly breaking in and hacking the human spirit in the same way they might hack a monkey’s brain, I feel they still have not found a way to quash us fully. Just yesterday I was listening to a broadcast of one Japanese-American boomer professor who said that this is probably what they are after. They would ultimately like to fully colonize the human consciousness which would mean complete control. I am going to guess, and this is pure conjecture, that they have not been able to have control in the degree they would like, I mean the PTB.

How convenient then it is that M3TA (and I mean the Fartbuuk) now has asked people to put on these googlie goggs and go to church to pray or to meditate even. When the Z_ck announced the change of name recently, in the same breath he mentioned to people how much he wanted them to meditate in those goggles. And I found it quite odd that really just a few days later a friend of mine who loves to meditate was given a pair of those googs. I told her to throw them away. I even offered to smash them with a hammer for her.

Even before this happened I had figured out that there are certain people that they have not been able to “map”. The goal is to map all human consciousnesses. Each person’s consciousness needs to be mapped out, but there are some people they are not able to quite map. There is this thing called the human genome. That, I believe is old old old technology. I feel like they did that soooo long ago and that now they are trying to map the brain signatures. Brain signatures are like DNA signatures in that way that each person has a unique signal that their brain puts out. The human body is electrical, functions on the base of electricity and magnetics. Now, towards the end of trying to find the unique electro-magnetic signature of each individual there is this project. For many years they were testing this mapping process on certain targeted individuals, or TIs. Now, it has come down to getting everyone into the computer. Somewhere there is a huge processor that is going to contain eventually a “copy” of each person, all their data, likes and dislikes and this will be used to “project and predict” all the doings of the individuals on the planet. This is what I have heard. People will say, again, that this is not possible, that our technology is not that far along yet. But I say, I don’t care. I believe that this is the goal. I have found too many references to it in just my cursory surfing of the net. And if I found it that way, this means that the PTB have leaked it out into the general “main” stream, which means it is either close to completion, or… I mean, it’s something they are trying to do, but there are certain key elements missing for them.

They tried to destroy Christianity in the West, so I had heard. They wanted to replace it with atheism. When this did not quite work, they had a backup plan, and that involved starting a new religion, which was this New-Ageism. Esoteric thought, meditation, yoga, all this. And hence, the thousands of fake gurus. When I went to India and found my guru I never suspected that there could be people who would be in it for the long haul, who would be willing to play a role for their entire life, to deceive people. But what if there were people who were invested in it, because they “KNEW THEIR LINEAGE”? Then I got the clue the other day. I saw a video of a man who was speaking maybe 20 or 30 years ago. He said that the occultists had the ability to split their personalities and control them at will. Not the schizoid patients described in psyop thrillers like “Sybille”, who were basically just a mess of random quirky impulsivity living in a single body with no focus of attention and no conscious will or mission.

They are trained, in contrast to this, to be able to split off their consciousness into different areas and compartmentalize their thoughts and actions in an organized and intended way. The man in the video said that this was necessary for them in order to behave like nice, friendly, loving and law abiding Christians one moment and then perform a human sacrifice or some other wildly demonic depravity in the next. That make perfect sense. I reiterate and re-emphasize, that the two things that normal people are never able to understand are psychopathy and machiavelianism. This idea fits here perfectly. To be able to split off the consciousness and behave and even believe yourself to be one person in one moment and then behave and think as a totally other type of person in another instance; that is their power which they have apparently curated over the centuries. Hence, they hide right in plain sight. We never know who they are in truth. We think they are a “good” person, a normal person, someone interested in humanity and furthering “good” causes. But that is only a facade. That is what they want us to think of them. The rest, what is underneath, behind the facade, remains very carefully hidden from view.

This whole thing came into mind; it all happened in my heart after I found out that my family was not what it seemed. It was because I suddenly began to actually trust my feelings. That is not to say that this was an easy process to go through. I went through several weeks of feeling absolutely crushed to powder. Every few days there was some new revelation and I had to reassess my reality from the ground up. I was convinced, for one thing, that I had been part of a MC (aka ultra) experiment. That was something I had had to swallow, and it was not a small feat. Then, as things seemed to open up even more, it even seemed to me that we had been all experimented on as a family unit. And then add to this the fact that the Barbours/Stones were a part of our group with Swami A. And George, who declared years ago, on one visit to the ashram that “He’s playing with us all, just as if we were RATS! RATS! RATS!” Then he lifted up his pillow and three rats fled the room. This is the legend, a story I heard of George. I don’t remember, it was probably Scottie who told it.

Does it not say, “ye shall know them by their fruits?” Well, the only fruit so far in this particular movement has been this one Sinran, and this other Scottie. These are the two gurus that have been produced so far in this lineage, and I suspect very much that they are both frauds and are interested only in money. And as for the other followers of my so-called g_ru, I don’t see anyone in these groups who has even a faint clue of what is really going on, much less that they could be considered enlightened, free, or perhaps even spiritually awakened souls. They all want to think that this is what they are, and the *gur_* reinforces this wishful thinking every chance he gets, but they are not yet “all that”. Not by far.

So, what I think happened is that this Mother of P and this Sri A Ghose were both, highly possibly, frauds, and that they developed a re=litigion that was primarily targeted to the West and assimilated by Westerners. I doubt if Sri A developed any original thought at all, if he ever truly existed. And I doubt very much if Savitri has any other meaning than perhaps to lead the reader down a path to confusion and hell. It’s all about this idea of continuing human evolution and the desire people have of possessing a higher and more powerful consciousness. And to live forever. That’s the extent of it. Who would not pay for that? They are all in the same camp, to my way of thinking, these quasi-re-litigious leaders and the PTB.

As to my own *gu+u*, I have read his books and listened to his talks hundreds of times including hearing his talks in person many many many times and I can tell you, it’s incomprehensible. You cannot understand a bit of it. Not one bit, not an iota. And he says over and over to us, “I am not targeting your M+nd!” It’s really a subtle putdown. He is literally saying to us in fact that, your mind is too slow, you are too dumb, you can’t *get* it. Well, what was it that my dear mother had said about telling lies? I listened and read and looked and listened again during all these years, and I only ever felt confused, totally confused. And was consequently made to feel that this was MY OWN FAULT, right? In 23 years, I swear to you, this man has never said anything to me that he has not then later contradicted or refuted eventually. He has said everything, that I will be rich, that I will be poor, that I am his greatest devotee, that I will become his staunchest enemy, and on and on. He says something and then he covers his bases and says the opposite. How convenient. Then he can say that he predicted it, whatever may happen. These people are slick as eels, two-faced and forked-tongued. Fake fake fake as a three dollar bill.

I remember our Swami A saying that past 2025 we should be good. But I can see that according to what is going on right now, probably we will either be enslaved or destroyed entirely, if they get what they want. It seems to me that the goal has always been to keep people blissfully asleep for all these years and not have anyone speak up or use their god-given intelligence to uncover the swindle. Sri A, the “Swami”, professes to say that we should always retain our common sense, but then he is taunting us and making fun of us, saying that we don’t even know our origins or where we came from. I think it’s a kind of sport for them. I can’t imagine what they think in private. We have been colonized on the one hand by these Indian gu)us in our consciousness and on the other hand by the chings in our economy. There is only one thing left: to invade our mainland; and this has been done already in that many many have come from far off lands to purchase our properties and run businesses here. We have allowed it because we were taught that if we ever feel suspicious of a foreign person, it is only because we are racist. Racist, the new buzzword for “bad”.

There is so so so much more I could say to this. I will try to fill in the blanks as I go. Suffice it to say, that MC (aka ultra) has already been accomplished, and it is a fully wireless technology. The VofG weapon is already in place. It is being run independent of the original H._.R.R.P facilities, since these have become outdated and useless to them. Now, the machines are transported on boats to the points on the earth where they are needed. The original problem was that they could not effect the transfer of thoughts to the targets during the night, being that the iones9here was not available after sundown, but now through these mobile ionesp_eric heaters, they have been able to effect this and it means that they can also control dreams now and have practically 24 hour access to the minds of the ta_gets.

I have noticed a difference however in these dream states. I am thinking that they differ from natural dream states in their makeup. I think it possible that many ta+gets may not experience natural dream states for perhaps long stretches of time. I experience something when I dream that often tips me off to the possibility that the dream may indeed be faked. That is, I will wake up ever so briefly before I have a *dream* and I will hear a “thought” introducing the dream and then I will fall into sleep and immediately dream that thing. I find that this is fake, not the way dreams should originate if they are natural.

I experienced plenty of these so-called spiritual experiences, but I have heard enough first person reports of experiencing technologically transferred thoughts that come from outside the person in question. While I was in ashram I was able to “hear” foreign entities “thinking” in my mind. And there was plenty of manipulation and crazy-making that went on in order to produce episodes that would later serve to blackmail or isolate me from the others. These others in the ashram were also manipulated and “saw” and heard things that didn’t actually happen at all. We were all made crazy and I believe these incidents were produced through very advanced technology. That was starting in 1999, but that certainly existed by then, I suspect it even existed as early as the 80s or earlier than that. I certainly had been experiencing these phenomena for at least that long.

A detailed report of the workings of this technology is found in R.D.s book, Decyph… tne Mrx. That was written very long ago and we have to project forward quite a bit in order to guess what they are actually doing right now, and to guess at the possible capabilities of today’s McMachines. I will call them that. Just take the Mc part, the first two letters and fill it in.

Indeed this was the original reason I had gone to India. I was trying to find out what it was that was affecting me mentally. I knew that there was something unnatural afoot. I knew that I was not nuts, but that there were very unnatural things going on inside my head that did not make sense, and did NOT originate there. It became clearer to me with time. This was all BS, but it was not me who was producing it. I have to also mention here that the goal of the handlers, as I will call them, is to burden the target with certain blackmailable attributes. In other words, they make you cr@zy enough to do something, something dumb, stupid, illegal or otherwise detrimental to your reputation. They can then use this later to say that, Oh, this poor poor misguided individual, tsk tsk, they couldn’t help it, but they were batshit cr_zy.

Finally when I read RD’s book on the decyphering of the Mtrx, that is when I was able to put it all together and understand the manipulation. People THINK that they are having a spiritual experience, but this experience is most certainly faked. It does not consist of the proper nuances and it does NOT BEAR THE PROPER FRUIT in order to be considered a true spiritual awakening. The true spiritual experience would immediately result in humility, love, peace, caring, forbearance, equanimity, etc. These experiences don’t often produce that sort of lasting result in the person who is having them. It rather produces a lot of pride and haughtiness if anything at all. In any case, the experience very often fades away and is temporarily or permanently forgotten, leaving little effect. If it had been a bona fide spiritual event, it would have left a lasting positive impression. Otherwise, what is the point?

Hence, even if you wish to contend that your experiences can only be explained by stating that something spiritual happened and it was this or that person or incidence that was the precursor or the cause, you still have not explained to me why you don’t bear the fruit!

We read in the Bible of those disciples who did miracles, but then Jesus had said that there would be those who come to him in the end and say, “did we not prophesy in thy name, did we not perform miracles in thy name? And he will say, get ye away from me, I never knew thee!” I say to you, these miracles can be performed through technology. Read the book I have mentioned. Search the web. When you get some of the terminology down you will know what to look for. The math is in the book. It’s easy for them. They have now and have always had the largest budgets in the world. They are the gooks. They started mapping the brain as early as the 40s. They spend many times the GDP of all civilized countries combined every year. Why would they not be able to do this by now? Why should this be such a shocking idea? And why should anyone who believes this be considered a kook? Why so much talk of nut-cases and marginalization of people who believe in a conspiracy? (theory). There has always only been collusion everywhere in high positions. It has been proven time and time again. Why should they tell us what they are doing? Give me one good reason! You are cr@zy, YOU, IF YOU THINK THAT THEY SHOULD. If I were like that, if that were my thought process, I would never reveal it. That would not bring me one advantage. It would only bring disadvantages.

And yet, they do reveal these things bit by bit, but on their own schedule and according to their own devices. But that is a theme for another post. For now, good night. Sleep tight, and know that it is very possible that you can’t believe your dreams either. Now you cannot even trust your own thoughts. The McMachines have been running a long time. I will go into this in a later post. Even if you believe that I have no idea and am completely full of it, you cannot tell me that you seriously believe that the media do not influence us every day and in every way that they possibly can! You can’t possibly believe that, if you are a realistic person. Get real! Hence, if the media are influencing you every minute of the day, the burden of proof is upon you to show to me and to yourself that you are NOT dreaming, not asleep, that you are awake! Go ahead, I dare you! Prove it.

NOTE TO THE READER: I have to constantly, while I am writing these ideas down, become an apologist for this one idea, that the PTB see us as amoeba, cattle, animals, their possessions… that they do not consider us as having these “unalienable God given rights” that we have written into our American Constitution. Just now I was tired. I had worked all day to record this. Then I woke up to a feeling of “getting it” again. This goes very deep. This all had to do with something I will discuss at a later time. I just have to emphasize, this report is certainly full of mistakes or ideas that I might have, theories that might lead to dead ends. I don’t care. We will clean it up later. I really feel that I am on to something. Our brains, in their normal, untampered with state, function like detectives, putting things together. You have to focus the attention in an area where you are not used to focusing.

If you stare at this picture long enough, and try to just cross your eyes slightly or try to look in front of the picture instead of directly at it, you will see a new perspective. Try to look in the middle of the space between you and your laptop. You will see the picture in 3D mode. This is an example of how the brain works to “put the picture together” for you. Just an example.

My friend said she thinks that the internet was not a good idea. But I think that it was. Either way, we have to deal with it. It’s just that now people can talk to each other anywhere in the world. The technology exists and someone will always find a way to share something, even if it is not “mainstream”, even if it is not supposed to come out. As humans, we just love the truth too much. We ARE the truth. That is our nature, the nature of our very being. It cannot remain hidden for long. The truth WILL out and people will somehow always find a way.

It used to be that in order to publish something you had to know someone. Right now, you just have to press a button and upload it. There are too too many of us now. It’s going to flood in, everyone is going to suddenly get it. They cannot stop this. They are trying, but it will take on tidal wave proportions very soon. The truth is a force; it cannot be stopped, because at the end of the day, as it says in the Bhagavad Gita, everything is truth, everything is made up of truth. There is no way that it will not come out.

Much love to all.

Note to the reader: I’m quite lost in here. People sometimes tell me after hearing some cockamamey story of mine that I should write a book. But I assure you that writing about life and living life are diametrically oppositional activities. So it’s taken me quite a while to get to the point of being able to write this next chapter. This is the hardest thing to write yet.

 

I had received an invitation to come to India. I couldn't go. Actually what happened was a bit different. I had been writing to my guru.  In India. And he said something to me that turned out to be strange.  It had an affect on me.  And I didn't know what was going  on,  not really.  

This man wrote to me that I should take a rest, that I needed to rest. But specifically he didn't tell me what he meant.  His words were very vague.  He said to me that I had to take time, otherwise I would not progress spiritually, that my spiritual development would come to a grinding halt. 

I had been working at this restaurant up to 17 hours a day, usually more than 15 hours daily every single day of the week, and that for six years without a break. The only break had been one Christmas day a few years ago where I was told not to come in.  It was again some sort of punishment, and now I don't even remember what was going on.  Other than that I was always there except for  an occasional doctor appointment. People would come in and see me and think very often that I was the owner. This was  because I was the only one they saw and they saw me every single time. People often would ask me about it and I would always just say that this is what I loved to do.  There was some truth in that but it was more of just a way of stopping them prying into it any further.  Certainly I never mentioned to anyone that we all were working without pay. I knew if I said that there would be no end to the questions and I felt that I would conceivably lose respect in their eyes.  

We, all of us who were there, felt that no one on the outside of the group could possibly understand our motivation.  We were firmly and steadfastly committed to our mission.  And this mission was built around a set of beliefs and an ideology coming out of experiences we had all had with this woman and with this movement.  We were told that the only hope for the world was with this group.  We were told this by our leader, whom we all considered to be enlightened, and of whom this Indian guru had said that she was the Supreme Divine Mother. We were told that we were the only ones on earth who were showing true love to all beings through our selfless service and devotion and that if there were any hope for the world,  it was through our group and our group alone. And we bought into that. 

That was our positive feeling and motivation,  but there was,  of course,  also a darker side,  a side we were not allowed to expose to the outside world.   And it was this underbelly of our group experience which was causing me no small amount of distress.  We were not allowed to show any tension towards the outside.  It was,  however,  not my nature to want to or to try to hide anything.  And I think I have a rather pronounced NEED to express,  to show my feelings and to air my difficulties.  It's my way of sharing.  I just never felt to hide things or to be secretive about anything.  And I certainly never had much of a feeling towards deception. I was open about what I thought and felt.  And if someone didn't want to discuss it,  this could lead to considerable frustration in me. Mostly they wanted us to ignore whatever it was. 

Beyond being constantly silenced there was a dynamic that was quite poisonous in the group.  That was the supreme agency of Sinran. Yes I'm going to name names now. But remember,  this is just science fiction. I will also call it the supreme exclusive agency of the mom.  She was the mom and she not only told everyone what to do, she also told us all what to think, especially about each other.  She did this by murdering a person's reputation.  She would just say negative things about people when you were alone with her. 

And it could be something very banal, but it almost always gave the impression that that person had some fault that you didn't share. But then there were times when she would also rail at the whole group at once or when she would expose a group member in front of everyone; usually that was me,  but not always.  She said things  that 1) made you feel superior to others and 2) made you not trust the other.  It drove a wedge between you and the other group member. Then it had the effect of making you feel like you were in a private club with her. It established a perverted sort of intimacy.  This twisted dynamic was also very convoluted. It kept you off balance.  She  was always capable of suddenly going off. You were never sure when she would get in your face about something. 

I remember that especially in the weeks just before I left I became aware of the tension I carried in my body every morning, because you never knew what time she would be arriving and what mood she would be in,  how she would treat you when she walked in each day.  It was always a feeling that 'let it be loving and peaceful,  not disdainful and distant'.  We were always seeking her love and acceptance alone,  being denied the love and acceptance of the others in the group.  There was a competition for Sinran's attention, just like in a family with a lot of kids. This led to tensions between some members, those who had abandonment issues.  But generally it just meant that no one trusted anyone else and there was no friendship possible. 

Once having established this poisoned atmosphere it was easy to control everyone and get them to do just about anything.  She just had to paint a very black picture of someone and that was enough to isolate that person. The others then were taught to show disgust or disdain,  but then at random times there would be praise,  so there was a type of perverse buffering that took place.  So the level of poison was very closely monitored and controlled by the mom. And her supreme agency was never called into question. 

People will be asking now,  why a person would join such a group.  I can speculate here there are plenty of people who are looking for something deeper,  more meaningful and lasting than what is found in society at large.  And they are also at a disadvantage in that due to the fact that they somehow don't fit in they are challenged financially.  In my case it was so.  I couldn't tolerate the general abuse handed out in the workplace. To have a toxic narcissistic boss and be surrounded by colleagues who were ready to cut each other to pieces was something I couldn't abide.  It's ironic then that I ended up in the same situation but even worse off than before.  

I think most of us were more motivated by the search for deeper meaning in life.  To just get up every day and go to work at a job,  struggle to get ahead, have some kids and then retire with a hobby or two on down the road just didn't seem to be all there should be.  Life should not be so empty of meaning. If course, you could choose to do some kind of social work,  helping others,  or just choose to be a 'good person' and try to help here and there,  but in my case I was raised like an animal.  I had barely enough resources, really not enough to take care of my own self.  How then was I going to help any other person? 

Then there is the feeling that things are going so wrong in the world and how are we going you fix all of that? Then one day you meet someone who is EXTREMELY charismatic and seems so loving. And they have a place where you can come and stay.  And you will work together.  You are building something together.  And you are sold on the fantasy,  the idea that you are special and set apart by God for this work.

You fit in there. You are welcomed warmly by the leader. You are given a place to stay.  There is good food and a clean bed and your needs are met.  And the group has a whole history and a feeling like something you have never found before.  It's intoxicating.  You want it to be true. You are made to feel that these people are your family. They are all doing something that is saving the world. It is an exclusive club. Not everyone can join.  You are special.  You fit in here. And this group has the highest goal and mission.   And then you are also heading for  enlightenment. You are going to be closer to God. Religion never promised you that.  

No, religion could not give that sense of meaning and certainly it didn't exist in a normal everyday family life where you just go to a job every day with other people all struggling to keep up.  So you settle in.  And the leader seems to have the answers to everything.  They seem to be much more wise with knowledge that you can't even grasp.  They always have an answer even if it is just to wait.  They always know what to do.  There is security you never have found before,  security you never had in your family or at any job. And you are told that this is your home and that you are never going to have to leave.  Who would not want this? 

But how is it that this leader becomes so captivating for you? What is it about them that makes you feel that they are so special,  so powerful,  so worth listening to or worth following? Yes,  that is the question.  What is the secret sauce? Where do they get their mystique? This is something that I can't really answer right off the bat. What attracts you to them at first glance is a type of charm. They seem superior in some way.  You don't know why but you feel special in their presence. Usually though it is because someone has told you that they are very special and unusual.  

I just was talking to someone and I asked them what it is that makes a person fall for a cult leader.  Two words came back in the chat.   "Love bombing". And then I was reminded that we are essentially dealing with the narcissistic profile of the cult leader.  Therefore,  we have a set of terms that we can use that are somewhat descriptive and helpful.  However,  if a person has had no previous exposure to this culture, the culture of survivorship of narcissistic abuse,  they would not have the tools which this glossary of terms represents and I therefore have gone the route of examining and explaining each aspect of the abuse while providing example situations. 

My friend went on to explain that Sinran used to use this tactic of love bombing quite heavily.  She would set up a business for the person and market that business. In some cases she would pay off the debts of the party in question up to $20k or so.  She would spend a lot of exclusive time with that person and take them with her on shopping trips etc.  The effort time she would pay tons of attention to them making them feel very special.  

She didn't treat me this way,  but I can only imagine that she probably also was laying the groundwork for isolation from other group members by trashing different members,  dissing them in front of the newcomer. This was done very subtly at first by dropping little hints of some negative trait or by complaining about some minor fault or mistake of the member.  The new person would be given the impression that this other member was not to be trusted. I have to assume that she did this right from the beginning,  because she used to diss others in front of me.  I just knew that she must be dissing me in front of them. 

The rules were very strict, often arbitrary and nonsensical, and it was hard to function that way.  I have to mention that we were all controlled by access to food, though certainly some more than others. Sinran told us that we all had greed for food and that until we were free from our greed we could not be allowed to choose our own food.  So we had to eat whatever we were given.   There were times when I became quite hungry and one time I just grabbed some stale donuts and ate them.  That time I was sharply reprimanded and screamed at that I was a thief. 

I have to say we would be working long shifts and sometimes it would be very busy in the restaurant. There might not be time to prepare a staff meal.  Sometimes we were given cereal and milk.  That was certainly not very satisfying.  To Sinran's credit we were usually fed very well and encouraged to eat our fill.  But there were some aspects of the food mania, as I will call it,  that were very disturbing. 

There was a hierarchy in the group.  Some people could eat what they wanted,  notably Sinran herself and her paramour, Chef Herman. We didn't know that these two shared a bed. Everyone thought that Sinran was the Divine Mother and a celibate. Then, in my particular case, there was a lot of torturing and bullying that went on around food. I had my meals taken from me on a number of occasions for petty infractions and eventually it became a regular kind of nuisance for me that I would have to endure.  It was a type of distinctly purposeful humiliation. And it was often carried out buy the other members of the group. This is a trait of cults that the members are taught to torture each other.  

I find it really tedious to write about this aspect of our group life.  It was always a kind of mixed bag,  a hot and cold experience.  We were fed well most of the time,  but then there was the humiliation at other times.  It was like they say in German, Zuckerbrot und Peitsche.  This means that you are thrown back and forth always between two extremes. It's either great or it's terrible.  But it's never normal or regular. This is a tactic used in mind control.  You are always experiencing some superlative, best or worst. The emotions are kept very stimulated. You are never left to glide into a calm, restive emotional state.  You are kept on your toes as it were.  Every thing we experienced would have to be described as extreme.  I suppose that is how the whole mind control functions.  It keeps you off balance emotionally.  

There is much more to tell about group life in a cult,  mainly it's just that our experiences are defined by our role and our place in the group hierarchy. Each member in the group will have a very big challenge to be able to grasp what is happening and pinpoint the scope of the manipulation.  My friend sent me again the same email that he had written in the days just after he had left the group.  At the time I had rejected out of hand his warning.  And I remember that the feeling of reading what he wrote at that time was one of hearing fingernails on the blackboard. It just went against the grain for me.  The problem is,  if you have once bought into the illusion,  you can't make yourself see the truth, you won't be able to even if it is clearly right in front of your eyes, because it means you have to watch your entire world crumble before you. My friend recalled to  me one time,  and it was one of many,  in which Sinran recounted to us that someone had said that our group was a cult. We were all chuckling and shaking our heads and kind of feeling superior to them, because we were sure of ourselves and knew that they just "didn't get it". Nothing could have been further from the truth. 

Then I read again what he had to say about Sinran and Herman and the others,  but this time from a different emotional and mental perspective.  Truly we are all victims of mind control.  And it's very hard to grasp how we could buy into something that is so wrong and was so detrimental to our own spiritual development, until and unless one gains knowledge of how the mind functions.  Only after studying the Biderman Chart of Coercion and the general machinations of narcissistic family systems does it become possible to pull away and become independent and again being to think for oneself. 

It is a very painful process and one remains vulnerable to abuse perhaps for a long long time.  It's maybe not even possible to really fully heal in most cases.  This is because the thorn remains embedded in consciousness,  the weakness upon which these monsters prey is still there. That is a belief that there is no way that we can figure things out for ourselves and that we need someone else to help us get close to ourselves,  to know our true feelings and live from there.  And this is precisely because the connection had been artificially broken, and this is by design. There is a deeply ingrained feeling of inadequacy and a need for agency. I believe this need for agency is something that has been placed there by the church. When I say the church, I mean any institution which pretends to tell us things "for our own good", and in reality is simply helping itself into a position of fabulous wealth at our expense.  The church has played this role for millennia when they were synonymous with government. But now that this very church itself and the other side of the coin,  the government,  has worked so hard in order to wipe out religion or more accurately,  spirituality, and we are left to live a life barren of color,  devoid of any meaning and find ourselves washed ashore, each of us on our own private desert island in a sea of humanity, we have become helpless to find our way out of the maze.  

There is a saying that if you take a piece of chalk and draw a line on the ground around a goose that the goose will not cross the line, becoming your prisoner. Or also,  if when an elephant is young,  it is put on a heavy chain, when it is older a simple string suffices.  The animal feels the string and does not know that it could easily walk away. But in the case of human beings,  we are taught to lock ourselves in the cage and hand the key back to the captor. This is so ingrained in our thinking that after so many thousands of years people will still fight each other to retain the right to stay in jail. Anyone who comes to destroy this illusion of the need for control has a thankless job. No, danger, danger! Kill the messenger!

I've come for this, and I know that I will die.  I'm going to die anyway.  But I have, through long experience, slowly come to understand that EVERY WAR, EVERY CONFLICT, and virtually all or at least the most human on human crimes are the result of the calculated manipulations of these very institutions.  They do this one thing.  They first pervert reality in order to introduce a problem artificially, and then cause terror among the populace through campaign of disinformation, and then offer to us a magical solution.  And that solution  INVARIABLY is for us to make them rich by paying for something we never needed in the first place.  Presently,  we are headed into complete slavery. We have always been more or less indentured,  but now the plan seems to be to make it total. 

The solution is pretty simple,  and that is to reject their agency. They have butted in, into our private lives, in order to assert the need for their helping us.  It used to be that they simply said we need them in order for us to be able to connect to our God, but now they have told us that we need them in order for us to connect at all to anyone.  There used to be families.  These have been destroyed.  And it was conscious on their part.  Divide and conquer. Now we have no more families.  And we are constantly being made afraid of each other.  

I don't watch television but I'm staying with a friend and she has this d_sh network, which I want to call the douche bag network.  What I have seen they is proof eggnog.  There are only stories about people who are innocent and unsuspecting and are taken advantage of by people who are close to them and pretend to help,  but turn out to be psychopaths. Every show I saw was like this.  One show,  the woman was a cancer patient and a neighbor was helping her.  This neighbor ended up murdering the patient brutally and then framing the patient's husband,  destroying the whole family.  Another show I saw,  a young man lost his father.  Again,  a neighbor, pretending to help,  blackmails and threatens the boy into planting a bomb in a public building and then taking the blame so that he would go to prison for life. This is the message: you can't trust anyone. Everyone is evil  potentially. But I know that people are good.  What is bad is weekday is at the top right now. They want everyone to be helpless.  

The solution is simple,  but probably won't be easy. It is to get back together.  Get back into families. Join groups that meet up in person. Contact people you know to whom you have not spoken in years.  Just say hi.  Invite people over for dinner or for a game night. Just get together.  Have a barbecue. Have a Bible study.  Have any kind of thing.  Just get together.  And remember not to challenge anyone's beliefs or opinions.  People have been made to be enemies.  The powers that be have been causing more and more and more division. So we have to just try to build groups again.  Try to see past each other's thinking on any given topic.  We MUST get together.  People are hurting so badly.  And when they hurt they isolate,  because they feel threatened.  They are afraid. And they are mostly afraid of their beliefs getting ripped apart.  Because of the fear that is being produced right now is a kind of hypnosis and  it exists as a part of a mind control system. 

I need to explain this,  and I will do that. The whole world is right now suffering by being in a giant cult. 💔 And it is very hard to see until one wakes up.  But this will take a good deal of explaining.  Nevertheless,  once you see it , you cannot again unsee it.  Because the truth will then appear everywhere. It will be clear and unmistakable.  There will be no more fear or confusion.  Trepidation perhaps,  but a growing courage will quickly arise to blot it out.  You see. I am now of the belief that humans are good.  Inherently so.  When people are no longer isolated,  they will be able to figure things out.  When they get it figured out they won't be confused and they will immediately know what to do.  The first step is to break out of the self imposed isolation. 

Next, I want to explain how I came to this conclusion. 

Sometimes it is necessary to give up a bit of substance for the sake of knowledge. I woke up today with this sentence in my mind.

It’s like the ‘teach a man to fish…’ metaphor. But these things are not really complete.

I saw somewhere someone wrote that “jack of all trades, master of none…” was not the complete quote. The complete quote included at the end that the jack of all trades was sometimes better at certain types of assignments. Now I cannot remember how the rhyme goes.

Similarly, “Give a man a fish vs. Teach a man to fish” doesn’t show the complete picture. It does not illustrate the difficulty posed. It’s not a matter of just roping the stubborn “taker” into becoming a “learner”. There is a distinct process involved in shifting a man’s attention away from his stomach and focusing it on his curriculum vitae.

And I never really pondered why these sayings and little adages don’t really cut it. But I just woke up and that sentence was there in my head. I think… I think I was thinking in my sleep. Which is something that perhaps happens a lot and I just get distracted upon waking and then forget what the train of thought was.

This morning it seemed really important though, and when I started to contemplate it a whole essayical world started to open up.

You see, last night something happened. My friend said to me, let’s watch a movie tonight. Well, we opened up the “dish” and started to search for something to see. And all of the content seemed inappropriate. It was all pretty dark and mostly included some blood or bloodlike imagery in the opening artwork. I was like, “naw, not this, not that, no, no… hmmm, is there anything here I want to watch.” And then I saw McGyver. I said, ok, let’s see that. Then, when it came on, it turns out it’s an updated SLICK, SLICK, SLICK version of the old TV hit show. It was on for a bit, but I couldn’t watch. It was just grating on me. It literally gave me the inner feeling of fingernails on the blackboard.

I finally just turned around and started talking to my friend about something and she finally just turned off the TV. I was telling her then, at some point, do you remember the movie “It’s a beautiful mind.” I said, well, I am like that man. My brain works that way. You know the scene where he goes into the underground cavernous deep state control room with the big board on the wall with a readout of all the codes they had intercepted from the cold war enemy country. Dr. Nash stands there transfixed in front of it for several hours before he finally turns to the secret military men and tells them what he is seeing, “It’s GPS coordinates”. Then they find out it’s all the location of the “sleepers”, the soviet spys who have invaded our beautiful “peaceful” country.

And then there is the image of the shed Dr. Nash inhabits in his back yard, with the hundreds of magazine and newspaper articicle clippings and other little trinkets and things he has hanging on the pinboard, with yarn and push pins showing relationships between all the bits of information, a veritable chaos of interconnected realities, which no one else but he could decipher, that is, perhaps, unaided by a high powered computer with a complicated AI algorithmic software program.

I said, my brain functions like that. Then when I woke up and after pondering for a few minutes this sentence, I realized, that is how the human brain works, period. Everyone’s brain, except for one little caveat. Everyone’s brain WOULD or COULD operate in that fashion, in its un-manipulated, unaltered, pristine, healthy state. If we were not being constantly “engineered” or re-invented, that is. There is this famous quote from Bucky Fuller, where he is being praised for his achievements and he states that he is not really any more intelligent than anyone else, just, “less damaged”. Which is to say, either they didn’t “fuck with” his brain, or when they did, it didn’t take.

Yes, I said, my brain functions like that, and it does, still, apparently.

After I left this diabolical religious cult, I got a phone, at the insistence of the man who had taken me in. Literally just a day or so after. And at night I used to just scroll YT and TikToks. It would be nasty and exhausting. And it was something else I noticed. It was addictive. I could not stop. It would take me off in this random direction and that random direction and down this and that other rabbit hole until I just wanted to throw it in the corner. But there was always this ‘THIRST’ for more and more. I had a feeling like it was doing something to me that I didn’t like.

I feel like telling everyone everything, but the ideas keep coming in a stream and it’s impossible to write it all before the next thing shows up.

I used to read books like “the man who mistook his wife for a hat”. It’s I realized that the thing of “they have stolen my brain” is true. Our brains have been stolen. And here is how it happened.

I have the mind of a detective. And most people, left to themselves, would have that. It used to be that only the dumbest, most misshapen creatures would be born without this capacity. But, slavery has always been the best, most effective business model, and having bought and paid for Washington, London, Moscow and all the other capitols of the world, those who would weild absolute power just have taken the logical (for them) decision to engineer humanity. It has been happening at a more and more rapid pace lately, and the evidence of their Frankenstein plan is open to those who can see, those who, like me, were born back in a time when not everyone’s brain had been royally fucked with. But we are a disappearing breed, and this has been accelerated with the cooties outbreak, which was a sleezy cover for mass murder of (first) the older populace, of those who can remember a time before TV.

I can remember such a time. My mother never wanted a TV in the house. She was raised by her mother who said that this type of “entertainment” is a “tool of the devil”. At that time it was the movie theaters. That was the only place where this mind control madness was available.

They say that every advance in technology is led by military interests and advantages. It is certainly true. The “military industrial complex” has led the charge in the war against our brains. When it came down to it, they made their logical conclusion that the ultimate weapon is an altered consciousness and that is when the hacking of the human brain started. But it actually started much earlier than people realize. I have been researching and researching. And that is, I just watch and watch and watch things and then suddenly when enough new neurons have started firing, the connection happens, and something goes click inside and the dots are then suddenly connected.

They did a lot of experiments back in the day where they cut open monkeys brains and human’s brains and they found that people who had had the connecting “corpus callosum” between the left and right sides of the brain severed were easily able to spot lies and liars. They would stand in front of the television set and watch a speech by Richard Nixon and they would begin to laugh uncontrollably at his attempts to deceive the populace at large.

But I digress. What I wanted to cover is how the mechanism of control first started to develop in imagery and then finally sound and vibration, because this will bring everyone up to speed, perhaps not with the level of sophistication of “today’s weaponized human consciousness” but at least to the level of “this is what we know or at least what we think happened.”

It’s perhaps not possible without a great deal of research, a great deal of filtering and measuring, a great deal of sifting through volumes of dusty memorabilia and volumes of information, much of which has been altered, destroyed perhaps, certainly redacted, hidden, re-written and falsified, in order to know the real truth of what happened, but something like a residual image is still there, and would be accessible to the brain of a healthy individual, given “normal” or unaltered, un-tampered with realities… not possible to know where and when it started, but there is still a trail we could follow. We could and should follow that trail and the way is apparent, by reverse engineering, by way of certain evidenciary clues.

We just have to look at things logically. It’s all there, in the movies. It is said that the truth is hidden out in the open. The fact is, Truth is Truth and cannot be hidden. In fact, the Truth is apparent, it is rather “we” who are hiding from “it”. That is the beauty, that is the strength, that is the only hurdle, the real problem. WE are the Truth. But until we are ready to see ourselves as we truly are, we will not be able to see or even seek the Truth.

From what I can glean, being only one person with somewhat limited resources, it starts with imagery. But let’s just let go of the BS scientific method idolatry, shall we? We don’t need the scientific method in order to discover the Truth. What is needed is a strong will to know, a spirit of enquiry, a demand for the REAL. We have a problem. Our problem is religion. Early on I was taught that the very word “religion” can be simply translated as “way of living”. It’s our lifestyle. Our lifestyle is the problem. If we are not able to see the Truth, live in the Truth, it is our lifestyle that has become the hindrance.

Hence, I am saying, in “teaching a man to fish”, we have to give up a little “substance” in order to enjoy a little “knowledge”. There might be a missed meal or two, either figuratively or in fact. We might have to let go of some “creature comforts” and indulgences. But I do not mean this as another attempt at establishing a religion. No. It cannot become a religion. That is putting the cart in front of the horse. The search for Truth has to be integral to the Self. The problem we are having is that our “self” is being manufactured out of existence. We are being engineered into something that is no longer human in the sense that our spirit is being removed from us. We are being shifted, and in the case of the latest debacles and spectacles, we are being quickly shuffled away from that which makes us truly a magnificent creature and creation of the Creator, that is our SPIRIT.

Through the emphasis on the physical concrete “reality” we are becoming inured of the existence of the foundation of all life, that is the Force, the Spirit of Life itself. Life, It becomes a format, what is a format? A format is a form empty of content. That is what life has become in this engineered reality that some are starting to call the Matrix.

This is all seemingly quite abstracted speech. Let us get down to what we are talking about finally. It started, as far as I am concerned here, with imagery. Let’s go ahead and ignore all the things leading up to the presently accepted paradigms, such as the origins of ancient civilizations, the conspiracy “theory” backgrounds of the early and present day churches and powers that would rule the world. I want to leave them out of this for the most part, because that glorifies them, gives them more and more power, by making people feel weak and helpless before the monoliths of inherited earthly power.

No, we have the key in our own hand. It is in every cell of our being, so long as we believe in it. When we are distracted enough not to be able to notice that it is there, then we get into trouble. Actually, I think this is not entirely possible even. Why? Because we are literally made of Truth. We ARE in fact the Truth. We are the Truth manifested. We have forgotten this, we are like the musk deer, running and running and searching for the origin of that maddeningly intoxicating musk scent without realizing that it is indeed emanating from our own naval.

Yes, the human brain is able to be controlled using imagery. I don’t know if everyone has seen this, perhaps many have not seen it. It was found out early on, if during the pre-screening of a major motion picture, a single image of the words “eat popcorn” were to be flashed upon the screen for just a fraction of a second, not long enough to be consciously recognized by anyone, that this information would enter into the brain and subconscious immediately. People would suddenly feel hunger or the urge to indulge their sense of taste and immediately get up and go in search of this food. In this case it was available right in the lobby. The theaters started to make more money.

So, I like to think that we can simply follow the money. Well, that was the mantra of the “deep throat” character in the “Watergate” movie. Perhaps now this is shifting to “follow the pattern of control”. The thing we need to understand now is the depths to which these powers will go to control the humans, whom they regard as literal cattle. So, it is all about the MIND. Who controls the consciousness controls the world.

CONTROL OF THE MIND.
How is it done? At first, it was imagery. In the beginning, there were only the MOTION pictures. Then soon after this there were the TALKIES. Anyone who has thought about this a little bit will come to the conclusion that it is perhaps a bit more or less annoying to have one’s consciousness bombarded with sappy emotional music during the the imaged telling of stories. If we tend to think in a certain type of rational vein and prefer to leave our emotions out of it, to be barraged with swelling orchestras of violins can be certainly annoying.

We don’t like to be “played”. We want to remain sober, neutral, in order to let our minds sort through the information uncontaminated and unburdened with our perhaps considerable accumulated human emotional baggage. So, first there were the pictures, the symbols, the images. And then there came the sound aspect, the vibratory component. And here is where it takes a turn and becomes dangerous.

When I was a child, we didn’t have a television, as I have stated. My father worked for General Electric in our Midwestern town. There was a GE plant, it was spread over I think two pretty massive campuses. I remember a reddish brick, long, low single storied building along a street (I think it was called Brooklyn Ave.) between my house just on the outskirts of the town and the main campus composed of higher, more massive structures where the manufacturing took place of all the toasters, mixers, hair dryers, stoves, radios and televisions.

Ah yes, I had forgotten. There was the radio also. But then, when the images and the sound were combined, the process of manipulation became much more all-enveloping and insidious. Well, when I was very small still, we got our first television set. My mother used to repeat to us what her own mother had known and taught, and that was that this machine, this broadcasting medium posed a danger to our young minds. She simply repeated the anecdote that our grandmother had always denied her progeny access to these things saying that it was “the tool of the devil”.

That is to say, her “religious” views forbade her indulging in movies and theater. Now I become aware, of course, that we have had theater (sound and image) for millennia. Certainly we have, but with the coming of technology it became possible to refine this engineering capability of imagery and sound and practice it upon much broader masses of humanity. The experiments in mind control and manipulation would take on much more overt and targeted tendencies.

As I stated above, I am letting go of this new religion called “science” and I am looking simply at the pattern of dots that have somehow become connected in my little brain, which has somehow retained a bit of juice, remained relatively unscathed all these years.
I am certainly not “cool” or “hip”. No, I’m old now. But it doesn’t change the facts. I started to see a pattern. The first war in my lifetime, that I was able to notice broadly, was the Vietnam war.

Then later on there were other conflicts and wars and I started to see that these were fit in roughly at intervals corresponding to the coming of new generations of young people/young men. In other words, when one generation would come up there would be a war and then another generation would come up (a new crop, a new herd of human cattle) and these young people would be sent off to slaughter. The new generation would not have the memory of what had happened to the previous generation and so would not be wary of what was about to befall them. This may be obvious for anyone over the age of about 40 or 50. But for a twenty something it might not be clearly visible.

So, I am just reporting here what I am seeing. The images and the sound came together and there is an Entity which we refer to in terms of a type of tree. That tree produces a type of material which is known to have been used for millenia as part of a magicians “arsenal” of tools. In fact, that material itself is used to make the main tool of a sorcerer, which is called the “wand”. So, that Entity, having taken the name of the material which produces the main tool of the necromancer, has become the source of this “magic”. And we have all become subject to the illusions produced there. Hollywood.

JUST THE FACTS JACK
I started to say that we were trying to watch a show last night on the “dish” and I couldn’t watch. But the truth is, I could not actually listen. The feeling inside of me was like this “fingernails on the blackboard”. I think I said that above somewhere. I don’t know what influenced me, but my whole life I have avoided television and radio. I grew up with radio. There was always one playing in the kitchen when I would get up for school. “W-O-W-O… Wo-wo”. That was a jingle I always heard. Those were the station’s call letters. They would talk about the farm reports, then play some music, and present news and weather. Jay Gould, a seasoned older gentleman, and Bob… what was his last name I don’t remember. They were a radio duo back in the day. That was in the 60s in the tri-state region of Indiana, Michigan and Ohio. It was farmers and factory workers back then.

When my father won the “Suggestion Box Contest” at GE one year, we got our first television. It was a black and white tube job in a cabinet and was installed immediately as the centerpiece of our living room. I remember that we kids (there were 5 of us left at home) would gather around the set. The older kids sat on chairs and I remember me and my brother sitting on the floor down front. We would watch “Superman and Lois Lane and Jimmy”. That came on I think for half an hour. We were not allowed to watch much more than that. I don’t now remember if it came on more than once during the week. I just remember that our diet of TV was strictly rationed.

Later I would watch Captain Kangaroo with Mr Greenjeans and Bunny Rabbit before going to Kindergarten in the mornings. I was six when I went to school. I remember my mother making me a little dress. The fabric was not really “little girlish”. It was a dark black-blue affair with a little yoke and a gathered type of skirt or pinafore. I think I wore a white blouse underneath. I remember that she brought me to the doors of the school about a mile and a half from our house and took my picture in front of the building and then left me there. Perhaps someone else, a teacher or an aid led me down the long hallway to the other end of the school and down into a basement room where we were all assembled together, all the new kindergartners. My teacher was Mrs Ray. She was a very short woman with smooth and dark coifed hair. I think maybe she wore glasses if I can recall.

As time wore on I began to notice that television was bothersome in a particular way. You could not avoid looking at it if you were in the room and it was on. I didn’t know how others were able to avoid it. Some people would keep it on as a noise in the background and just go about their day. But if it was on anywhere around me I was forced to go up to it and look at it and I would immediately become transfixed. I would be rooted to the spot. I couldn’t escape from it. And that bothered me. First of all, it made me feel guilty. I felt that my time should be put to better use. But it was impossible to ignore it and the taste for it grew with use. In our family the TV gained the epithet “the idiot box”.

Hence, I was addicted and repulsed at one and the same time to and from this monstrous time wasting apparatus. I had no control when it was on. And the onus was on me. I was at fault. It was my responsibility to control this desire to “watch”. (I’m reminded of the gentle moron portrayed by Peter Sellers in “Being There” saying “I like to watch, Eve.”) It had me. I had to do its bidding. And it bade me “watch, watch, watch” and “come back soon for more”. The radio didn’t do that to me. I could turn that off. No problem.

So, I don’t know how it happened, but I think at some point my transient, unstable life just took over and there was no room for TV. I could not carry one around with me. That was not a priority. I don’t know what I did to “entertain” myself. I think I liked music. I liked to dance. I didn’t like the TV, but still there were things that would interest me, like movies. But again, my early training won out. My mother never let us go to the movies. She was tight. There was no money for that. In fact, she was tight with her money generally. I think if she had enjoyed movies herself, perhaps we would have been taken to the theater as children on occasion, but for my part I cannot remember a single instance of this having happened in my entire childhood. It was just too expensive for a family of seven to go the the flicks.

The first movies I saw were when I went out on dates with boys. And one of the first I remember seeing was “Billy Jack”. That was in the seventies, when I was just getting ready to graduate from high school. Or perhaps I had graduated already. I had a boyfriend. I don’t remember his name. He was a really nice fellow, but he was too “beta” for me, I think. Charlie, that’s it. His name was Charlie. he drove a Dodge Charger and he lived with his elderly mother a few miles from my house, in a small bungalow off of Ardmore Ave. He took me to see that film. It was in a theater at the strip mall behind Foster Park, just across the street, catty corner to the lodge building where my father had pushed me up in front of the church members to recite “The Night Before Christmas” when I was four years old.

We started to sit through the movie and it was fight scene after fight scene. It was about this man who was supposedly “American Indian” but I think the part was played by a white actor. And there was a lot of violence. In the middle of the movie I broke down and started crying. My date was astonished and I asked him to take me home. I could not take that much of a heaping helping of blood and gore and cruelty on the screen. Charlie had been busy munching popcorn, but I was hiding my face, tears streaming down, and I was not a sensitive crying type of kid. I just couldn’t watch it. I think that movie was written and shot at the height of the Vietnam anti-war movement.

There were other types of material I could not watch through the years. Certain types of comedy, I will call it, cringe comedy. I could never stomach Benny Hill, and later on I would not be able to enjoy watching Ben Stiller. Just, some types of material would get so under my skin and I would have to stop. I think I still had this feeling that I was forced to watch until the end. It’s like they had some sort of invisible toothpicks holding your eye lids open. You just had to find out what happened at the end. And I don’t know what they were doing to MAKE you watch when you clearly found it painful. But now I can only guess what they were doing.

Through the years I became very involved in different religious movements, and through doing this, I tended to think to myself, and perhaps also encouraged by the religious bent, that perhaps it was not good to listen to music and see media that were preoccupied with sex constantly. And then pop music wasn’t that great all the time either. If a song came on the radio that I thought was insipid, it was easy to just turn it off immediately. I just got used to not listening, not watching, avoiding all that stuff. That was when it became easier for me to just turn it off. But that took literally DECADES to develop that capacity to shut it down before it overtook my consciousness.

At the same time, I have to say I did not develop the propensity for watching news program. And I didn’t like reading the newspaper. I had had a personal experience with newspaper reporting when I was 15. I had been the victim of a hit and run accident that left me in the hospital with broken bones. When I saw the report in the local paper, it was heavily sensationalized. I don’t remember taking note of the fact that no one had asked me or much more interviewed me before printing my name in the paper at that time, but now I am thinking of this. I just didn’t trust newspapers after that. I knew they lied about me in order to sell their papers. Now perhaps I think that I have rhymed this story together about my past in order to explain why it is that I never wanted to read newspapers. I just know that I never trusted the mainstream media MSM. The pure fact of the matter is that when I would read it, it would befuddle my brain. It didn’t make any sense and I think I had that “fingernails on the blackboard” sensation in the middle of my brain. It was like eating something that tastes wretched. I could not do it.

So, last night when I was trying to find something to watch I noticed that I was actually averse to being “entertained” because it just feels like “fingernails on the blackboard” and I am feeling more and more certain that it feels this way BECAUSE it is a process of engineering that is ensuing during the “ingestion” of this material. It is not for my “entertainment” but rather in order to manipulate and perhaps or probably amputate some capacity of my brain, that we are encouraged to watch and “enjoy” such media. We are being literally engineered. And no one has asked us if we wanted that. Of course not, why would anyone take our permission? We are mere human cattle to them.

I mean that we are literally being engineered and parts of our brain are being murdered, amputated, atrophied certainly, and this is a conscious plan of some evil entities. It is a conscious plan and it has been laid out years and years ago. Slavery is the best business model. Remember this. Lip service is given to freedom and “democracy”. We are mere cattle for them. So, I heard something one day. Remember, our brains are marvelous. But the spirit is at the root of the marvel. It is the Spirit in Man (I am consciously not PC here when I say the word ‘man’, as I do not subscribe to the mistaken presently prevalent credo that ‘man’ is at the root of the world’s troubles. When I say ‘man’ I mean it in the Biblical sense, that “male and female, He created them”.) It is the Spirit in Man out of which this marvel, the human brain came. The Spirit is the source, the root of all miracles.

Recently, scrolling through hundreds and hundreds of tiktoks and yt vids my ears pricked up at the words ‘binaural beats’. I had to investigate because someone said that “they” have found out how to reproduce the effects of 20 years of Zen meditation and/or 5 years of TM within a few short months through using certain perhaps “dissonant” tones injected through the ear into the brain. Let’s say in one ear you hear a tone at 440 Hz and in the other ear you hear a tone at 444 Hz. The four Hz difference in tone somehow produces itself in the brain and presents as a “beat” or a rhythmic note of some kind. I am not sure how this works, but it apparently can literally rewire the brain in a short time.

This is somehow quite alarming, because I feel as if I have found out why it is being done. And that I will discuss in a later installment. But here I want to say that there are also monaural beats. In other words, they don’t need to put it in both of your ears at the same time in two different channels through the use of some type of meditation headphones. They can do it through the radio, through any sound equipment. I feel as if there is something, some sound, some vibration, some tone in these films, in these songs, in this media, that is rewiring “man’s” brain, in order to shut out certain feeling elements, certain spiritual elements, which enable a person to think critically, to search with the heart, to feel even through the senses, that this world is wonder and beauty and created by something greater than himself.

In the next installment, I will try to recount how I came to think that the whole point is to turn “man” into a true “machine”, and why this is not desirable at all.

There are so many things that happen. It's so hard to tell it all but it always seems so significant. If I could only get it all down on "paper" before it gets cold. 

After leaving the group, and after all the horrendous things that happened, I felt in the beginning that this woman is no better than Hitler. I felt that. And I said it. Then, as these things develop I felt again attracted to her. My mood softened. I cannot say why. It is hard to describe why. Always she would get in touch with me at some point but always because she needed something. I had a hard time deciding if I had been correct in my assessment of the situation and I went through a lot of trauma about leaving. Had it been the right thing to do? 

The thing that always happened was that I would become frightened for my soul. I would become afraid that I was going to hell. That was the whole thing. From the beginning. It had been about that. What is the way to manifest God? What is the way to become spiritual? What is the way to overcome the world? I went through so many transitions. I remember a time I went to Santa Clarita and just sat in the parking lot of a big box store for days. Three days I think. I just sat there and went through hell. I came back to the Mountain then and said to A and S that I had been broken. 

I had gone all the way down. But obviously I had not gone all the way down. I had not made it down to nothing. No, that happened later. Later one day I sat and thought about everything. In the meantime I was researching every day about what is going on in the world. Still trying to figure it all out. What are they doing? Why is it turning out so raw? What is it? Then I found out the thing, what is the game. It made sense finally. I started to research and dig further and further. And the more I looked, the less things made sense again. Each time I found a new piece to the puzzle I had to again reconstruct my world. I found out that everything I had believed about the world,  none of it was true. None of it. It was all fake.   At the end I had to give up. I had to say, it's all wrong. There is no right reality. It is all fake. 

That is when I came to the conclusion that everything they are doing is just to confuse us. It is only to confuse. So, they don't care if they espouse religion or atheism. It's ok if they are on the both sides in every argument. And indeed that is the way they operate. They switch it up back and forth until everyone is so confused and no one knows what to believe at all. Until everyone just gives up. Until everyone is helpless to know what is going on. It is the way they break the collective spirit and mind. They put out hundreds of false flags everywhere. Until people are so sick of it. No one wants to touch it anymore and then they do what they really want to do. 

After a long time I am starting to write again. It is hard to maintain continuity at this point. I have become somewhat resigned to my fate. I told my friend just now on the phone, they are killing me. I don’t know how much longer I can last. So, this part of the story will be told later. The story continues in the next installment.

First and foremost

I want you first to sit and take a deep breath. Try to always breathe. I know it’s tough. But just do it. For yourself and for me and for all of us. Breathe. You are alive. You have found this story. That’s grace. That’s a glorious thing. Welcome to my story. I hope you make it your story, too! I hope you add to it.

In all of this, anyone reading might feel a certain outrage. I have to emphasize that I don't feel this at all. I don't feel it because now I know exactly what happened. And this is not a spiritual goody two shoes thing. This is not that idea of getting to the point of feeling equanimity and being totally objective and untouched by negative events, where a person in their spiritual journey comes to the conclusion that this is all maya, or that God loves them and even the bad things are His will, or even that we can see the silver lining, to remain positive in all things. No, it's not that, not at all. No, all this was abuse. It was all bad. It all is not necessary. We should not be treated this way. No one should be abused. It was damaging. It left scars. It was an agony to go through and still I don't blame them. AND THIS IS NOT STOCKHOLM SYNDROME talking here. I'm not going back to them. It's not that. No, it's nothing of the kind. What happened here is that through a strange circumstance I finally uncovered the truth. The truth that we are all the victims here. All of us are being played. All are being controled. It is like a huge board game for "them".  We were all pawns in the game. 

THEY...the BIG THEY... but I must emphasize again in reading this that this is a story of GRACE AND GLORY. You, the reader should never feel irritated or upset during this. I know you will want to feel upset, but you must control your feelings. If any of these things touch a nerve, please relax and know that it is not as hopeless as all that. It is not a thing to be upset about. I don't want people to be emotionally DRUGGED by reading this. 

I will tell a "joke" here. I am staying with a friend. He told me that when people come up to him, let's say a neighbor is mad about something and knocks on the front door in order to complain. He said, "I go right up to them and say, 'You got friends?' and when they say 'Yeah' I say, 'Well F them, too!' and then I close the door and go back inside." That puzzled me for a little while. Then I got it somehow. And I laughed and laughed. After that, any time something bothered me I would say in my mind, "Buddy, you got any friends?" and laugh again. 

So, that is how I ended up leaving. I just stayed away from the restaurant for a couple of days and at some point it was clear to me. "I just can't go back. And I can't stay here." I had to leave. But how to do that? There were no friends. There was no money to speak of, not that I could suddenly go and pay for hotel rooms or put a down payment on an apartment, and even to find a place to rent. The task seemed monumental to me. And about the money, that was another strange thing. My handler had demanded recently that I leave all my credit cards and my checkbook with her. That everyone had to do this. I had done that, and I was ok with doing that. Again, everyone will think that this is crazy. And it IS for someone who has never been through it. 

I had a little money in my bank account, but I was not aware of how much was in there. And I had of course been getting stimulus payments and unemployment during that time, even though we were all working the same as we always had been. Oddly, we were supposed to be absolutely honest and follow all the rules of society. But the leader was exempt from this. She didn't have to follow the law. So everyone in the restaurant was working day and night and they were collecting everyone's unemployment checks. Then you had your bed and your clothes and you ate every day. It was complicated if I wanted anything beyond that. The "leader" always said that she was the only one who knew how to spend money so we were not allowed to do that. I actually didn't really have much of a desire for things. Just every now and again I would feel that I wanted something. I used to want to clean my teeth in a particular way. I would suck on a tablespoon of oil for several minutes and then spit it out. This is something I practiced for six months once in Germany when my gums had been infected and it had cured that disease. I wanted some oil for this and I had to ask for it. But I couldn't ask. I thought of asking every other day or so. It took me about two years to screw up my courage to ask for it. One day someone had a bottle of partially used coconut oil and they were giving it to her and I then just blurted it out and asked for it. I was publicly shamed for that. 

This was a strange thing. There was a point at which the boys got motorcycles. In one week they spent $53K for several bikes so that they could all ride. Some of them didn't even know how to ride. There were two KTMs, one Triumph, a Suzuki. I think that was it. I might be missing something here. So there was plenty of money spent on occasion, but no one was allowed to make the decision to spend or not. It was said that we would spend in the wrong way and that would destroy the abundance. And we believed that this was the reason for the control. It sounded right to us. It was all plausible. Guru can scream at us and get away with it. The leader can spend all the money and we should be satisfied with what we get. 

Anyway, I could go on and on. I left, without having a vehicle of my own, not knowing how much money I had and not even knowing that I was getting unemployment. I just had no clue as to my financial status. D had been in charge of managing my accounts and he had had all the passwords. I had demanded of him a few weeks prior to my leaving that he should print out my password to my unemployment account for me. Which he grudgingly did, I am sure he only did this after consulting with the "leader". They had spent all the stimulus checks I had received. I think it was $21K, to this day I don't even know how much it was. When I left I changed all the passwords to my accounts. It took me several weeks to even figure out that I was still getting money from the state for unemployment. If I had not logged in, I would not have continued to receive it. Somehow I figured it out then and I was able to get the money put on my card. That was a card I found one time just laying around. It was from BofA and it had my name on it and I remember going and saying to D, I think, "Hey, what is this?" and he had told me that I didn't really need that. So, somehow I figured it out when I left that I had to log in to a separate account at BofA in order to transfer the funds to my bank account at another bank. 

Sitting there, I knew I had to leave, but I didn't know anyone. So, I was sitting at my computer the afternoon of the second day. I had gone to the store at some point, the local Dollar General. Crackers and cheese, I took to my room and ate it under the covers when no one was there. By that time I had unplugged the security camera that had been pointed at me. Even though my handler had demanded of me that I keep my money in her desk, at some time in the week prior to my leaving I had gone in and taken my credit cards and my checkbook back. The desk was in a locked building. I used the opportunity of going and doing something else in that room, getting something I needed. Then I could borrow the key. I think I had been upset about something that day, someone had been needling me. I don't know what it was. Then a few days later I was calm again and I started to put my money back in her desk, but I suddenly stopped myself. I told myself, "No, don't do that." I kept it all with me then, the cards and the checkbook. And hence I had money then to get food. And it was a good thing. Because I was hungry and no one brought me any food. Of course, why would they? We only got food if we worked. And we didn't get money for any work that we did. We were fed if we worked, like I said, and I wasn't working. So, why would I be fed? Right?

I am saying we here, "we" weren't fed, etc. In truth I can't say if what I am reporting only applied to me or not. I was the "scapegoat" in this group. Anyone who has dealt with a raging narcissist will know what I am talking about. 

Sitting in the little office I stared at my facebook account. I had never friended anyone on there since a long time. I had friended some people but mostly in our group. It was tabu to have a lot of facebook contacts also. It meant that you were still "attached" to your family or your identity. She used to rage on and on about how we were living "individual" lives and we needed to live "universal" lives. I think this is the point where you see that we in this cult group were being trimmed in the direction that an individual has no rights, or less rights than the community. I guess this is all old territory for some. Anyone who knows about cults knows this. They don't like you to have contact with anyone but them. It is a tactic to keep a person isolated. But right now I am making the connection to this idea going around our world that the "rights" of the community supercede individual rights in all or most cases and at all times. That is what's going on right now, anyway. 

So, I didn't really know who to reach out to. There was one man I had friended for some reason. I decided to reach out to him. I did that. He answered in a few minutes and I told him I wanted to leave the group, the restaurant. He was, surprisingly to me, very cool about this, saying he understood. I am not sure exactly the conversation. He may even have said that he was surprised I had not already left. Something of this nature. That did surprise me, because to me everything was natural, and I could never have thought of leaving before that. I had tried to contact 3 or 4 people. I was chatting with this man, then another person answered, someone I knew a little bit better. He was A. I told the first man goodbye and I started chatting with A. He said, "What's up?" I told him, "I need to talk to you." Then he said, ok, I'm coming in my car. I said, "I won't meet you here. I will walk towards you, up the street." He lives only about a mile from the house where I was. He said ok and then he picked me up a few blocks from the house where I had been and drove me back to his house. I told him the whole story. 

He said I could stay with him for a few weeks. I was really in a mess. I just looked at him. I told him I was not really asking him to stay there. It was just that I had to tell someone what I was going through. He reiterated his offer. But I was really scared that he said, "a few weeks". I told him that I really wanted to somehow get away from these people but that I didn't know how I would leave them and then be so unsure of whether or not I had a place to stay for long enough to get on my feet. He was telling me "a couple of weeks". What if I left the group and then somehow I became homeless? I didn't want that to happen. I felt very insecure. In the end I think he reassured me that he would not brutally just throw me out. and he might have said that I would be allowed to stay for longer. He worded it very ambiguously actually. But I got that he was softening his position. I felt trapped and helpless. I didn't know where else to turn. I had to accept his offer, I felt. So, I agreed.

Then, I think he dropped me off, or maybe I walked back. I saw that D and one of the other group members was at the house. Our bedroom was a large open space on the ground level, and D's office was right there also through an open doorway. It was all one open room. So, I just walked in. The jeep was parked in the driveway next to D's desk window. I gathered up my clothing and threw it in the back of the jeep after I found the key. I tried to take all my papers and possessions. There were not many things, but it was bulky. I was in a hurry to leave. I took a few minutes and put all my stuff in the truck. Then I walked out and never went back. I drove to A's house and put my things in the room he was giving me. It took me a long time to drag all that stuff up to the room. The house is on a steep hill and I had to carry it all up several flights of stairs, which made me feel really tired after all the stress. I think I had slept in the house one more night and this was the next day actually. I had a lot of clothing. It was a kind of quirk. Even though it was some of it not really nice any more, it was hard for me to throw it away. so, I had a lot of clothes. I put them in the room. By that time I was exhausted and I could not come out after moving all the things. I think I just lay on the bed. it was warm, middle of May, and I had left the house door open. 

At some point D poked his head through front door and called out. To this day I don't know how he knew where I was. Maybe he drove by and saw the jeep parked there. I went out and gave him the key to the jeep. There was an incredulous look on his face. He was going to drive away in the other person's car, who had brought him and I yelled out to him, "you have to take the Jeep! Otherwise A can't get his car out of the driveway." Then he came and took the key from my hand. Or something like this. Maybe he strarted leaving, taking the keys and not the jeep. I think he did something like that. I think everyone was confused. Definitely D was confused. In nine years D had never seen anything like this in me. No, I had always been the one who always hung on, always came back, after every fight, stood up after every defeat, swallowed every insult from my handler. I had never defied her. I had defied others for sure, but never her. This was the end. It was over. We were all surprised, myself more than anyone else.  It was the end and it was the beginning. 

After this another crazy phenomenon started. The flying monkeys came. I had blocked all the people in the group including "her". So, they had no access to me through social media as they had before. I had taken the one little computer with me, which "technically" was not mine. It was an old imac and pretty useless to anyone, but I had a few tricks to keep it going. No one else would have used it but me, but they were putting pressure on me to give it back,  and I had all my files on it. I didn't want to just give up all my files like that. I worked a lot on the computer, doing graphics and things. I was a graphics person. In the course of a few days they started putting huge pressure on A and he immediately came and put huge pressure on me to give back the computer. Then he put huge pressure for me to give them the password and so on. In the end I lost all the files, lost my Apple ID account totally and all the messages that we had exchanged over the last 8 years. I had now no proof of anything that had happened, of any of the abuse that had transpired. It had all been through imessage. I could not get back into my account. I tried several times over weeks and weeks, going to Apple stores and calling support. They would not give it back even though I proved that it was my account.  It was suddenly linked to someone else in the group and I didnt' have that person's password. 

I felt that I had to give in to all these demands. A was becoming increasingly annoyed at the situation and it was a threat that he would throw me out. I gave in and gave them everything eventually. There was a hard drive I kept, but they were demanding that also. I took that and transferred all my files to a new drive which I purchased from amazon, but this file what lost when I had a vehicle stolen a few weeks later. I had tried to buy a mobile home, an old camper. I didn't want to be on the street. But that was stolen and then just about everything was gone. I had no files left, no proof of anything that I had done,  of all the years of work I had done for them, for free. 

In the end of all this I have to say, I have only compassion for those people, most of all for my handler. And I know that people might feel outrage, but again, EVERYONE here was made a victim. Including the perpetrators. They all are being played and played. I love them. I will never stop loving them. And again, I AM NOT A SPIRITUAL PERSON in this sense. It doesn't mean that I overcame anything. All I did was to find the Truth. "And ye shall know the Truth, and the Truth shall set you free." Isn't that what it says? 

I found the TRUTH and that is the GRACE AND THE GLORY OF IT. 

Dear Reader,
Again I must emphasize, not to feel bad about anything I am saying. It’s all part of a larger story. Zoom out. I’m still here. I’m telling this story. The story is GRACE AND GLORY. We are all going to be ok, if and only if we can stop being emotionally triggered by things.
So never feel bad for me. I am good. I am not suffering. I have little logistical problems. I am not in pain. I cannot be in pain. Only when I forget this and give in to an emotion, and it is always triggered by FEAR FIRST. That is when I suffer. But it is a process of learning not to be afraid. That is the process. Once you learn that, you will be good. DON’T FEAR. All of this will go away as soon as you are not afraid. Next, I will tackle the concept of how this can be done.
I’ve decided to tell the rest of this story on my blog… FIND ME…

I am staring down a long passage. I am looking forward and back. There is seemingly no end to revelations. 

Yesterday, what was there? I remember at one point I stopped at the market to pick up some milk and bananas. I live on milk, bread, cheese and fruit. It's about all I eat. Oh, I added peanut butter to the mix and some organic apricot jam. And a friend gave some nuts. Friend. Strange word in this context. 

I stepped out of my old car. I have an old and a new car. I am one person and two cars. I like this old car. I got out and a man greeted me. I looked up just as he stood parallel to my car door and the market. I did not remember his name, but his friendly eyes peeking out over an immaculate and frightening face mask were familiar. 

Right now, as I write this, there is a slight pain, a discomfort. But I am trying to relax. I am trying not to make much of it. The man responded to me that his name is Jim. I said, "Oh, of course, how could I forget?" He said something conciliatory. I said, "But I should remember, because it's my brother's name." And I was remembering my brother then and that he is probably just about this man's age, or would have been, if he had not died, during this cooties outbreak, sometime last year, I think. I don't remember when it happened. 

How did it come? I said something, it came up, "I'm not there any more. I left last year." I knew him from the restaurant. I know everyone from the restaurant, actually. If I know them at all, it can only be from the restaurant, because there is no other group of people I can encounter, that I will know. I don't have friends. Friends were not allowed. I didn't have the luxury of friendship while working 365 days a year, 14-16 hours per day. "Congratulations!" he exclaimed. I was a little surprised. "You are the first person to say THAT to me!" 

Thereupon we were about to say our goodbyes but both of us hesitated and somehow and quite naturally Jim proceeded to invite me to meet him for a sandwich at Subway sometime. He actually said he wanted to buy me a sandwich. I hesitated and looked at him quite directly then, standing a bit closer. I said then, sure. Then he said, when. I said, ok, let's meet later today. He then agreed to meet at six down by the highway at the Subway which is located in an Arco station. 

After getting back in my car I was thinking, "what does he want?" The whole time he was standing there with that mask on and it was disturbing me, almost to the point of being distressed. It was the type of mask that sticks out somewhat. It has a seam down the front, vertically, and it reminds me of the type of mask seen in old paintings of the medieval depictions of the black plague. I must say, that was not pleasant, as I am quite a bit spooked by these sorts of images lately. But Jim's friendly and unpressurized demeanor gave some comfort. I didn't feel any threat. 

I went back to the house and was sitting in my room. I am staying with a friend. I stay here sometimes; I think this might be my third or fourth visit. I have stayed off and on since leaving the restaurant. How I came to stay here? I was walking in the park one day. I had been staying with A. and we didn't get along. He's Indian and he has a propensity to behave towards me as if he has the right to tell me what to do, and I have the propensity to resist being told what to do, from anyone, but especially from someone to whom I am not related, and who is young enough to have been my child. And especially not after having left an extremely controlling and abusive environment recently. I wasn't having it. I felt quite threatened by that sort of behavior. I had just walked out of a cult, after having been involved with them for the last, about 20 plus years. This particular branch of the cult had been my home and my working environment and my family for the last nine years. They run businesses in this small mountain community and are generally respected, even if the conservative Christians among the populace are less than thrilled about having a bunch of Hindus amongst them. 

So, yes, I was walking in the park that day, quite fraught with worry, quite distraught, unable to think. I was texting people I hadn't talked to in 30 or 40 years. Indeed, the day I left, the day I walked out, I had just gathered up some of my things and thrown them in the jeep. Not my jeep, the group's jeep. I was sitting in the house there, in the office, looking through my facebook account and couldn't decide what to do. It had been two days, I had not gone to the restaurant. I had eaten almost nothing, I had not spoken to anyone from the group and they had not spoken to me. It was odd. I had seen no one. I don't even know if they were still sleeping there. It was a shared room. I didn't have my own room. I was in an open area that I shared with someone else. I don't remember who it was. I just remember that they always had their eyes on me. I had no privacy. We were being watched all the time. I remember in the last couple of days there I had found a camera hiding behind the sheer curtain near my bed, pointed at me. I think I remember letting it slide off the window sill to the floor under my bed "accidentally". Why I left was simple. I had found out that what was happening was not right. I had to "find out". I didn't know. I didn't know that I was really being abused. Well, I knew it, but my feelings of guilt were not allowing me to break free. I somehow was being made to feel that it was all my fault, that my problems were causing all the difficulty I was having in the group. 

I used to go home and night and the last several weeks I was sleeping in. I had decided that I would just sleep in and not go in in the morning. I was tired. After six years of this I was done. A few weeks prior to this there had been another incident. Usually it was something simple. Someone would start to needle and I would react. Then they would try to climb on my head and I would again react and the situation would escalate. This time the person started to climb up on top, try to get the better of me and I heard myself saying, "No worries. I'll be leaving soon." 

We were supposed to be there by 6 am. The restaurant would open at six and if we came in at 6:01 or later, it meant that there would not be any breakfast. Then if perchance, we got busy and forgot to clean up the breakfast dishes, there would be no lunch either. Now, the person who was and still is at the center of this cult group, used to say often to the other members that "She is the same age as my own mother. It's really quite something that she stands here and runs around all day and keeps up with all of you, half her age." And I had been asking to have a day off now and again. I broke down in tears one day, which is really not my style, and said that I needed, I demanded, one day per week, one hour per day at lunch time and that I had to be able to leave and go home by 8 pm every day. That never happened. No, I would be there every night past ten. And of course this was my own fault. Right? There were always reasons why it couldn't be arranged. And that is why I started to just say, "Ok, I'm not going in this morning. There's no breakfast, sure. No big deal. I would rather sleep in and starve a little. No problem." That went on for a couple of weeks. But all this was not the reason I left ultimately. That was not enough to get me to leave. In fact, I always had thought that I would never leave. I could not fathom why people would leave. That seems all quite strange to an outsider. To work without pay for six years, more actually, and then to never get a day off, never get an hour to myself during the day, that was "normal". 

That wasn't the reason I left. And it wasn't also the physical abuse. That was happening on a fairly regular basis. I would be pushed, threatened, shoved, pinched, grabbed, yelled at, publicly shamed and so on. And provoked, provoked, provoked. That also, that was not the reason at all. No, it was something else that formed the final straw. The final straw was the incessant gaslighting. To be told every day that I am useless, that without these people, without this person who called herself the "Mother" I would be again homeless, that I am nasty. That sort of psychological torture I had endured for years. But then she turned her tack. And it was getting increasingly difficult to put up with. There were constant scenarios where I was left standing there wondering what the heck was going on. She would say something like, "Remember? I told you that XYZ..." And I didn't remember that. In fact, normally, I remembered something else, something quite different, and mostly opposite of what she was saying to me. Then there were the pills. 

She used to often say to me, "I don't know what's wrong with you." And she would act very concerned. She would say, I don't know what we are going to do about it. And she would allude to my "mental problems". Then one day one of the members of our group came to me and told me that he was taking Prozac and that it was helping him a lot and did I want to try it. He revealed to me that I should tell no one and that "she" had instructed him to tell me. I am not sure exactly how it went down. It was something like this. Then I think I went to her and we agreed that I would take it. She said that the young man would give it to me and instructed me to go to my primary care provider and tell him I  needed to take Prozac. She said she would call him. So from then on I was taking these anti-depressants. And then I started to take anti-psychotics also, because the anti-depressants were not doing it for me. That was weird, because I didn't really want to take an anti-psychotic. That reminded me too  much of my brother Jim, who had lived out much of his life in mental institutions. I just couldn't stand it. I could not think that I am really mentally ill. It didn't make any sense.

She would say, "you know, you are losing your memory. And I don't know what we are going to do. You are not getting any younger. How are we going to take care of someone with Alzheimers?" She used to say this type of thing all the time. She would cite examples of something I had supposedly forgotten. But I had not forgotten anything.  Nevertheless, I always felt insecure and the longer this went on, every  now and again I would think, well, if I WERE to lose my memory, I probably would not really know that I was losing it, would I? I would probably just THINK that I was fine, but I would be getting it wrong ultimately. Maybe I AM crazy. I mean, how can I really know? I would have these types of thoughts. But, really I didn't believe it. But I could not be sure. I couldn't really catch her in the lie. I just had to put up with it. 

Finally, it was all starting to become just too much. I mean it should have been clear to me earlier, but I assure you, I did not have any capacity to form a clear thought. And I am going to explain to you right now why that was. I still had enough intelligence to find a way out of the situation. I think it was my intelligence that made me resist over and over again. I resisted being dominated and pushed around and that is what was getting me in the most trouble. Some of the other members of the group used to observe how I was being treated by the leader, (now I call her  my "handler"), and they would emulate her actions. They felt they could push me, even physically, disrespect me, etc. There was one young man in particular who used to constantly needle, provoke and pick fights with me. On some occastions someone else in the group called him out about this behavior, but he didn't stop. He just kept on pushing and pushing. He used to say things to me when no one else could hear, such as, "Go ahead and hit me. I want you to. I want them to see you hit me. Do it. I want you to get thrown out of the group." This and many other types of things he used to do. But it wasnt' this. It was the gaslighting.

But the word "gaslight" didn't have any meaning for me until the last few weeks I was there. I had started to take my laptop computer with me to bed at night. I would cover up under the blankets and try not to be seen. If anyone would come into the house (my bed was close to the door), I would close it and leave it somewhere under my pillow until such a time as they would lie down and go to sleep. Then I would open it up again. I used earphones, so that no one would hear, and I turned the brightness way down. I slept right in front of the window, so I didn't want to be seen. I used to watch videos online. I would scroll around and just watch little things like cat and dog videos at first, just to relieve the tension, just to relax. Then one day I said, let me see if I am really sick. I started to just surf the net and try to learn about all kinds of mental disorders. I found a few symptoms here and there, mostly irritation, anger outbursts, depression, violence. I had been guilty of some of this, but I was still quite clear that it was by this time all being provoked heavily. I was trying my best to remain calm, but I was tired, I wanted a rest from the constant abuse. I could hardly keep my composure if I was heavily targeted. I really didn't see this as an indication of mental illness, unless you want to call it PTSD. But the P didn't really belong at the front. Because it was ongoing stress, not post stress. 

Not only did I not find any indication of a any mental condition on my part, I started to think that I was really quite ok. But what I did find really shocked me. I found that I was right in the middle of a group of people who were all involved in a dysfunctional marcissistic group phenomenon. It was unmistakabley so. And furthermore, I found out that what I was experiencing had been documented before many times and that there was a plethora of literature surrounding this type of situation. I found one vlog channel online and started to watch those videos. While watching those I realized that this is going to get me thrown out of the group. That caused some trepidation. It may sound odd to anyone who has never experienced it, but anyone who knows what it means to be brainwashed will understand. I thought that I was doing something wrong, otherwise why would I have hidden the computer? No, I thought that this was just me bringing my vibration down. After all, we were a spiritual group, weren't we? There was a way I was supposed to think. I was supposed to be grateful to this woman, my "handler", the cult's leader. She was doing everything for me, right? She was selfless and loving, right?  She was sacrificing so much, right? Wasn't she taking on all my karmas into her body? Isn't that why I was never sick and she always suffered and had to take so many pain meds? And here I was, so ungrateful. Living in her house and eating her food, and then hiding here at night with the computer, looking at these videos... 

Yeah.

But that is the way we think. I found out that there is a name for this. It's called the Stockholm Syndrome. But the thing that really REALLY opened my eyes was the Biderman's Index of Coercion . As I went down the list I found that I had experienced all of it, every last point. When I found that, it was a done deal. I was officially put on notice. This was all wrong; it could never last. 

Biderman's chart was developed, I think, after the Korean War. It was a study of POW behavior and a description of what made them cooperate with their captors, how they came to succomb to the dominance, and indeed explained at least partially why some POWs, after having been released, defected and returned to their captors. I had been brainwashed, indeed. This was the proof. The only thing left, the only thing still needed I received then one day and that became the "smoking gun" that led to my leaving the group. 

Now, reading down the list I see so many things I have not told: How she used to scream at me that we are all killing her, that she is going to "die like this". That was a threat that she would leave us alone, that we would not be able to make it without her. She never let any one of us do the shopping and she would bring anything we might need. If we said we need clothing, she would pick them out. Then if they didn't fit, I would be publicly shamed. If I did not like the things, I would be shamed if I said anything. I had to pretend to like them. Sometimes she would bring a little surprise. She would give expensive jewelry suddenly. One time she ignored my birthday entirely, where normally there would be a little celebration and a cake. One time she bought presents, a lot of presents, and made a huge show of wrapping them all, for everyone but myself, and made me sit there while they all unwrapped everything in front of me. That was the last Christmas I spent with the group. I got a card. If I ever talked to a customer for more than a minute I was scolded. People in the group were also isolated from each other. She used to "diss" people in front of me. And I am quite sure she poisoned their minds against me also. In fact, I know she did. She used to constantly tell me that she was much better than I. She used to emphasize that her state was much higher than ours, that she had reached some kind of enlightenment, and then she would say things to make us feel that we could never achieve that. She used to scream at us that she knew all our thoughts, everything was known to her, or that she ALWAYS would find out everything, even if we didn't tell her. She used to constantly upbraid us for falling short of her expectations. She used to say to us that we were just there because there was a warm bed and food, that we were not making any spiritual progress, that we were just passing our time. 

So, it was all there, and much more. Along with physical abuse and threats, forcing one to go a long time without rest, refusing to give food for petty omissions or small mistakes. And then suddenly giving some expensive and lavish gift. Scapegoating, plenty of that, and the constant gaslighting.

Then one day, she started again, but it turned out differently than it had before. She said to me, "You told B's grandmother not to come here!" I looked at her and then I said, "No." She said, "You know, you are losing your memory... you really don't remember things any more." I said, again, "No." She said, "Ok, well, B is standing right here. Why don't you just ask her?" Then, I am sure she was bluffing. And she did not expect me to do it. But I walked over to B who was standing just a few feet away and said, "Didn't I tell your grandmother that we all would really love to see her? Did I not say that we understood if she didn't want to come, but she was certainly welcome all the time?" and B confirmed this. I said, "Did I tell her not to come here?" and she answered, "No, you didn't say that." 

By this time my "handler" had flown the coup. She disappeared right away. I finished my shift that night and went to my room. But the next morning when I woke up I could not make up my mind to go back. I just lay in bed and thought, "No. No." Around 10 am or so the phone rang and I answered. It was D, my "roomie". He said, "Say, were you planning on coming in today?" (In six years I don't know if I missed more than one day, actually.) I said, "You know,... " but by this time "she" had taken the handset and was saying in a kind of fake sugary tone, "Hey, why don't you come down? Are you coming?.." And I said, "You know I don't really feel like coming." And she slammed the handset down. And I never did go back there to work. I did go back a few times later on, but that is another chapter. Those things happen. It's not always easy to make a clean getaway. 

Well, this got longer than I thought it would be. Actually, this is the thing I was talking about the other day when I said, I really don't want to write what I have to write. But in the  meantime so many other things have happened. And now it's easy to talk about it. Because what has  happened after that makes this pale by comparison. Life is really good. It's just. Things happen the way they are supposed to. Well, I am really not sure if that is true. In a sense it's true. In another sense, there is great injustice. But, for my part, I find that if I look at it from the first angle, I am just much better off on the whole. So, I try to see it that way. 

There is one last thing I want to say about this whole thing. The worst thing, the biggest crime perpetrated on the "victim" of any cult is, I feel, the necessity one has of developing a technique of self-deception called "cognitive dissonance". That is what scars one the most. It is the fact that one is forced to look at the situation through a kind of skewed eye all the time. One has to try always to massage the facts into some kind of coherence. But they don't ever match up. One has to break one's head to understand anything. It becomes a muddle, a confused jumble. One has to constantly make excuses for the abuser/handler. One has to find a way to justify what they are doing and to silence the inner voice that is sobbing somewhere and crying out that "This cannot be right." 

Biderman’s Chart of Coercion

1) Isolation: Deprives victim of all social support (for the) ability to resist. Allows victim to be present at all times to keep home environment stable and non-threatening. Makes victim dependent upon abuser.

2) Control or Distortion of Perceptions: Fixes attention upon immediate predicament; fosters introspection. Eliminates information that is not in agreement with the abuser’s message. Punishes actions or responses that demonstrate independence/resistance. Abuser manipulates through charm, seductiveness, etc. and becomes hostile when demands are not met.

3) Humiliation or Degradation: Weakens mental and physical ability to resist. Heightens feelings of incompetence Induces mental and physical exhaustion.

4) Threats: Creates anxiety and despair. Outlines abuser’s expectations and consequences for noncompliance.

5) Demonstrating Omnipotence or Superiority or Power: Demonstrates to victim that resistance is futile.

6) Enforcing Trivial Demands: Demands are often trivial, contradictory and non-achievable. Reinforces who has power and control.

7) Exhaustion: The abuser uses sleep deprivation to keep victim in a state of confusion. Weakens mental and physical ability to resist. Heightens feelings of incompetence. Induces mental and physical exhaustion.

8) Occasional Indulgences: Provides positive motivation for conforming to abuser’s demands. Victim works to “earn” these indulgences in an effort to increase self-esteem.

Dear Reader,

well, we need some comic relief badly here. The only thing I can think of is a joke I heard when the Berlin Wall was coming down.

I was in Berlin; I had just learned to speak German and I was enjoying telling this joke. As a child I never got to enjoy being listened to. I never got the feeling anyone wanted to listen or that anyone would laugh if I said something funny.


Hmmm... now not sure if I should tell this joke. Most people won't get ii, I fear. Forewarned.


In East Germany the leader at this turn of events was a man named Mr. H. I don't like to say his name.

The joke goes like this:

Mr. H dies. Because he was a bad man, he has to go to Hell.

The only thing is, there is an East Hell and a West Hell. (Just as on earth there was an East and a West Germany.)

So, when he goes down towards the underworld and arrives at the gate, the gatekeeper asks him to choose. Would he like to go to the East or the West part of Hell. Mr. H thinks for a few seconds and then declares to the gatekeeper, "well, might as well stick to the East." The gatekeeper then bids the former head of the German Democratic Republic to follow him to the Eastern part of Hell. "But first, Mr. H, please understand," says the gatekeeper to the underworld, "we much first go through the Western part of Hell before we arrive in the Eastern part of Hell. So, then they started off.

And it was truly horrible. Everywhere there was the acrid smell of burning flesh. There were people screaming and suffering unspeakable tortures such as thumbscrews, needles pushed under the fingernails and other horrors too terrible to describe. Mr. H was becoming more and more terrified with each step. Finally after a long time, the gatekeeper approached another iron gate. 

He banged on the gate and it slowly opened. When Mr. H stepped through the gate and emerged on the other side, slowly the smoke cleared from his eyes and he could dimly see after he had wiped the tears from his eyes when the burning stopped. 

Suddenly all around him on the floor he saw people sitting and playing cards with each other. He was more shocked than relieved. Someone sitting near the gate looked up and said, "Oh, there you are, it's you. Finally made it, huh?" 

Mr. H was still speechless. The man who spoke to him then realized that the former head of state was confused and finally said to him. "Ah, you know, Mr. H, East Hell isn't really anything like West Hell. We often run out of coal and the fire goes out and brimstone gets cold; sometimes we don't have any thumbscrews available and needles have to be imported and are very expensive. But we are writing a new 500 year plan that should adjust for it. Never fear... in the meantime, just have a seat..." 
=====================================

So, this was perhaps the first joke I told in German and it was a grand success and got a lot of laughs. 

Now, I am thinking about this problem. In my life there was one theme that ran through my whole childhood and adult life and was very, very constant, up until now. Somehow, finding out that my mother was a floozy and that everything that had happened in my childhood suddenly made sense and that there was an explanation. For some reason the guilt factor has receded. I told my friend today that whereas before I had experienced maybe 50 or 60 percent guilt feeling underlying my thoughts and feelings, it has gone down to about 10%. 

Suddenly there is relief and I have to tell about it now. I have to investigate what happened that I suddenly don't feel bad about things any more. 

Hence, in the next installation, I will explain how this all came to be. 

Dear Reader,
There has a been a break in the story. Several volumes of information have come down the pike. I was feeling it needed, desperately needed, to be told, but alas, how can one live one’s life and write it at the same time? However, now I feel there is enough of a feeling of closure, that it can be told. It can be told and it will be much better this way. It would not have been a good time to write, because the thing was not whole yet, not rounded out.

It's been how many days? Since the world spun upside down and locked in position. That's hard to know. In order to say that you have to say how many times it has happened lately. Nevertheless, this is a big one. This time.

I remember my familial home. There used to be a tree. And I think maybe it's not even there anymore. But in my mind I see it so clearly. It's a giant old black walnut tree. It grew tall and straight up to the sky with branches leaning to one side or the other and on one branch that pointed in the direction of the street was fastened a rope. At the end of the rope was a swing. I don't remember ever sitting on that swing, but it seems I must have played there. Probably it is the phenomenon of having something and taking it for granted. You don't play with it, you possess it and that's why you don't really use it.

Around the base of the tree were planted Lily of the Valley. I remember their green leaves growing up from the soil in pairs and the little white blossoms. It all grew inside a ring of bricks. The perfume. That was my sister's favorite smell. "Muget des Bois". It was a perfume you could buy at the local department stores in the town. Wolf and Desauer was the main department store, that is, until LS Ayres moved into the new mall north of the town. Town centers were starting to die out in the late sixties and early seventies. These mega centers were taking over everywhere.

Two of these came to our farming community. What the northern one was called, I can't remember. There was one also to the south called "Southgate". Not far from there was also a strip mall. Strip malls had always been commonplace. And the southern strip mall I remember as being quite large also. But Southgate outstripped the strip mall also. They were huge and modern and new. And they were designed to take over the imagination of every young person. There we went to spend days just going through stores. It was inside, air conditioned with everything one needed to spend a day. We all know the malls now. Back then, it was a new concept. I never bought anything in those stores, hardly ever. I remember two trips there which stand out. But it's not that interesting now.

The thing is, my sister, the one who loved the Muget des Bois scent, she lives there, not far from that mall. And this is odd, I suppose. Well, not that she lives there, but that I should even know where she lives. We never speak. That is not meant in the normal way. People say that of their relatives often. We don't talk. Well, in this case, literally we have never had a conversation. Never. Not one time in my life. Not when I was growing up, except that, I do remember that she is the one who explained the birds and the bees. I said "yuck", if I remember correctly. And there was another time I woke up and she was choking me out. I was seven and I think I had gotten into her makeup and put on some green eye shadow. That is the extent of our conversations that I can remember, until last week.

Up until last week, I had never had a conversation with my sister who is nearest me in age. I was sitting in my car and I felt such an agony of spirit. I didn't know what to do, whom to call. There was such isolation. What the citizens of our great land and those of other countries have experienced recently in these last two years, that has been my life. The isolation, I mean. No one speaks to anyone else. That's how it is. Now, I am the type of person, I always liked to talk. When I was growing up, I mentioned it already, I wanted to entertain my siblings with a little story and was always told to can it. That training had its affect on me, I guess.

There was a feeling that I wanted to talk to my mother. But she is gone now ten years. The next best thing would be a sister. And as luck would have it, "luck", the oldest of us had fallen and broken her upper thigh bone. So, whenever someone dies or some un-lucky thing happens, there is someone who reaches out and normally it is No.1. But this time it was No.1 who was the subject of the missives. So, No.7 reached out to me, No. 8. On FB. That was ten days back, and I kept her warm that time for about 20 minutes or as long as it seemed to be comfortable and she was happy to accommodate. Asking questions, how many cats do you have? (She loves cats.) And then just playing around and making jokes. So, there was a prececent for me to get back to her and I had warned her at some point that I would call on the phone. All this time I am not really conscious of the fact that I have never, ever spoken to this person before. This person who as my next sister in line and with whom I shared a common bedroom, and whom I should somehow know better. But in my family it was like that. We lived in the same house and we didn't know each other. Not at all.

And I used to tell people about this. "My family is weird." I didn't know what to make of it and it was just somehow natural for me. My family is odd. I would tell people about it. Like, I have never held a conversation with my father. Never. Not once. No. Literally never. I told people, (I am like the wolf-child). I grew up like an animal. They gave clothing and food. But they didn't waste words. No. Nothing doing. Words were apparently a very expensive commodity. Except for blaming and making someone miserable. There was enough of that to go around. Other than that, well, there was nothing. It sounds like I am complaining. But I am not really a complainer type. Yeah, I learned this negative stuff. I learned to think negative. I learned to struggle and I learned that nothing made sense. That much.

So, this night, I had driven to the valley from the mountains. I was "off the hill" as we say. And I was sitting in a parking lot in my car tucked in somewhere with the sun shades in the front, where no one could see. I was struggling. I was trying to figure it out. Again, nothing makes any sense. What the heck? And a feeling overcame me, I have to talk to Mother. But what to do? It took a good bit of doing to screw up my courage and dial the number. I was hoping the husband wouldn't answer the phone. He didn't. There was a female voice on the other end. I didn't recognize it, but the sardonic comment that I had the wrong number betrayed the fact that I had gotten through. It was her, No. 7. I said "No, this is No. 8". She said, "Oh, I didn't recognize your voice." Well, how could she? We had seen each other last time at 1983 Golden Wedding anniversary of our parents. And no, we had not had a conversation at that juncture either. In fact, any of us only ever spoke to our mother, and very rarely there would be a kind of liaison between perhaps 2 or 3 of the siblings, which would last a few years and then dissolve over some misunderstanding or other.

This time we talked, just shooting the bull. It went on for some time. I just milked it. I kept milking it. I kept going and going and letting her talk and she got all her stuff out and then we got to talking about the real stuff. I mean, I finally just said, I'm done. I can't go on. I'm stuck. Then she let it slip. Actually it was Joe. In the background I hear him talking, "Tell her about the time..." and she did.

Yeah, before that she was talking about "my mother... (pause) our mother" and she said, "She was a bully." A few days prior in a chat I had taken exception to this statement, saying, "well, you go and have nine kids and let's see how you do," but today, somehow, I don't know how, but I knew better. I just let her talk. I don't know what was bothering her. Still I don't know, because No.7 was part of the first family, the youngest. And I was the oldest of the 2nd family. What did I know? And I was about to get my first lesson about the dynamics of large families, and it was a doozy.

Now, thinking about it, I don't want to really talk about it. Sis and I haven't spoken in over 50 years. We haven't ever spoken technically. You can't say we have ever had a conversation in our entire lives. But the thing that came next you could never have guessed.

"Our Daddy" is not my father. He was not my dad. I'm sitting here, I just applied for and got a pension. And my whole life was a struggle. It never made any sense. I would look at it from this side, from the other side. I would turn it over and over. It never added up. Suddenly, everything added up. It was all clear. And now I am wondering, did they all know? Did they all always know and not a one of them tell me? And it almost seems that they did, to judge from their behavior. They all knew and they were silent.

It's strange, we used to go to the supermarket and I saw the tabloids on the racks in front of the cash register. There were the gossip rags and then there were the really raunchy ones. And now, come to find out, our family life was like something out of one of those really bad ones. I remember reading when I was a little girl about a father who gets his own daughter pregnant. And just in the few minutes while I am standing at the cash register waiting for my mother to pay for the groceries. And I put it right back. Even that young it was clear to me that this was not a good "diet" for a young mind. But our life was apparently like that, and I had no idea.

And much more ironic is how I hung on to my mom; how my whole life I was trying to please her and she was just trying to be rid of me. Most of the time, she was like, you know, trying to extricate herself from spending time with me. I remember so many things, so many, that had never made sense and finally I got it.

It was SO odd. I was beautiful. I got good grades in school. I was a good kid, didn't cause too much trouble, probably didn't cause ANY trouble by comparison. I did mostly what I was told. But there was something there that just stood in the way. I could never figure it out; why doesn't my mom like me? What is it? And I even detected jealousy, and when I was 17 she was SO anxious to have me move out. It was such a puzzle for me. Why did she not like me? Why did I love her so much?

So this is the "True Confessions" part of the story that I never dreamed would have to be told. My Lord, I never thought that the reality of my life was akin to a tabloid article. But it was. Every day since I have found this out, now a little over a week ago, I wake up and think of this situation and ask myself, is this real? Did this really happen? Maybe I am just imagining it? But then I am reminded that it just makes too much sense, since suddenly I have figured out why we were so "low class"; why everything was the way it was. I had always felt a kind of nobility about my parents. I had always felt that they were really "good" people. They went to church. My father was always a deacon in the church. They were respected in our community. But then the pattern didn't match. The pattern of our life was in stark contrast. They acted a certain way, but now, obviously, the facts betray what was really happening.

Yes, you would think, if a person has a child who is intelligent and has potential that the parent(s) would be happy, proud. More than this, you would think that they would care enough to make little corrections now and again, offering advice as to how to climb up higher along the way. In my case, I didn't even really think about this. It was just "that's the way they are." That was the only story I could tell myself. "My family is weird." That was all there was. No other explanation was possible.

What I mean here is that when I say they never talked to me, I really mean NEVER.  I remember having had only ONE conversation with my "father" in my entire life. I grew up in his house. I saw him every day. The same goes for my mother more or less. The only reason there were more conversations with my mother was the fact that I worked at it. I really tried with her. But it was like pulling teeth.

It seems really like too much here. I could write a whole book about my childhood at this point. Really, since I found this out, I went out and just sat by the beach in my car for about a week. I just sat there, kind of numb in a way. And if I ever thought about my family, it would be little memories floating up to the surface that all just confirmed to me that this is a fact of life, and that they probably, very probably, ALL my siblings and perhaps other relatives, knew about it; and not one said a word to me.

Dear Reader, at this point the story is becoming a bit trying for me. And I suspect if I am having trouble writing it, you might be also having trouble reading it. So, I feel like we really need some levity here, some comic relief. But since the notes section isn’t big enough, I’m going to put it at the beginning of the next chapter.

I feel somewhat that the last chapter has been cheated, having not quite lived up to it's "title". 

So, here: This past summer I spent a few days down south of LA. I never would have ended up down there had it not been for a particularly twisted circumstance, which would take much too long to describe here. Let me just cut to the chase (ah, I love that particular idiom). I was driving ride shares. I love to drive. I haven't spoken of that aspect just yet. Anyway, cars, cars, cars... wheels, transportation. Get out and just go. Yay. I love it. So, when I am feeling trapped, I just run. "Fun, fun, fun, till her Daddy takes the G-Ter awaaaaayyyy-ayyyy." 

I was happy to drive people, but I became aware quickly that it was pretty unfair. I once drove a couple 30 minutes across LA over a major freeway and the pay was 15 dollars. I was stunned. I thought, wait a minute. Because that was before paying for gas, insurance or car payment or TAXES. So, it didn't make any sense. It was a pittance. 

Like I said, I picked up five people in a hispanic neighborhood. They were all dressed in black and they made a very somber impression upon me. No one spoke a word, not even one word. I thought, it must be a funeral. I am taking them to a funeral, someone must have died. But no, where did we end up? Anaheim, Disneyland. It was the first time I had been back there in over fifty years. I did not recognize the place at all. That night I decided to park up and the next day I just drove food deliveries. I drove food all over Anaheim and soaked in  the sunshine and warm weather. 

When I'm in the car I spend a fair amount of time in and out of supermarkets. That's the only place you can go sometimes. I mean to the bathroom. Because of cooties. The cooties-19 thing. Restaurants have shut down. You end up driving through the drive-thru more often then not. Gas stations won't let you. They all put up signs saying "out of order". So, I stop at grocery stores. They can't really shut down their restrooms. They can lock them, but you just ask someone and they have to tell you the code. So, walking through the grocery store and I see these magazines. Groceries are so perverse I find. There are about two or three items in the whole store that I can eat. And I am not really exaggerating a lot. I eat some fruit; I buy milk, sourdough bread if it's non-GMO; and I used to buy a lot of hummus. But it's hard to find the right crackers because I found that any GMO product, and it's all GMO if it doesn't say it's not, any GMO food gives me a stomach ache right away. 

I had to expand a bit and start buying cheese. I don't actually like cheese but I got used to eating it again. I had to. There just isn't anything else in the whole damned (and I do mean "damned" in the literal sense, not the four-letter word sense) market. The whole infernal grocery store is full to the brim and overflowing with trash, food that will just make you sick. If it will make me sick, I am sure that it will make anyone sick. I feel it right away, perhaps because I have kept my body more or less pure as long as I can remember. I don't eat any junk. I was raised that way. My mother NEVER bought chips or dips or any kind of junk. And that is what she called it. She said it's Junk. Recently it just kind of occurred to me that here is a grocery store that is supposed to sell food, but a goodly portion of this real estate is taken over by drugs and pharmaceuticals, then there are banks inside the supermarket, too. And then there is a whole section of just gossip mags. What is there to eat there? For me, nothing. Then there will be a Starbucks. Then the key kiosk machine things, and the automat where you can turn in your coins and so on and, you can rent movies. The grocery store tries to be everything and doesn't sell all that many groceries in the end, or only as an afterthought.  So, I don't know what to do in there. 

So, right after the night of the smooth DJ voice telling me all about how Hollywood has taken over producing your reality for you I spot a magazine on Disney. I pick it up and flip it open and right there I see that moustachioed "gentle"man. And he is behind a desk with these little models of spaceships. Tiny space ships. Tiny models. Like he built Neuschwanstein in a model size, reduced size and they changed the perspective of the build so that it gives this impression that it is much taller than it actually is. They literally used perspectivistic strategies to make a visual illusion with a three-D model in the same way they would have done with a 2-D picture. Hard to describe in words. But if you watch the docu's you will get it. 

I guess that guy was nuts about space. But in view of what I found out that night and thinking about all the things you hear about space travel, and the moon landings, etc. to see him standing there all puffed up and proud-looking next to the little tiny models of SPACESHIPS... well... what can I say? And I caught one of the austronauts who landed on the moon in one interview where the host was saying, so you landed on the moon on such and such a day and the "astronaut" said, "We never went to the moon." I guess he was about to die soon. The host corrected him and pretended it was a joke and they carried on. 

This just a bonus posting in between the main story installments, because I actually REALLY don’t want to tell what I HAVE to tell next.

Did I say that I had been recently "red-pilled"? But good! Yeah, my whole world just started to crumble right in front of my eyes.

What was it? I don't remember how it turned up. I just surf around the internet and stuff turns up... On this particular session something came up. Oh, it said something really, really strange. Sometimes a title of a video catches my eye and I start listening and then I just turn it off. This time I started the video and I was seeing these pictures and then there was a kind of hypnotic "late-night DJ voice" of this guy down in Texas.

I was watching and couldn't make heads or tails of what I was seeing and then it started to sink in and I was just floored. There are a couple of things I want to tell everyone before I reveal what I was watching that night.

The first thing is, and this is something that everyone should know. EVERYONE should know this. And it's not up for debate. Not at all. There is a guy I like to watch/hear sometimes. He is a Stanford professor of Neurology and, I think, Ophthalmology. He was once a drug addict, boozer, crackhead kid. Somehow he got off the sauce and started to get an education and since then he is just studying how the brain works. He has these videos about how the brain works, how the brain functions chemically. I THINK that's where I picked this up. Not really sure, but it makes total sense to me. You see, he says we are nothing but chemistry. Our lives, our memories, our feelings and our beliefs are all controlled by chemicals in our brains.

I don't argue with people any more and I don't try to convince anyone of anything at all, if I can avoid it, since I heard this man explain the following detail about cerebral chemicals. He said that one of the functions of dopamine in the brain is to reinforce belief systems. Whenever you say something or do something that reinforces whatever you believe in, WHATEVER it may be; it doesn't have to be true. That is the POINT. It can be wrong, it is PROBABLY wrong. But if you believe it and if you do something to reinforce that belief, give a speech, have an argument where you defend your position, think about what you believe, or act according to this cherished belief, you get a hit of dopamine in the brain. Hence, we are all DRUGGED into following our beliefs, naturally drugged.

This has far-reaching consequences. If I can control the schools and I can control the workers, and I can control the NARRATIVE, the precious narrative; if I can control all the conditions whereby people make up their minds about what is TRUE, then I can get a whole army of people behind any given line of thought. So, I have to control what is accepted as true. As soon as I can control a narrative somewhere, in some particular instance, I have an edge. Then I can go on to try to capture another position of the narrative and then another and on down the line. Over a given number of years, or throughout a given number of generations, I can control everything, literally everything. That is what you call power, isn't it. Because, once a person makes up their mind to believe something, then I'm home free. The system is pretty much self-sustaining. I don't have to work quite as hard to change their mind about anything. Once they are falling into line, I just have a little maintenance work. Suppress the truth over here, demonize a few doctors and scientists over there, perpetuate a few lies and myths on this side, and etc. ad nauseum.

Then there is the tactic of fostering opposite sides of any given question in order to weaken a populace generally. Make them fight each other. I don't have to believe anything at all. I simply believe that I should be in control of everything and then I can set people up to hate each other, to be at each others' throats, and again, once I have set up the undertone of aggression in any particular society, I can just do a little maintenance now and again and every generation or so, I switch back and forth from one side to the other. Or I can do it openly in a shorter period of time, for all to see. First I'm a liberal, then I can espouse conservative views, then I can back off again and go lib. I can do whatever I want. I can build up one side, like, say Trump, then I can go on and build up the other side, like say, some liberal candidate. I don't have to really believe anything. I don't have to be political at all. I just want the money and the power. I do whatever it takes to hold on to those. If I'm at the top, I just have my minions do that work. I sit back and rake in the money and get drunk on the power. Easy peasy.

The fact that the brain works to support this, that makes my job easy. I can manufacture the lies and spread them through all sorts of channels and then just sit back. So, the way dopamine works, that makes it easy to do.

I went with my parents once on a cross country trip. I must have been around 9 years of age. Again, I can see the family pictures in my mind quite clearly. They only exist there. I have lost all the copies, but I see absolutely clearly, in the western United States somewhere on a lonely stretch of highway, there are mountains in the distance. My younger brother and I are standing near a fence. The grass is kind of high around our ankles. I am looking at the camera. My brother is looking off into the distance. It is a beautiful sunny day. The fields behind the fence go on for miles. I am wearing a little outfit made for me by sister #2. Green with little tassels on it.

We were on our way to the West Coast to drop off my older brother at boot camp. You can google it, there was an airline strike. My oldest brother, #5 in the the lineup, had enlisted to go to Vietnam. That was a "mistake". He thought his number was going to come up. That he would be drafted, and if you were drafted you had to serve longer than if you just enlisted. In fact, his number didn't come up. But he had enlisted and he had to go. I am trying to remember where we took him. It was somewhere on the West coast. I don't remember where it was. So, we were on our way. After we dropped him off we continued on down the coast to see my sister, I think. I think she lived in Southern California at that time. I am not 100% sure. I just remember that we ended up at Disneyland. My mother or more likely my sister had sewn a cute dress for me. There was a matching little headscarf and I was supposed to be dressed up like Alice in Wonderland. I had that type of look anyway. Little blonde kid. Pretty good looking little girl. I remember that dress. I remember being at Disneyland and riding on the rides, seeing the presidents and all these crazy statues in a dark hall full of historical figures, who moved (if awkwardly) and gave little speeches. I don't remember tons about Disneyland. I do know, my Mother loved the castle, the one that was based on Neuschwanstein in the South of Germany. I tried to take her there much later in life, but it didn't work out, unfortunately. I remember the exhibit of "it's a small small world" with a lot of dancing figurines. Those pictures didn't turn out that well. Perhaps that is why I don't remember that much about Disneyland. The pictures didn't really turn out that well.  What I remember is what I looked at over and over again after we came back, what I was able to see again and again in photo albums.

Now I am struggling to remember what I wanted to say. I really should make notes for myself. But I don't. I just sit down and start to write. One thing I wanted to talk about was a book I had read as a young woman. The author is Mary Daly and the book was called, "Gynecology". The author divided the book into five parts. Five ways women had been tortured or hounded or the five ways genocide had been practiced against women. I remember two of these things. One was the Chinese custom of wrapping feet. Another was the witch burnings in Europe, where about 9 million women were burned at the stake. I should really remember the other three atrocities, but I don't. At some point I will remember it. Well, that was back in the days of bra-burning. Funny that now I just don't wear that "foundation garment", as it is just too terribly uncomfortable. I don't see the point to it. Yes, I remember the women's lib movement. But, now I look at "history" much differently than I ever have before. I used to be skeptical. I used to be wary. But I had no idea how much of it was being, is being faked. I just didn't know. No one knows. That book had had a huge impact on my thinking as a young woman.

It's just impossible to know history, you see, because there are people, people who control the narrative. They say that the victors write the history books. But it goes even much deeper than that. They not only write the books, actually they don't really write the books, they get someone else to do that for them. No, they control history in the making. They control what is viewed as true, as happening at any given moment in time. Then they don't really have to write the books. Books can be written, arguments made, varying versions of what happened put up for general review and speculation. And NONE OF IT is true, nothing happened at all. Or what really happened never comes out. NEVER. The victors are defined by certain people who are in control of what we see, what we think, what we think we know. How do we know anything? Because there are people who are very, very busy constructing realities for us to consume. And we very gratefully consume these realities. We take in all the ideas they present to us, and it becomes our truth. Ever see "Wag the Dog"?

The people who control the narrative... the narrative. This is the word that I keep hearing, over and over again lately. They say the narrative is crumbling. But now I am starting to figure out... It only crumbles if they crumble it. They are so much in control. We can't even guess how deep the rabbit hole goes. If we knew, we would be so shocked, for one. And for two, we wouldn't be able to tell anyone about it. We would be ABSOLUTELY ALONE. On our own. Unable to connect to anyone. Unable to make anyone know or understand what is really happening. Yes, I'm the crazy one now. I'm certifiable. I'm isolated. I'm the "conspiracy theorist". It's what they want. They have me right where they need me now.

What was the thing I was watching? I was watching someone exposing how "they" make history. The man with the late-night DJ voice was showing how an actor, someone who he had positively identified, someone born within the last 30 years or so, was becoming part of "history", part of the past. A whole life history for him was being "narrated" into existence, and he had his picture taken in uniforms from WWII. They invented a person to have supposedly lived during the second world war, and this man was providing himself as the model for that person.

Yeah, you could say I am certifiable now. Now, why do I believe that? Well, I must be a bit helpless here. My dopamine might be providing me with a little boost. But I am not sure about that. Definitely I am sure that our government and those they are in bed with mess with our heads. Big time. But, in this case, literally my world was coming tumbling right down. That was, of course, not the only video, not the only proof, not the only incidence I saw. There was a lot more. It goes much deeper, is intensely shocking and disturbing. But to me it made sense. I am not going to go into it here. It's too nuts. But I will say that after that day I went on my way and everywhere I looked I could see supporting evidence, things just seemed to fall into line with that little tidbit of interesting factual history about the way our minds are being manipulated. It was there all around me. The late night DJ was showing how actors were used, are used, have been being used, throughout, well "history", that it has been going on for much much longer than any of us have guessed. He was proving it. I walked away from that, I stumbled away from that proof. And I went out and started to do my own research and it was quite startling what I came up with. That is how it is when you finally find the truth. The questions all kind of dissolve. The wondering stops. The whole puzzle starts to make sense. You see it everywhere. You can't go back. You are out of the Matrix now.

Did I say somewhere that I like scifi? Yes, I did. And did I say that I liked "The Matrix"? I don't think I said that yet. Well, I used to watch that movie every day. At some point I had it on a disc of some kind and it ran on my desktop computer while I worked. I had my own business in Berlin making soap. I had a little studio on a streetcorner near the S-Bahn in the middle of Berlin. This particular little corner was situated in what was called "Die Rote Insel", the red island. It was so named because there were a lot of communists who used to live there or it was associated with them in some way, back in the day. And strangely enough, it was just across the street from a very famous "Friedhof" or cemetary where the Brothers Grimm are laid to rest and where several other well known people are buried. I don't remember the name of the little cemetery. You can google it.

I used to make soap and I would take it to the Wochenmaerkte (the weekly markets) and sell it. I had been living alternately in Germany and in India. I went back and forth between Berlin and the ashram in Tamil Nadu. That was around 2002 or so. So, The Matrix came out when? In the nineties sometime, and I was struck by the movie. Everything about it fascinated me. I used to watch it over and over again and sometimes it would just run on my desktop. Right now I am thinking of the scene where Neo is taken out of the Matrix and lifted up into the ship. There he is put in an operating theater and the electrical connections along his arms and back etc. are mostly taken out of his body, except for the one at the back of the head which is needed to periodically plug back into the matrix. I remember the scene where he says to Morpheus, "Why do my eyes hurt so much?" and Morpheus answers, "Because you have never used them before." and shortly thereafter at some point there is a scene where Neo finally catches up to what is really happening. He starts to wretch. He loses his cookies right then and there and starts to shout at everyone to leave him alone, to stand back, not to touch him etc.

That is just the way I felt. That is the way I felt that day. But this had been buffered in my case by something that happened a few months earlier. I guess my life was just destined to be like that. You see, this is not the first time that I had watched as my world just came crumbling down around my ears. What to speak of a narrative crumbling...? Everything I held to be true was suddenly turned to dust in front of my eyes. You can only compare it to the scene where they first plug Neo back into the Matrix again after he has been pulled out of it. Then he is in the totally white room. There are a few chairs and Morpheus explains to him that for the Machines, he is, indeed all humans are, nothing but a battery. I think that is where he goes crazy and comes out of it and starts yelling at them. Because he felt the connection on the back of his skull and then in the Matrix again, he touches the back of his neck and he cannot feel it. But he knows that he could feel it a few seconds before. He can't figure out what is real, and someone is showing him that everything that was real for him until very recently, is quite fake. He can't handle it.

But by this time in my human career, this time around, I have been through this "house of cards falling down" process multiple times. It has happened more than once. I can't accept anything as true. I don't know what my name is. I don't know why I am here. I don't know what life means. I have been living in this condition since I was a tiny little kid. This brings me to a whole new chapter and I have to say, what I need to write about next, I would rather not even mention. But I have to go there. I have to tell the whole story. But it's just too nuts. No one will believe it, and yet, that is what I have in my memory. I can only say, these things exist in my memory.

But like Neo, I don't know, now I don't know, if I can at all trust any memory. I don't know. I don't know if I lived it or if someone convinced me that I lived it. It's not possible to really know, until you are enlightened perhaps. And what hope is there of reaching enlightenment? That is the question.

Dear Reader, please keep in mind the following, I am really “nuts”. I was made crazy. My brain was “fried” when I was little. I cannot trust the contents of my mind. I am just telling you, this is what I “re-member” what I am putting back together. I am putting it all back together like a puzzle. I am trying to tell the story, because I am sure I am not alone. I am not the only person whose mind was messed with, messed up, in this way. I am hoping that this will help someone. Otherwise, it is just too painful to dredge it all up. No, but it must be told. We have to begin to share the truth with each other. The truth of our lives. What we have experienced. What we experience, that is all we can call true.

I have very few pictures left from my family or my childhood at all. But there are some images that are indelibly etched in my memory. One of these is a picture of me, taken when I was about a year old, standing under the Christmas tree. I was a year, or two at the most. I think I must have been two. I remember pictures of me when I was a year old. At that time I still had dark hair. Strangely I was born with black hair. Thick black hair. But by the time I was two I was a full tow-head, as blondes were once called. 

In this picture there is such a look on my face. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. I don't want to spend more than twenty words on that picture right now. I am just going to say, there was probably something very wrong in my family. That is not the look you expect to see on a two year old child. If you see the eyes you know that the child is quite stressed. Something is just not right. But my parents never fought. My sister, #2, told me years later that my mother used to beat me black and blue. I have no memory of it. What I did remember much later in life, I don't really want to talk much about here. Let's just say, it's not something a two year old child should be able to remember. A two year old should not be able to recall that type of picture.  And I didn't until I was about thirty years old. The human ability to forget and to remember things is quite remarkable. 

I remember also having memorized a very long poem, "The Night Before Christmas". That was when I was just four years old. My parents wanted to show me off and boast to their friends. At a Christmas dinner at a clubhouse in a nearby park our church was celebrating. My father gave me a little push and stood me up in front of all the adults and told me to declaim the poem. I only got as far as the first line and fell completely silent, stage struck. Thankfully, that never repeated itself. I was never asked to recite a poem again. 

These are just little things, memory is strange, as I have been saying. 

There are a couple of things that happened in my early years that did have a great deal of influence on my young life. One thing that happened was so tragic and so strange at the same time. I never really knew what to make of it. My sister lost her husband, the one with the movie star looks. He had been quite tall, 6'5". We young children, myself and my brother and my nephew and two nieces (who were my age, the children of my oldest sister who is 21 years my senior), we all used to play with him when my sister was in town with her new little family. I remember the last time. We were running around the dining room table and he was reaching out with his long arms and catching us. We were all giggling. I was five that time. Well, he died. My sister was 23 at the time. Her children were 3, 2, and six months old. Two boys and the baby a girl. I am not sure I want to go into it here. The way he died was so strange. I have never heard anything like it before or since. He was a military man. Independently of me, my next older sister and I both decided that he had been assassinated. By our government. We both held that belief. We never spoke about it. Years later she said off-handedly in a conversation, that she had received confirmation about her suspicions from someone she had met, who told her he had been living on the military base at the time the so-called "accident" had taken place. And that it had not been an accident. 

I always thought about him. For years and years I had conversations with him in my head. I always imagined that he was not dead, that I was talking with him or that I was seeing him walking through the doorway into the room. His death made a great impression on us. And even as children we were not ready to accept "the narrative". 

The other thing that happened, that was also quite formative. My brain was fried and I lost half my thymus gland, when I was eight. I was given 14 vaccines in the space of 14 days. It changed me, to say the least. Later I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease. I always wondered what the heck had happened. I changed. My light temperament turned quite dark. After that I struggled with depression, frustration, anger. Well, who knows? I just always thought that this changed me. I did end up in hospital with lumps all over my arms. Apparently the immune system was fighting with something. But they never associated it with the shots I had gotten. Thank god they didn't cut me open as they had threatened to. Later I learned to stay away from doctors and to try to stay out of hospitals. The lumps eventually settled down. I remember the two weeks spent in hospital. It was one of the most hideous things I have ever gone through in my life. 

Later on, again, I heard that the US Army had flown over my home town and disbursed some type of disease in the air over us with some type of particles that could be traced. That was in 1963, right around the same time my brother in law had died. They were collecting data on how many people got sick and how far the fluorescent particles had traveled. Dirty government tricks were an early part of my life. So, from the beginning I was sensitized in a particular way. I was always a bit skeptical of what was really going on. It was never a stretch for me if someone told me that our government was not to be trusted. And now people want to call someone like me a conspiracy theorist. Well, that's just fine. Anyway, it should be quite easy to dismiss all of this as a deranged type of fiction if you read the first installment, right? I'm crazy, right? Let's just hope that I am then. 

One family joke I could always remember but I never "got" it until much later. My brothers and older sister used to stand me up at parties and gatherings in front of guests and say, Ok, spell "independence" and I would stand there and spell it out and everyone would laugh. I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-C-E I would say and then they would laugh and I would go away to play again. I was three. It only became clear to me later. I was so independent. I never wanted anyone to touch me. I would bathe myself, dress myself. No wonder then. If it's true that happened, what I think happened, between me and my older brother. He had had polio. And I am assuming he had gotten plenty of shots. He was never right in the head after that either. My oldest brother said he was never right in the head. But I don't know. And the fact that there was abuse and plenty of fear and plenty of fights and ugliness? That didn't stop me from loving him or being so confused when he went into the mental hospital when I was thirteen. They gave him heavy drugs, like thorazine. I remember that he tried lots of different drugs, but they all had really bad side effects. The only thing I remember that helped him was the vitamin therapy. But by then he didn't want to take pills. No wonder he didn't want pills. I can't imagine what it was like to live in mental institutions. We only have "One flew over the cuckoo's nest" to tell us anything about that life. I went to see him several times, but never could connect to him, when he was incarcerated. 

In any case, it's no wonder I learned a sharp distrust of doctors and our government at an early age. And now, what do you know? Here we are. And I'm a conspiracy theorist. For me, everything is backwards, upside down and inside out. You know? That was just my conditioning. And now, at the end of a long and tortured life, he was the first of the nine kids to die... they say he died of covid. I don't know whether to believe it. 

Dear Reader,

I’m going to attempt to tell another joke.

This is one that originally was told to me in German at the end of the period of time when Berlin and Germany were split into two.

It has nothing to do with the above post, but it’s the only joke I know to tell right now… Oh, no, let me tell another joke. This was in a book called “Totally Tasteless Joke Book”. It’s full of dead baby jokes. I never liked those, but, at the time, this one amused me a great deal. Now, I don’t know if I would still find it as silly as I once did.
I was once bitten in the face by a big black German shepherd dog. I never liked dogs after that. I was four at the time.

So, this joke used to just kill me.
What do you do with a dog with no legs?

Take it for a drag. (with apologies to dog lovers, I love dogs now, too.)

Dear Reader,

I know the place for the note to the reader is down below, but just here I do feel to write a small disclaimer. Yesterday I slept most of the day. I went to sleep after I sort of collapsed in a mini depression when I realized that I am not able to properly "entertain" you. I am just not a comic. I am not that talented. I am not like Shakespeare. After all, when Shakespeare produced his dramas, he always offered some type of "comic relief". In each serious play there were always one or two characters who provided the audience with a bit of levity to distract from the heavy subject matter. 

I find this interesting, because our modern day media companies don't seem to have taken this practice over from him. Dramas are dramas and comedies are comedies and never the twain shall meet? I'm probably just ignorant here. Please tell me where I am going wrong, dear reader. I just think that there is very little comedic relief in the heavy dramas. And I wonder if there is a reason for this. I mean, Shakespeare probably did it because, in his day, a person would never have been able to watch a very dark tragedy such as Romeo and Juliette without having had the nurse to lighten things up. It would have been too much of an emotional  challenge to sit through a MacBeth, for example, (or stand through, since the cheapest tickets, during that time, for the poorest show-goers, were not for seats but for standing room only). I confess, I haven't read MacBeth. I should speak of only what I truly know. In any case, I am thinking of how comedy helps us to get through really hard times and face the roughest truths we are faced with in life. 

That is why, is it not? that the royals always had their jesters. Wasn't it the clown who often helped the king see the folly of his selfish opinions? Have there perhaps been jesters who have entertained kings and despots in centuries past, who had the exclusive right of making a little fun, of pointing out in a light and slightly more tolerable way, that the king mayn't have formed the right opinion or have taken the right action on some issue that affected the general mass of the public at large? This is what I have heard and I wonder if it's somehow true. 

But right now I am thinking of something a little different. I am thinking how it is possible to get an idea into someone's brain... that is, through emotion, through influencing someone to feel something, and we all know or at least, the studies have been done (sic), that it is very effective to emotionally load a subject in a negative way. Negative feelings seem to carry much more weight for humans. Hence, if there is a topic where I want to have some influence, I can put something negative in there and it will have a greater chance of hitting the target, the human heart strings. People remember negative topics and ideas much more easily and much longer than positive ones. It's been researched in any case. 

So, in our modern day dramas there is hardly room for comedic relief scenes. It's interesting. Because when I was in Germany, I remember that I bought tickets to see a play. I had been there only a few weeks and I was just learning German. In a German class, and I cannot remember which class, or where, we had read a play. It was called, "Der Besuch der alten Dame". I won't bother to look it up. That translates as "The Visit of the Old Lady." It is a dark satire. There were some really nice jokes in it and I remember having enjoyed reading it so much. While learning a language there is a very particular thing that happens. When you experience a success during the process of being able to understand humor in the new language, it is a great thing. You feel such a sense of accomplishment. Well, this very, very dark play had several scenes in which there was a good deal of comedic relief sprinkled about. And a good thing, too, because it was, as I said, very dark territory. 

Then, I wanted to invite my friend to the play, when I saw that it was being put on. My friend had never seen the play in question and I told him that he would really like it. I was going on my own feelings, because I had experienced this great success at having first understood "German humor" while reading that play. (Remind me to tell you a "German" joke at the end of this.) That was during my very first few weeks in Berlin in early to mid 1989, just before The Berlin Wall came down. So, I "invited" my friend. That means, in German, I paid for his ticket. I paid for both the tickets. "Ich lade dich ein..." means, I invite you, means, I am paying for your ticket. That is something that you should know if you are with Germans. I invite you, if you say this in English, they are going to expect you to pay... so be ready or just say "would you like to join me". Don't say "I invite you...". Anyway, we went in and found our seats. I was excited to see the play, as I had greatly enjoyed reading it and was looking forward to that feeling of satisfaction at being able to understand the humorous parts that were coming up. Not only this, I was expecting that my friend would be similarly entertained by these same clever jokes. After all, humor is quite important to me... hmmm...

Well, it didn't turn out at all as I had expected. I was not prepared for a thing they call "artistic license". It seems that the director of this play, staged in 1989, which had been written perhaps a hundred or more years prior, well, this director had decided there was no need for humor in the play. He took out EVERY SINGLE joke. There was not one laugh left in the whole thing. Every time there was a joke coming up, I was getting ready to laugh, and thinking that, ok, here it comes, and I would get a chance to have a nice laugh with my friend. I was so disappointed each time as the laugh didn't come; there was nothing to laugh about. But my friend was undisturbed. Well, he didn't know the original play, and that it was pure satire. He was sitting there watching and indeed, quite ENJOYING, this "drama". Because, it had ceased to be a satire at the point where all the jokes had been lifted out. 

I got so perturbed that I suggested to my friend, "let's get out of here". But he wasn't having it. He was having a good time. Maybe a great time. Germans don't really possess a sense of humor, it has been rumored more than once. He was really enjoying this really depressing play about a woman who comes back to her family village in order to take revenge on a previous lover in her old age. It was depressing and it wasn't a satire any more and I was disgusted that I had wasted my money, but my friend actually was liking it. Go figure. 

And this is in contrast to a play that I was in, many years later. In this play, exactly the opposite thing happened. It was a contest. The contest was a play-writing one. So, there were a lot of plays and we all sat around a table and read different parts in plays that had been submitted. The subject matter of the play was supposed to be something that was a social issue of our time. The year was 2014. One of the plays was about unemployment and children dropping out of school to go and live with their parents again. The play was called, "The Homecoming" about a couple where the husband is out of work and the wife uses her sewing machine to help pay the bills. Suddenly the daughter drops out of college and returns home to live with her parents again after breaking up with her boyfriend. The husband is upset because the wife has to now empty out her sewing room and give it to the daughter. 

What happened was, the man who wrote the play became upset because the director, the man who directed me and the guy who played the girl's father (I was of course playing the mother of the girl); this director ADDED levity to the script. And it turned out really well. The jokes worked and the audience laughed. Several times. I even added a joke of my own at the end, with the permission of the director, and the play won the Audience Choice award as the best play among all those submitted. I think there were eight or so plays that had been chosen to be staged out of all the plays that had been submitted. Our play won. And I think the laughs were a big part of it. I don't want to say my acting wasn't what did it. (I think it was pretty good, but I'm going to say the comic relief helped the subject matter greatly.) Yeah, the play won, but the writer wasn't happy. 

I think what I am trying to get at is something else actually. Maybe it is easier to confuse people when the jokes are just left out. Maybe it is easier to get people to do certain things, to manipulate them actually, if it is just all negative. Maybe fear is a tactic... Maybe... 

I mean, it's odd for me now, when I think about it. Why do I not have ANY sense of humor. I really don't seem to be able to tell a joke, to really "entertain" you. I apologize. I really want to learn to be funny... Really I do. 

So, here, for your entertainment... a joke I heard while I was in Berlin. Now, I admit, you have to KNOW Germans in order to really get this joke.

It goes something like this and was purportedly told by a Canadian commedian living in Germany just before the Y2K thing. 

=================
The story goes that this Canadian was asked once by someone during an interview: 

Sir, what are the three best things that you like about Germany as a Canadian?

The comic answered as follows:

Well, first, I have to say I love the weather.

Hmmm, thought the reporter, weather, uh, that sounds a bit odd, sir, but ok, sure, maybe coming from Canada, one could say that we have good weather, I mean, it's cloudy here much of the time, but maybe it's not quite that cold, so sure... what's the second thing that you like about living in Germany?

The comic didn't miss a beat and answered right away, "The food, German food is the best." Again, the reporter was caught off-guard. She thought then, Oh, I guess he means all the foreign restaurants we have here in Germany, because you can eat Italian, Greek, French, Turkish, whatever you want. Chinese, etc. That must be what he means. I mean... he CAN'T have meant German food, surely!

By the time the comic came to the third thing he liked about Germany, I'm not sure the reporter even was able to follow him. But I had a good laugh when he declared: 

That's all great, the weather and the food, but really the BEST THING OF ALL about Germans...

is their HUMOR.

By that time I was rolling on the floor. As will you, if you've ever known Germans. If you haven't known Germans, you probably won't get the joke. If you have known Germans and didn't laugh, well, maybe I still can't tell a joke. 

Dear Reader,

so that was the joke, and I promise I will strive to do better next time.

I remember my mother telling me when I was a child that there had once been a radio play called "War of the Worlds" produced by Orson Wells in 1938, wherein Martians come and try to take over the Earth. Maybe in a small way that was my introduction to "Science Fiction". She explained to me the noteworthy fact that there had been not a few Americans who were fooled into thinking that the Martians had actually landed in New Jersey and were intent upon destroying human life on this planet. And even though periodically throughout the broadcast the announcement was repeated that this was a radio play, a fictional account of "The War of the Worlds by HG Wells, produced by Mercury Theater on the Air in an original dramatization", people had taken it apparently very seriously.

Listening to it now over the internet, as I write this, I cannot help but feel that it is so well made, sounding so genuine, with announcers reading their parts in such a faultless tone and cadence, betraying perfectly acted scenes of fear, surprise, disgust, and so on; yes, it is so well made, so much so that, had I been there in 1938, I am not sure that I would have been able to help myself, but to wonder what on God's green earth could be going on. It's too perfect. It's eerily realistic. They use the proper names of real towns and government organizations. They interview people who seem quite real. The names they give are very believable. Sure, granted, the pace of the story is quite swift and would only betray the true nature of the broadcast if one were to listen to all the scenes of the play consecutively and in a spirit of calm. That would mean, anyone tuning into the broadcast anywhere in the middle without having heard the introduction to the play, would necessarily become quite understandably confused.

Well, I did intimate that perhaps this was the beginning of my love for scifi, but that was perhaps just a joke.

My true love for scifi started with StarTrek. Everyone knows StarTrek, but does everyone know the Original StarTrek? Does everyone know the original Spock? Leonard Nimoy's Spock? Sure, Captain Kirk seemed to be the most attractive character for the young pre-pubescent females in the audience. I will admit, he was nice enough to look at, but I think Spock was much more interesting for me. Spock had "powers". The mind meld! Oh, the mind meld!

And Spock had that quality, he never got his feathers ruffled about anything. Spock had this power, you couldn't mess  with him. He was impervious to excitement. He would just lift that one eyebrow really high. I am wondering if during the casting of the character they chose Nimoy because of the facial plasticity necessary to be able to raise up his eyebrow so high. It was kind of obvious. Over-obvious. I think that kind of acting was in vogue back then. Acting is a more realistic now, more subtle...

I loved that show. I didn't love just any scifi or any show for that matter. It had to have a certain quality. I think that show more than any other television series affected me. As a young child I didn't have much to do with television though. StarTrek came out when I was already a bit older. When I was really young we didn't even have a television. We got our first set when my father won a contest at work. He worked for General Electric. There was a GE plant in our town. My father used to go to work every day and come home every afternoon shortly after I came home from school. He would go down and do work in our vegetable garden before dinner every evening. He used to take off his outer shirt and work in his muscle man tee shirt, thereby getting a very dark tan on his arms and neck and shoulders. When dinner was ready my mother used to ring the bell outside the back kitchen door. My father would take off his tee shirt revealing lily white skin where the tee shirt had been. His arms and neck were black to my eyes. It was quite a contrast. He used to then come up the small half hill near the barn to an outside water tap that was operated with a hand pump. When I was small my father had made a little cement wading pool there and we used to play there when we were very small.

He used to strip his upper body and wash at the pump and then come up the very steep upper hill to the kitchen where he would enter, perhaps exchange a very few words with my mother and then retire to the living room. Or if it was a particularly hot day and he was very sweaty he would enter through the basement door and take a shower before coming up the basement stairs which entered into the living room area through a door. Later on my father moved that staircase and closed the doorway in the living room. After that the stairway to the basement went off the dining room. After cleaning up, my father sat in a wing-backed chair and would read the newspaper before dinner was on the table. I remember often hearing his light snore behind the paper he was holding. When my mother called the family to the table my father would every once in a while tickle me as I walked around his chair to go and sit at my place opposite him, my mother between us. Mother sat at the head of the table, closest to the kitchen. If there were any need, she could easily rise and serve us from the kitchen. My father sat closest to the living room and I was with my back to the window looking out upon the driveway to our house. My younger brother sat next to my father nearest to the front door of the house. It was usually just the four of us as I recall. Earlier there would have been my older sister and two older brothers. But by the time I was growing up, it was just me and my little brother. My sister was gone from home by the time I was 11 and my two older brothers were gone long before that.

There were two newspapers in my hometown, one owned by a Republican and one owned by Democrats. That is the way it seemed. They could have been owned by the same media company as far as I am concerned. But at the time it was like that. One of the papers subscribed to one party line and the other to the opposite line. I don't remember what was the name of the newspaper. My parents were Republicans. To this day I don't know what that meant other than that they voted for Nixon, Eisenhower and so on.

But we were talking about television, which we did not even have in our house until my father produced the winning suggestion in the suggestion box contest at the GE plant when I was about six years old or so. I remember the clipping of the newspaper article that was printed when he won that TV. There were about five or six other people who also won prizes in that same contest and they were all standing there in a black and white photo. My father was at the center leaning on the television set. It was a "portable" model, if I recall correctly,black and white with a "rabbit ears" type of antenna. My older brothers and sisters, if they ever read this, are welcome to augment this or even correct me. My memory of this time is rather sketchy.

The very first television series I remember watching was Superman. Superman, Jimmy and Lois Lane. I was never impressed with that show very much, but I was a little kid and I watched it with my other siblings who still lived at home. There were 5 of us. I remember being gathered together in the living room and watching Superman. I think it was on for half an hour and that was it. We got that half an hour in front of the TV and then we were sent off to bed. The oldest children, the first four (all girls), were by that time out of the house. The first, third and fourth were married with children, the second sister was in the army at that time. Or she was living somewhere by herself and going to art school if I remember correctly. She married quite late (for that time; she was 28 when she met her husband to be).

I remember all of us sitting in front of the TV in the living room, next to the basement door. Then on family trips or other outings while driving in the car I used to get bored and I would try to entertain everyone somehow with a story; and I often tried to tell about something I had seen on the TV. I would then be told, usually by my sister, 7 years my senior, to shut up, as it were. "We were there too, silly! We already saw it." That was a little disappointing for me.

So, for the first years of having a television my mother limited our media consumption very strictly. As I got older these restrictions relaxed somewhat. We were able to watch a bit more of television and my father often had his golf shows that he watched. That was his sport. I could never fathom how anyone could watch something that boring on television, but that's what he liked. Anyway, we were not allowed to watch just as much and what and when we wanted. Naturally, there was not anything on television at that time that was X-rated or anything of the kind. Television generally wasn't on all the time anyway. I think it stopped sometime around nine or ten o'clock at night and didn't start up until around six in the morning the next day. I do remember that another show I watched with my little brother was Captain Kangaroo.

Then there were a couple of other shows. But these were characterized for me by the feeling of frustration that I couldn't really watch all the episodes and often was a bit in the dark as far as the plot went. For instance, I remember "Lost in Space''. As I said, I looooved scifi, and that show qualifies as scifi in a way, I guess. Anything about space was good in my book. Lost in Space was older than Star Trek. It predates it by a few years for sure. So, it was early on in our TV-owning career as a family. Hence, the television hour(s) were more strictly rationed at the time and I was younger anyway. But by the time Star Trek became a thing I was getting older, around 10 years old, and we were not as heavily supervised around the boob tube as we had once been.

Star Trek became my fascination at that point. But what was it about the TV that made my mother so hesitant to let us take in as much as we wanted? Aside from considerations about our homework and so on? Well, at the time I only heard from her telling stories of her own youth and experience with "entertainment" media. She recounted to me how she and her sisters used to climb through a bathroom window and sneak down the street to a movie theater in South Philadelphia, where my mother had grown up in a row house until she was 12 years of age. They, she and two other sisters and perhaps one of her brothers, would then pay 10 cents each to sit in on the showings. Why the sneaking around? My grandmother felt that this type of entertainment was "a tool of the devil" and did not allow her progeny free access to the movie theaters. They would not have even had television by that time. And I am not even sure if they had a radio. That would have been in the mid to late 1920s.

When my mother recounted this to us as children, it seemed just a bit strange to us, laughable almost, to think that my grandmother said that TV, Hollywood entertainment, was "a tool of the devil". Now I am not so sure we were right to smirk about that. 

Now we live in an age of ubiquitous access to media. It's everywhere. During my mother's day and even during my day as a child, it was not everywhere and certainly not available in such a wide variety of shapes and sizes and tastes. The formats were very predictable. The one thing that we don't experience nowadays in the same format, that was there in my mother's day and probably during my time, as well, though I cannot recall this because my mother never allowed us to go to the movies AT ALL, that was the newsreel that you saw first, before the feature film started. Before every movie there was a newsreel. I suppose after TV became a household thing and everyone had a TV set, then you had the evening news. Then newsreels were not the thing any more. Hence, in my time these had already started to die out. But before TV was in every house, the news reel was still the thing you saw while you took your first few bites of popcorn and sipped on your soft drink.

What were these newsreels like and who made them? Good question. The newsreels were generally produced in Hollywood, I think... as such, the borders between "real" news and fiction were somewhat fluid. Probably every major studio produced both news and feature film entertainment/TV shows etc. I don't know when we started to think of these presentations as having different and separate origins. I am trying to fathom this development. But I think they were always produced by the same organs, by the same actors. The studio just put on another hat and voila, news, voici, fiction. News and fiction have always been produced in the same studios by the same people. It's just always been that way. No wonder my grandmother was uncomfortable with it.

Dear Reader,

Alright, if you are not happy with the above statements, well? It’s still hard to argue about it. The government gave contracts to major studios to produce news reels. That’s a fact. It started like that. How else should it have started?
Again, these opinions are offered to you and you are not expected to subscribe to them. Please do your own research.

It was towards the end of Ike Eisenhower's second term of office as President of the United States, in one of the two major hospitals of a mid-sized Midwestern town in the Bible belt; that is where I first saw the light of day in this life. 

I remember the first few days of my journey on this earth, looking up at the fluorescent lights, pinkish against a soft white ceiling as I lay on my back swaddled in baby blankets in the hospital nursery and unable to turn over. It was hard to sleep with that light always in my eyes. I remember that I later would often dream of that ceiling and of the frustrating feeling of trying to enter into this world through the birth canal. In these somewhat nightmarish repetitive dreams it would appear to me as if I were being forced to traverse a squarish shaped tunnel made of rigid concrete, and with barely enough space to pass through. 

Much later I would remember the physical feeling of being born, but that is another story. I remember the early part of my life in this way. My sister was to be married just about six weeks after my birth. I know it was at that time, because it was Christmas and the bridesmaids' dresses were in themes of red velvet and the decorations had poinsettias and such types of things. I just remember the old family photographs of the wedding. 

What I directly remember of that day, the day of the wedding, was that someone handed me to a bearded man and I started to become afraid and to scream.  Everyone standing around started to laugh, but I was terrified of the beard and I didn't think it was funny. The groom, however, was not bearded. He was a very tall and strapping blonde haired youth with looks befitting a movie star. My sister was dark-haired and lovely with bright red lips and pale, smooth, creamy skin, not unlike Snow White. 

So my mother had gone into labor and delivered in the early part of November and the wedding was to take place just before the holidays. She was given some kind of anesthesia for the delivery; I believe they knocked her out. That was typical in the fifties and of the nine live births, six had been handled that way in hospital. Only three of the children, born during WWII at home in attendance of my mother's primary care physician, a general practitioner, had been born without an anesthetic. Hence, she was not conscious of me at my birth itself. I was the eighth of the nine children, the ninth pregnancy of my mother, and the sixth female child.

Yes, I remember reliving my birth quite spontaneously while entering into an altered state of consciousness in a Berlin apartment on the 3rd floor of a back courtyard lower class dwelling in the early 90s. I lived there for seven years in total just at the border between Berlin-Schoeneberg and Berlin-Kreuzberg, until my first trip to India in 1996. I was trying to meditate and kept playing around with different methods and different types of breathing. I don't know if I read it in a book or why I was changing my breath. I just remember all at once experiencing, completely out of the normal sequence of time, the physical sensation of the feeling of the birth canal as it suddenly gave way as my head emerged from my mother's body, that the passage was elastic and tightened snugly around my neck as my head pushed through and I took my first breath. From that moment on, after reliving that event, I was to become more and more aware of not only my origins but also of my death in and to this world. 

I could feel the fear of my mother before I was born. I became conscious of it presently as I lay on the floor of that cold water flat in Berlin in my early thirties. The remembrance, the physical memory I was experiencing, had begun to "replay itself" at the point just before I was about to be born. I felt my mother. I was one with her in her entire emotional body. I didn't possess any feelings of my own, but was melded in my feelings with hers. These were feelings of strong trepidation, anxiety, a kind of frustration also. I was surprised at the strength of these feelings that were not at all mine, but that I was not able to escape. She seemed quite a timid woman. Either that or that is simply the condition of humankind upon this earth. Perhaps she wasn't particularly fearful by comparison as a person. I just remember that I felt what she was actually feeling, and apparently I had been bathing in that feeling for the whole of the pregnancy. Then, suddenly I came out of her body and breathed in the duality of this existence; and from then on I was on my own and was free to experience my own feelings. Or was I? 

It might have been sometime after this day in the early 1990s that I became aware of "knowing" two things: One, the exact hour, day and year that I am to leave this earthly plane, and two, the last words I had heard before I incarnated into this body, having been spoken by the wise men, the three wise elders who had surrounded me somewhere up there in the stars as I was getting ready to come to earth. They had all shared the same sentiment and the one with the longest beard had pronounced the judgment, not directly to me, but within my hearing: "The mission in this life is highly unlikely to succeed." That was the last thing I had caught as I had tumbled down to earth. That "memory" was suddenly a part of my history, after the spontaneous "rebirth".

Dear Reader,
In describing these events and the backgrounds to them as accurately as I possibly can, now, over six decades hence, I am aware of the subjective distortions and the melding of “memory” and the ideas of remembering with the notions we entertain as humans of what our life has become.
Also, perhaps unlike others, perhaps not, I must admit that I am not at all sure of the “source” of these “memories”. I am simply describing something that I experience as a memory or perhaps a story I have been told or have told to “myself” for the last so and so many years of my life. I cannot vouch for any of it, as I cannot be one hundred percent sure that I have lived any of it or all of it. I simply “remember” that this is what I feel happened, whether or not it actually did take place. These are the contents of my MIND and some of my feelings about those contents.

I just was watching a video and started to type this response, but thinking better of it, decided to post it here instead:

Dr. R, I have enjoyed your posts for the last almost year. It was just 10 months ago that I left a group that had preyed upon my mind and heart through the use of mind control techniques, which I was only able to recognize through finding Biderman’s Chart of Coercion and other sources of information including your channel. After leaving, I have spent much of this time investigating topics such as narcissism, mind control, child abuse etc. and I have seen many of your videos. I keep coming back to your channel over and over again and am always interested when you post a new topic.

This particular topic I find particularly interesting, and I would like to add something, which you and others may find helpful. In my own case, this was the only thing that saved me from giving in to the “hoovering”, and that was the knowledge that the person who was trying to get me to come back was

A) the only source of the information, that is, I was forced to have ‘absolute trust’ in what they were saying. There was no way I could know that they would hold up their end of the bargain other than to believe what they were saying without ever doubting them. This brought me invariably to the conclusion that I MUST NOT FALL FOR IT again, as they had disappointed me repeatedly in the past. and…

B) that the person in question, who was trying to get me to come back ALWAYS used some sort of fear tactic. In fact, for me personally, the “too much” aspect was a negative. It was not the dream vacation or the other person getting sober, or a new car or house. No, the leader of the cult I was wrapped up in was telling me that if I didn’t come back, I would be damned to hell. That might seem silly to some, but to someone who was hoping for enlightenment or salvation it seemed a very real possibility.

If you have been taught that the narcissist in question… that this person is the savior, the god who will lift you up out of misery, such a threat can be devastating. I had to hang on to two things at all times in order to escape this sort of hoovering maneuver. I had to tell myself that: This man is the ONLY SOURCE for the information he is giving me. There is no one to corroborate or confirm that he is who he says he is, or that he has the knowledge that he says he has. I have no proof other than his words. No one in the group (cult) so far has confirmed that his methods are helping them. In fact, I am not only not encouraged to be in touch with them and talk to them about this subject, I am being actively discouraged from doing this.

The second thing that I hung onto for dear life was that this person has ONLY EVER made me afraid of losing this promised salvation. Knowing that this was the driving force in my life they had been able to manipulate me for 23 years. This was NOT EASY. I had to constantly remind myself that the person had NEVER COME THROUGH on any promise and had always only blamed me for not being good enough, not being surrendered enough, or for some other shortcoming, when in fact I had done outright insane things to prove my surrender to them and to myself.

All the things that you are talking about are very much applicable to cults and cult leaders, but there are nuances that necessitate a little deeper investigation when it comes to cult dynamics. I have spent the last year studying this and find that we are living in a time when virtually everyone is being affected by this dynamic, having gone through the “indoctrination” process. I will leave it up to you, you can infer where this is headed.