"You did not see that, did you?" comes the gentle, but terrible voice as the sword of him stabs up into my back brain flooding me with total and terrible panic. For an instant the fear is so great it seems to . . . burn away the mountain setting and I am . . . on top of a pyramid? in a hospital? there are spoke-shaped wings off it filled with . . . machines that glow and blink in the dark the Mayo Clinic? Are they making me better? Is there something I'm trying to forget or not . . . remember? They don't want me to . . . feel something? No, they don't want me to see . . . something! I'11 be better if I just forget. Forget I ever had a . . . son? "It was just a bear, only a bear you saw. You only saw a small bear swimming in the river. There was a body there, it was not just a head. You will feel much better if you say it was a bear. Please say it was a bear."
I must have said it was a bear. I am better now except for the hole the size of a truck in my heart nothing seems to fix. They say therapy will fix it, but it doesn't. They say I was so sick some of the time I must have blanked out the memory. They did show me what the bear did. The horrible bear. All that remained was a huge bloodstain on the ground and some little splinters of bone. I picked one up--a piece of a leg bone. A six inch fragment, even the marrow gone. I cannot understand such total violence. They say it was my son who was torn apart by the bear. I don't remember any son. The doctors say I told them I saw his head floating away in a stream . . . like the head of Orpheus! I don't remember that! They say I may never feel anything there in that spot which is numb and blasted, the size of the explosion of violence--that I will probably never remember it. Maybe it's for the best? the doctor s think so.
I don't . . . quite understand why that dream is misplaced from the mountainside to my metaphysical landscape in Northwestern Wisconsin, where I actually had it, lying beside the stream. However, the misplacement could be explained by the presence of DNR, Department of Natural Resources personnel here setting up the road block I later see knocked down with the red flag attached. The placement on my property here does work, however, as the stream is flowing backwards, or up, into the Angel Lakes.
I then watch the original French(?) version of the film, "The Vanishing," which was recently remade by Hollywood, starred actors Kiefer Sutherland and Jeff Bridges. The original version is classier, scarier. It features, Saskia, the woman abducted, relating a dream about "golden eggs," being in them "in the universe." Then when Rex and Saskia are stuck in the tunnel prior to the abduction of Saskia from the gas station, the headlights of a truck coming up behind them remind Saskia of her dream of the "golden eggs." They remind me of the scene in "Close Encounters" where the UFO comes up behind Roy at the railroad crossing, where he is lost, studying the map. They then rise up over Roy's truck. However, they also remind me that this happened to me--further west, up behind Devil's Tower! One night in Berkeley, California, I was riding my motorcycle up on top of the Berkeley Hill when the headlights of a vehicle approached me from behind--just as occurs in "The Vanishing" and "Close Encounters." As the lights came close I felt what might be described as an "overwhelming urge to fall asleep," said to myself as I was riding along "what a strange time to be falling asleep!"
I woke up some unknown amount of time later, having been-apparently--rear-ended in a hit-and-run accident, lying in the street with numerous injuries, broken bones. For the first time in my life I correctly relate that incident to this attempt to relate the truth about "Close Encounters."
Less is made in the original version of "The Vanishing" of the killer's twisted philosophical motives for what he does-more is made of how chillingly normal he seems, appears--even to his family. He simply outwits Rex by appealing to the enormous human and metaphysical need, hunger Rex has to know what happened to Saskia, to fill that . . . void an abduction would cause. It is that . . . need, that immense vacuum of need which drives both Roy and the mother whose child has been abducted to leave families, cross the country, dare poison gas, climb Devil's Tower toward they do not know what--because that need is so overwhelming. Same, for poor Rex, who is willing to submit to Lemonde, be put to sleep, simply to know what has happened to Saskia.
Rex wakes in a coffin! He has been buried alive! In the original version he does not get out! He has visions of the tunnel with the white light, with Saskia's face down at the end of it in the light. That's it. Rex's immense metaphysical and human need has been manipulated to draw him . . . into a suffocating coffin! The need must be created by the abduction of "Saskia," of the child in "Close Encounters," of our human wealth.
It is not difficult for me to see this as Tanner, the film maker, saying Lemonde's cold, rational, scientific philosophy murders our Saskia, our warm and human metaphysical knowledge, leaving a hole in us nothing can fill which renders us terribly vulnerable to "white light," Spielbergian solutions to our condition of extreme neediness, poverty. Lemonde as a philosophy kills our Saskia, our Eurydice, and then uses Rex's, our hunger for that Saskia, our metaphysical half, to . . . draw us up to the maw of the abducting Mothership. In a way, science, because it denies the Saskia knowledge of the universe, kills and cuts away the metaphysical body, becomes the primary force of impoverishment driving people into the church to find that body--same for Spielberg, the UFO cult.
The poetry reading at the Painted Alley in La Crosse in the evening is powerful, curious. A UW La Crosse English Professor is reading from a novel-memoir on the anti-Vietnam era at Madison as I arrive.
Various singers sing--all well, professional level. Steve, the hippie performs his piece on Eros, Kaos, the Cave, the Oracle--twisting his shoulder-length hair as he intones. Performs a Louis Jenkins poem about a Salvation Army member--Colonel somebody. I tune out briefly and miss most of the poem before the concluding lines about the rain . . . falling up to water heaven. That's what was happening in the rape dream, my son, his body, his talent was "falling up as rain" to water Heaven.
It is a mixed reading for me. Read the Bach poem about finally running the clan of Bachs out of my house, off my land. The poem . . . could be seen as a veiled warning to the assembled performers that there will be no more watering of Heaven's garden--period. Papa Bear is back.
Kent, the college student is there, just really . . . hungry, like Rex, for clarity, for . . . Saskia. Except his vanished Saskia doesn't even have a name, any name other than "Christ." Tim, the improbable Christian Nietzschean there-similarly weirdo-starved. Doesn't even know what he is starved for. An intense theological discussion develops around me down in the pool room basement of the Painted Alley. At one point the back door is opened by some African Americans coming in to look for "Jeff." Not me. As the door swings wide open I can see the gala Mothership lights of the newly re-opened Hollywood Theater behind the Painted Alley. "Close Encounters" is the name of the feature on the marquee.
The castration scene in "Candyman" occurs in an outdoor toilet at the Cabrini Green Apartments in Chicago. This bathroom was the site of a terrible sexual mutilation performed on a little boy. As I pass the bathroom with the blood tower in it and hear this word "sweetness" I know it means that you will not get any "sweets" unless you're sweet. In the film, the "sweets" for the sweet are the genitals of the little boy.
I decide then to . . . enter the boy's room, to see, finally, what happened here. I am strong enough now to be able to handle it. I consciously enter the boy's room so the next dream will depict what has happened here, why it has taken me so long to correctly see it.
In the next dream I am in a bar. It reminds me of the bar at the 35--77 junction with the big black bear in the cage out behind it. The huge, 500 lb., demented black bear. The bar is dark, very "occult" feeling, black magic--not really creepy, but a definite "Candyman" sort of feeling of coagulated, black blood--of an altar where magic is performed over animal or human sacrifices.
The table, or bar where I am sitting is circular, with some form of . . . trunk? Tree trunk construction in the center? It is so dark I cannot clearly see what this . . . trunk or tower is. It is the size of the Devil's Tower model Roy makes in his living room when he is trying to . . . receive the inspiration, hear the music, know what is being communicated-channeled to him. The bar is gloomy-dark like the scenes in Roy's living room in the early morning.
I move around the seats of the bar in a clockwise-direction-- from say, 7:00 in the morning to 11:00 or so in the late morning. There is a Round Table, Knights of the Round Table feeling here--with this . . . thing in the middle--what-ever-it-is-being the . . . Grail, or the Truth about the Grail--and those it "serves" . . . blood. That would be why this is a "bar." The word "sweetness" is the key to being served, apparently. Meaning, from what I understand, having a "sweet" disposition.
I do not recall all the details here--will relate what I do recall.
There are several other people here . . . candidates for knighthood(?)
or for a drink from the cup? The latter seems likely. They are moving through
these . . . time, or Stonehenge positions with me, playing "musical chairs"
with me. I think it is appropriate to add right here a terribly important
bit of mythical-muse-ical information. That being that it is Time, or Saturn,
which castrates the primal son, Uranus, so Gaia, Uranus's mother and wife,
can create monsters in her womb with which she can maintain her rule. The
castrated Uranus becomes the Heavenly deity, the Father of Heaven. His
genitals are thrown in the sea and from them is born,
"sweetness," or Venus, Goddess of Love. The castration of the primal
male creation power creates "time" as we know it, chains us to time, to
the clock of scripture when that same abducted son, Christ, will return
from Heaven.
One of the other people here moving clockwise with me about the bar with its . . . castrated herm in the center is a man. He is talking to the . . . bar tender about several things which have to be done, accomplished before the Whirlwind of the Apocalypse can be released. Someone he calls the "New Reader" has to be eliminated. This guy is a Biblical fundamentalist and desires the whirlwind of Revelations.
The other person sitting here . . . requesting things, the power of this herm, this Devil's Tower, is a woman, more enigmatic. I run into her in about the 10:00 o'clock position. She mentions a "tiger transfer" and that "dianetics is the solution" to something. I . . . comprehend this to relate to the practice in Scientology of "clearing" people of their engrams? their negative programs. Which, in this context cuts them off from any comprehension of what is occurring in the unconscious--is a means of denying that Hell exists, or that the Rapture depends on it to drive people up to the Motherships of blessedness. This woman also says sneeringly that "there is no monogamy" by which I understand her to be invoking the power of this phallic herm to . . . disrupt monogamous relationships, increase infidelity, the danger of AIDS, the potential for the creation of monsters in the dream-creation womb.
When I get up to move from . . . 11:00 to 12:00, the bar tender--who is a large, dark, Eliot Gould, vaguely Jewish sort, presses up against me and says in this . . . mild, almost sweet way "how should I take your penis off and put its message to my heart?" This is not . . . said in a violent way, nor gay--more like an Aztec priest, say, actually inquiring how he should . . . kill me, sacrifice me, in order to get the greatest benefit from the sacrifice. I understand the message to have something to do with breath, the breath of life.
Then the Kennedy assassination--but from a different point of view--not the book depository. From directly above Dealy Plaza, above the overpass in front of the limousine, at the 6:00 A.M. position. I see, I think, this same guy here, prepare some super sniper rifle with a laser site. He shoots straight down into the center of this same Stonehenge-clock circle of the bar I have just moved around. I cannot see the Lincoln continental there that was carrying Kennedy. I can, however, tell from the way the crowd is fleeing from the site where the bullet has hit that he has hit his target. And, tragically, I know what target has been hit. It is the marketplace in Sarajevo where a mortar shell exploded killing scores of people. The people fleeing the site where the bullet hit were innocently shopping in the market!
And then, horribly, I see what this . . . castrated time circle, this bar programming the castrated phallic wand of Uranus is--it is the Opening Ceremony of the Winter Olympics which occurred February 12.
This . . . mythic ceremony, ritual, watched by over 2 billion people depicted the birth of an egg of "peace" from the snowy earth of Norway. Mythical creatures, the Vettas, with primordial powers--at least in the myth, not in the castrated magical ceremony performed in Lillehammer--help the egg to emerge, then open. A "dove of peace" emerges and then all hell broke loose in the form of an extraordinary fireworks display.
In the Bible there is no peace but "the peace of Christ." The Red Horse of the Apocalypse in Revelations comes to "take away any peace but Christ's."
Even as I watched this powerful display I was aware I was seeing an extraordinary--but unconscious religious-magical ritual with 2 billion unknowing participants! Participants unaware that a magic ceremony designed to "bring peace" will actually bring the opposite, as the conditions determining peace or war are already programmed into "time clock of scripture." I was aware as I watched this secular ceremony that it would probably generate consequences that would seem unrelated--but which actually stem directly from this event. But I could not have foretold the first disruption of peace, the shelling of the Sarajevo market, because it had already happened! The magic shot at the Devil's Tower Bar is shot from the future into the past. The success of the magic assassination depends upon me being "sweet" enough to allow this castration of our power to continue to exist--to not witness it.
What I did not see, until recently, is that "Close Encounters," is also a veiled religious ceremony, programming certain results. Film, our popular culture in general, is cut away from serious culture, serious magic or religion, just as we are cut off from our magic or metaphysical bodies. In fact, "Close Encounters," is about people suffering terrific need, metaphysical hunger. The film fills that need, and the need of those who see it, in certain ways--while never acknowledging that it is, itself, like the Opening Ceremony at Lillehammer--a magic ceremony, an act of creation bringing about a certain future. The future being programmed into the magical unconscious of the planet in "Close Encounters," is identical to Rapture Christianity--minus the horrendous Apocalypse. The programming of that portion of the play is only visible in the Devil's Tower Bar.
And what power is it that would be invoked at a truncated volcanic phallus, at a castrated herm? Are we all so blinded by the "sweetness" of the aliens, by the cute little ice cream cones, by the "Candyman" sundae supreme we do not notice this location and what it means in terms of unconscious forces and Id monsters being evoked? Is that the real reason this landing site is a military secret? Or, at Lillehammer--what power has impregnated this egg delivered from the snow by trolls in a magic ceremony with no conscious metaphysical control?
"Close Encounters" is veiled phallic worship designed to unconsciously raise those "devil" or beast powers necessary to make the aliens, the Rapture escape off the planet all the more "sweet." "Peace" cannot be safely evoked at Lillehammer without first changing the primary scriptural programs designed to disrupt any human peace.
Roy receives the annunciation of the Heavenly return of his stolen power in the whispers of music, and in urge to build the tower, itself, which must mean something! It sure does! The channeled impulse to perform magic, to create a tower without any knowledge of, or control over creation, is precisely the mechanism of Inspiration by which the "cleansing of the planet" will be accomplished. Roy is a pawn, or a slave to those powers which control inspiration.
The mother is drawn to the site--the Devil's Tower Medjugore, by the promise of the return of her stolen child--if she is "sweet," good, peaceful--does not try to blow the abducting bastards out of the sky!
"Close Encounters," Medjugore secretly invoke the power of evil to accomplish their ends--the driving of humanity up in to Rapture cults because we are staggeringly needy and because we are convinced we are evil, in need of the "peace" of Christ, or the Galactic Kingdom of the aliens. But, as I think, as I hope I have indicated--there is no power in operation here other than human power which has been cut off and rendered unavailable to itself, to conscious human control. The "phallic" power the herm of Devil's Tower represents in "Close Encounters" is enough to explain every UFO phenomenon that has ever occurred as it is the same thing as the "Lord resting," the power of creation at rest, in the Bible. As it is being abused by Spielberg, the cult of the Rapture, it is Satan.
In the portions of the dreams concerning the new reader I walk over into the area where Yea Olde Opera House is into an area more reminiscent of the immense Krell power plant in the film, "Forbidden Planet," than anything in Spring Grove. The point here seems to be that the liberation of the new reader from the berm or burial mound opens up the potential for many possible endings to the play--both "On Borrowed Time" and the Revelations ending of Scripture, the "end days," as they are called--the one ending of the Bible programmed into the "Krell" power system--which is really nothing more than our own cut off or castrated creation power. This potential for an "open" ending as the Millennium arrives is something I have been working towards for years--all my work to end the Biblical stranglehold over the power of the Word.
I wake once I get over here into this Forbidden Planet power plant zone. Some conscious flashes here . . . of Spring Grove as Lillehammer, site of Winter Olympics. I am some sort of Olympian and am walking up the street toward the theater. I, as an Olympian . . . hear some one word here along the street mentioned in a casual conversation I pass which has this profound emotional effect threatening my chances for Olympic gold. I would bet the word is . . . "sweetness." How can you be so . . . mean about Spielberg! How can you say such awful things about him?
And then I am in Yea Olde Opera House where we saw the play last night--inside it toward the rear. There's a break in the crowd here, an aisle across the rear of the building--a woman here weeping, zooming along across the room via this aisle and then down the far side toward the stage. I do not clearly see who this person is but my sense is it is someone who has lost a cosmic court case against me--someone like . . . Mary Baker Eddy of Christian Science, or Elizabeth Claire Prophet of the Church Universal and Triumphant, or someone "mythical" like Athena, weaver of the world tapestry of inspiration, or perhaps even more likely--Beatrice, from Dante's Divine Comedy--the personification of the desire which draws us up to the sacrifice site, to worship, to Mother Church. Beatrice as Eve, created from Adam's rib from his deep sleep. In short, a part of our creation sleep is cut away, used to create the "Beatrice" which tempts, entices us up. This "Beatrice" can take on many shapes from a UFO, a myth of a race of superior and benign beings, to a beautiful and saintly spirit guide, to a channel from above, to visions of the Virgin Mary, etc., all of which originally came from the deep levels of our creation sleep, where "God" rests.
When this weeping woman whom I have defeated reaches the stage . . . Spielberg drops down from the curtain! Just as Mr. Brink, Death, hops down from the apple tree when finally liberated. There are, of course, multiple possible meanings for curtain, here--Spielberg's appearance from it. But the strongest concerns Athena and her tapestry depicting the Gods' version of creation and history, which won out over Arachne's, the human challenger's version of the story which depicted humans as the creators of the world, of the good and the beautiful, the credit for which the Gods then stole. For her temerity in challenging the great Athena, Arachne, the human weaver. is turned into a spider--now there's the real Olympics for you!
The curtain, the tapestry of Yea Olde Opera House, the Gods' version of the story, produces a challenger in the form of Spielberg, to . . . me, apparently, to any reader, programmer of the Orpheus power of music who wishes to open up the ending into something other than an E.T. version of The Rapture, in which the cut off, invisible Id monster power of Devil's Tower programmed by scripture to produce a Beast produces a Hitler, a Stalin, any sort of male monster necessary to drive the "meek" up to the Mothership landing site. So "curtain" would also have the meaning "curtains," as in "the end," the "curtain came down on the play, history," etc. A new reader is such a threat to the Apocalypse end game the Athena Weaving Corp. has immediately produced a challenger it is almost impossible to call evil. In fact, Spielberg is so deceptively sweet he has bamboozled nearly everyone, and apparently his "sweetness" is a threat to me as well. His "sweetness'' disguises the fact he is a Rapture Christian dependent upon Apocalyptic, End Days events to drive us up off the planet for its "cleansing" and the arrival of the "Kingdom of God."
The last conscious vision I have in regard to this demonstrates with absolute clarity what is wrong with this. In it I see "Bruce," the shark from "Jaws" down in the Totogatic, or "Magic River." I have called it the "Magic River" in order to study the operations of magic in my dreams.
In one such dream concerning the Totogatic-Magic River and the reality of UFOs what I saw was the entire flow of this river pouring down into the mouth of a baby "Christ Child." When I camped on this portion of the Magic River I had terrible visions of sucking whirlpools in the river in this same area. I went down one of these UFO creation intake pipes consciously, intentionally, in order to see if I could discover some of the secrets of the mystery of UFOs.
Again, I wound up in a "Forbidden Planet," Krell power plant site--where creation, real creation, can be accomplished without instrumentality--the whole God-at-rest power of the planet being used to manifest . . . "mysteries" conducive to the myth, the story of Christ, his scripture programming this immense power over which we have no control.
The "Galactic Central" of this UFO manifestation conspiracy was--astonishingly--my University of Wisconsin Art Department, where I discovered, huge chunks of my work were missing, had been stolen. I believe the judgement, financial judgement dream with which I began this paper indicates where that "art" went and who has been using it.
All of this is to introduce what I see in the Totogatic, the Magic River now, if I get past the "sweetness" barrier and risk judging Spielberg as evil.
What I see is Bruce, dead and skinned in the river, the lower portions of it where the sucking maws of the whirlpools were. He, it is huge, stretches out for a huge length along the river, all below the surface. But now, he is dead, not a threat--his giant white corpse rotting here (I eliminate it). I see as I am viewing this vision . . . just how scary a film "Jaws" is for a very serious dreamer, one intent upon exploring the depths of the conscious, a threat to discover, for instance, the genitals of Uranus down there on the bottom of the ocean being used as the secret magical power of Devil's Tower! I can also see how . . . adept Spielberg has been at touching us with these primordial fears, using our terror of the deeps of our own unconscious, but not actually penetrating them himself--he can't--he needs those terrors to protect his collusion with evil powers.
But, it is this same Bruce, the jaws of which I heard scissoring me, my primordial self in half in the Cut River fishing dream, which chomped away my "lower" body wealth. The same jaws chomps all of us in half in order to weaken us enough so that we're no threats to the Gods, then feeds, channels back what it has chomped down the curtain of Athena's weaving of reality, creation as . . . UFOs or miracles at Medjogore. Aliens is right! Our own best powers alienated from us!
When in the theater viewing this film at this point, when Roy and the mother are climbing the hill toward Devil's Tower 1 experienced the same haunting phenomenon that grabbed Roy when he first heard the music, had the urge to try to create the tower. Here was my experience coming back to me in the form of this . . . myth, this tale of the landing of beneficent aliens. Like the WWII flyers, or the other abductees, the Mothership disgorged . . . something . . . like the syrup which ignites Travis Walton's memory was coming from the screen. Here was a scene from my life in someone else's film. Not only one, but also the famous scene where the "UFO" approaches Roy's truck at the railroad tracks from behind--that had happened to me, too. Two lights approached me from behind like "golden eggs." That incident also preceded the making of "Close Encounters" by many years. I was hearing . . . music, tasting syrup, feeling things from this film that . . . meant something, that set off powerful emotional chords in me, that have driven my own search, my own quest into dreams in order to properly understand these connections, not just accept them as synchronicities, coincidences. I will now make a judgement on the real reason for Spielberg's immense popularity. His entire inspiration, all of his work comes from wealth, creativity, power, feelings, experiences abducted from others in the fashion I have described here. When we view Spielberg's films we see some portion of this wealth which was abducted returned to us in--say-the scenes which I have described which were literally ripped directly from my life, my experience. When? When my "son" was torn apart on the hill by the "bear."
For, you see, I also made it up to the actual landing site, like Roy and the mother seeking her child. In fact, I made it even further up the tower, to the 10,000 or so foot level of the Big Horns where I had those . . . premonitions of, or remembrances of terrible, total violence--the violence of the maenads, against Orpheus. But I was not greeted by a foolish light show and some dippy synthesizer music, oh, no! I was greeted by total violence and the eye of the needle which demands that you utterly forget what happened to the son you did not offer on the mountain. That son was taken from you to feed the Gods, the Muses, their coffers, so that Athena's curtain will have some Spielberg veracity when it comes down, so that the cute little alien twirps actually sort of remind us . . . of something that seems lost.
Not only have I recovered the memory of the unspeakable sacrifice of the true son to make the alien E.T. son from the sky I have also managed to go up to the Medicine heel in the sky where I went after the UFO hit me from behind. I went to a communion, a Communion service, where 200 litres of my blood were forcibly taken from me, enough, I'm sure for the Clot with which to create a multitude of "greys" to convince Whitley Strieber that what he is experiencing is "communion," not rape.
Feel awful! The dream bullet I took in the chest from the sniper on the Lorraine Motel balcony the other night has had a real physical impact--causing more chest pain, congestion, terrible fatigue--all to stop the true dreamer from making his way to the hospital here he was born.
Some real "Home Alone" flashes on a brief lie down in the morning to try to dent the fatigue. "Home Alone" was the other item from my writing in the Cut River, cut away from me when the terrible scissors sheared me in half. Cut River where I knew that the river was carrying the . . . "knowledge of angels" up into the heavenly wilderness of Crown Land, where I was fishing for quid, quiddity, and got so rudely cut in two.
A list, I was looking at a list of things I knew about angels. That I knew. That I knew but which was flowing up, away from me. Immediately prior to the unkindest cut of the Olympian scissors hacking my . . . earth round being in half I was reading that list. The first two items on the list were:
Here is how "Home Alone" really is, what it really means. Here are some flashes from the morning of various people, forces attempting to bust into my house, beguile their way in, in order to use-abuse my access to Orpheus power.
The Spring Grove snow hauling truck drives up to the south door here I dumped the horrible castrated phallus of Devil's Tower, as Spielberg abused it, outside yesterday. The back of the truck is not filled with snow, but garbage. Are they going to pick the demonic herm up? No, they are going to dump more engram garbage on me so they may, Spielberg may, remain light as a feather. Feather lies in other words. I shield the house, shove the truck away.
Next, is loud knocking. Knock, knock, knock! I am sure that this is Mr. Brink, the character of "Death" played by the town Mayor in "On Borrowed Tine." I caught him once before trying to "fix my front door" so that it stayed permanently open to dumptruck loads of death piled in. I booted him out with a kick from behind in the butt--clamped down permanent conscious shielding at that time.
I take Mischa, my conscious guard dog to the door--who is it? No answer. Go outside in vision. This is what I see.
I see a Jackson Pollack splatter painting, more the fireball wall of a nuclear explosion over across the street in the front yard of one of the Exorcist III old people types. Set into this abstract expressionist, deconstruction of the atom of the Strong Force of Eros . . . art is the plunger that is thrown by the commander of the starship at the conclusion of "Forbidden Planet" which sets off the explosion which annihilates the planet at the end of that film. It also, understandably, looks like the elevator descending with Johnny Angel, in "Angel Heart." Johnny going down. It has been determined that, proved that his heart was stolen from the chest of another. Which is what I have just proved. Can they blow up the planet to destroy the evidence? No. Not without access to my house. Which they cannot have.
This is what Home Alone With Close Encounters really means.
It means defending our life, the best in us, with utter and complete conviction that our life, our lives, our wealth, our home, our planet is worth defending--because it is what we are. Our lives, our bodies, our homes, our planet are not worth defending if you believe--like UFO cargo cult types-that we are a poor, benighted race on a dump of a planet and need the help of superior beings. I do not buy this myth.
I do not particularly care whether "aliens" are real or not--I do not even think that is an important point. I do believe most, if not all of the manifestations of "aliens" we are as a species experiencing at the moment are produced in the fashion I have described here and would be more beneficially investigated via the recovery of our own metaphysical being and wealth. It is this wealth which has been cut away from us by a class of supposedly superior beings which is then fed back to us as the "gifts" of the gods, or as glimpses of the fabulous wealth of aliens. These gifts, these glimpses are the Trojan Horse which is offered to us so that we will open our gates, our walls. I will not do so. There is nothing the gods have, that aliens have that I want. Except what is ours.
If there are other species in the cosmos then we would be infinitely better off meeting them as equals, not as needy children who have somehow "lost" their Father, their true inheritance as co-creators of the universe.
Bruce is dead, E.T. is dead, the era of "Close Encounters" and rape "Communion" is over. I herald the era of true human being. Let it begin.
I then watch some of Eisenstein's "Ivan the Terrible" with Lydia. It contains a very different version of a person, a leader--one inspired with greatness. At the conclusion of the coronation of Ivan gold coins are poured upon him from pans-precisely like the gold I saw pouring down from Jupiter space upon my reversal of Orpheus reading site.
As soon as Ivan is confirmed as the new Tsar he proclaims what he is going to do--how various Russian lands, river mouths, traditional accesses to the sea are in . . . alien hands, and must be reclaimed. This is precisely what I would say, am saying. The Mountain of Inspiration, for instance, must be in human hands--so must the power, wealth of Hell. I intend to conquer those alien powers which are holding those traditional human resources.
On the evening news we learn there has been a terrible mass murder--sniper attack on a mosque in Hebron in Israel. A Jewish doctor, Baruch Goldstein, originally from Brooklyn, now a settler in the occupied lands opened fire at worshipping Palestinians in the Tomb of the Patriarchs, a 2000 year old shrine for Muslims and Jews, where Abraham, Isaac, Sarah and Jacob are said to be buried. Goldstein manages to kill at least 56 Palestinians with bursts from his Galil rifle, plus hand grenades tossed into the worshippers. Riots in the streets follow and fifteen stone throwing kids are killed by Israeli soldiers.
Of course, I can see instantly, this is another--probably the major--of the assassination events being programmed into the Devil's Tower bar, where the bar tender was, as I noted, a tall, Eliot Gould--New York Jewish--type. This news story pisses me off--explains the "Forbidden Planet" meltdown, self-destruct switch I saw being thrown outside the house yesterday. Plus being hit from behind by the Will of Allah inspiration.
It is very upsetting that--despite demolishing that bar, interrupting the sniper assassinating the "Kennedy," the various actions I took to minimize real-world manifestations from the bar scene and the Olympic Opening Ceremony that this sort of shattering of human peace still occurs.
Worshippers at Abraham's tomb--Abraham was ordered by the Lord to sacrifice his son Isaac. The Lord stayed his hand up at the stone altar on the mountainside--didn't, in this case. Actually, this interrupted sacrifice is the event which initiated the practice of circumcision, and a new covenant with Abraham, as Patriarch of Israel. "Circumcision," however, is completely misunderstood--means, in fact, the before-mentioned cutting away of the entire "lower" body, or the body of metaphysical dream vision. Cuts the body in half--the cut away metaphysical half going to the Lord.
This cutting of human being in half establishes the "unconscious" where the Lord is free to program all the human sacrifices He wishes into "history." All there has to be is a conscious willingness, as with Abraham, to do anything which the Lord orders, including the sacrifice of his son. This New Covenant with the Lord causes these sacrifices to occur without the conscious participation of the worshipper. Later on this New Covenant becomes the New Testament in which the Lord can "write his will into the human heart," including the writing of human sacrifices. It was because humans would no longer willingly sacrifice their children that these new, and unconsciously accomplished Covenants were made. This Covenant was necessary because the climate toward human sacrifice was becoming increasingly hostile--plus, it maintains the innocence of the worshippers to themselves--because they are unaware of how their unconscious, cut away power is being used--and to the world.
So, what now? Can we expect the whirlwind to follow, the liberation of the Apocalypse from the tombs of the Patriarchs? Not if I can help it!
In the first I see some . . . one of the skaters spiraling down into the sacrifice pit up near the headwaters of Beaver Creek. This "sacrifice pit" is an old quarry pit, which looks to me like the pits of sacrifice at Chichen Itza on the Yucatan Peninsula. My metaphysical vision uses this pit site as one where I can explore modern human sacrifice. I also associate this "death spiral" dance into the pit with the "Dance of the Sacrifice" in Stravinsky's Rite of Spring--where a virgin dances to death to "bring the spring." This would presage a warming trend in recent cold weather.
Then a white barn down a hill. A fancier version of the barn where John Book, Harrison Ford, stores his car in the "The Witness." About an Amish boy who witnesses a murder. The Book of John features a "witness." I am looking down at this barn from up the hill a ways. Then the barn becomes a fancy house built into this remodeled barn. I am standing outside of it . . . expecting to see something. Becomes a big, white, Miami Vice drug pusher's house. What's that? The Amish are pushing drugs? Take a hell of a drug to inspire a Goldstein. Even more it is the house of a Columbian drug Lord from "Armed and Dangerous." What's that . . . the Amish are actually armed and dangerous? No!
What I then see is an . . . inside room--white, fancy, high ceilinged--a woman that looks like Katerina Witt, maybe Kelley McGillis from her part as the Amish woman, in "The Witness" is waiting seductively on a bed. A man enters from the side--the dark, Jewish fellow from the Devil's Tower Bar, Goldstein without a beard. The woman says, as she welcomes him to her bed--"it's a pleasure to watch you!" What? blow away 56 people!
Last one is of, again, Katerina Witt, one of the Olympic skaters. This
time she's in the airlock of the 2001 Jupiter probe, attempting to enter
the ship like crewman Bowman from the film. There's a guy, same guy with
her, she refers to as Paulson, or a circumcised son, and they manage to
bust back into the ship. There is a large audience waiting for them inside
the ship who applaud this "great move," performance on the part of Katerina
and Dr. Goistone. Meaning this was a heavenly hit, from the angelic regions.
Designed, again, to prove how sinful man is, humans are--how in need of
the "Star Child," "peace" from above we are.
Home
Alone With Close Encounters