Scifi Sunday's with the hipriestess, 5 cent tales

Israel is an illegal state

July 13, 2014 at 9:08 am | Posted in spiritual rantings | Leave a comment

we need to know who created Israel and why. In 1917 British Foreign Secretary Arthur Balfour penned a letter to Zionist Second Lord Lionel Walter Rothschild in which he expressed support for a Jewish homeland on Palestinian-controlled lands in the Middle East.

This Balfour Declaration justified the brutal seizure of Palestinian lands for the post-WWII establishment of Israel.

Israel would serve, not as some high-minded “Jewish homeland”, but as linchpin in Rothschild/Eight Families control over the worlds oil supply.

Baron Edmond de Rothschild built the first oil pipeline from the Red Sea to the Mediterranean to bring BP Iranian oil to Israel. He founded Israeli General Bank and Paz Oil and is considered the father of modern Israel.

The Rothschilds are the planet’s wealthiest clan, worth an estimated $100 trillion. They control Royal Dutch/Shell, BP, Anglo-American, BHP Billiton, Rio Tinto, Bank of America and scores of other global corporations and banks.

They are the largest shareholders in the Bank of England, the Federal Reserve and most every private central bank in the world. They needed a footprint in the Middle East to protect their new oil concessions, which they procured through Four Horsemen fronts like the Iranian Consortium, Iraqi Petroleum Company and Saudi ARAMCO. They are Khazar jews, they worship the false synagogue of Satan!
The Rothschilds say they are Jewish. The Rockefellers claim to be Christian. These are irrelevant smokescreens. Any demagogue- who blames injustice a religion or race of people- is sadly misinformed. Throughout history the Illuminati Satanists have sacrificed people of all race and religion to further their agenda of total planetary control.

Israel is not a “Jewish homeland”. It is an oil monopoly lynchpin. Its citizens are being put in harms way- used by the Four Horsemen and their Eight Families-owners as geopolitical pawns in an international resource grab. No peaceful solution is possible until the stolen land is returned to its rightful Palestinian owners.

Israel is an illegal entity.
In “The Missing Link of Jewish European Ancestry: Contrasting the Rhineland and the Khazarian Hypotheses,” published in December in the online journal Genome Biology and Evolution, Elhaik says he has proved that Ashkenazi Jews’ roots lie in the Caucasus — a region at the border of Europe and Asia that lies between the Black and Caspian seas — not in the Middle East..a Germanic people who stole a religion so that they could steal Palestine and rule the earth from there. They are Luciferian, they worship Satan and always have.Hammer notes that Armenians have Middle Eastern roots, which, he says, is why they appeared to be genetically related to Jews. Remember that the Turks tried to annihilate the Armenians…killing millions of them…they obviously knew something no one else did. The whole premise is this:

Europeans tried to kill off the real Jews and replaced them with Khazars, and then stole Palestine to create an illegal jewish State.

a professor at the university of Tel Aviv, wrote a book, The invention of the Jewish people…his name is Schlomo Sand, it is a very good book to read, he proves beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the Rothschild’s created the jew for their own benefit and used the name Jew to steal Palestine and create a ‘jewish’ homeland where none was before.

Sand argues that it is likely that the ancestry of most contemporary Jews stems mainly from outside the Land of Israel and that a “nation-race” of Jews with a common origin never existed, and that just as most Christians and Muslims are the progeny of converted people, not of the first Christians and Muslims, Jews are also descended from converts. According to Sand, Judaism was originally, like its two cousins, a proselytizing religion, and mass conversions to Judaism occurred among the Khazars in the Caucasus, Berber tribes in North Africa, and in the Himyarite Kingdom on the Arabian Peninsula. The religion practice during the days of Jesus was called Pharisee-ism…not Judaism, it was made up again by the Revisionists for the purpose of ruling the world…

According to Sand, the original Jews living in Israel, contrary to popular belief, were not exiled by the Romans following the Bar Kokhba revolt.[23] The Romans permitted most Jews to remain in the country. Rather, the story of the exile was a myth promoted by early Christians to recruit Jews to the new faith. They portrayed that event as a divine punishment imposed on the Jews for having rejected the Christian gospel. Sand writes that “Christians wanted later generations of Jews to believe that their ancestors had been exiled as a punishment from God.”[24] Following the Arab conquest of Palestine in the 7th century, many Jews converted to Islam and were assimilated among the Arab conquerors. Sand concludes that these converts are the ancestors of the contemporary Palestinians…..So now do you understand?? The Palestinians of today have the DNA of the original jews…not the Khazars who have stolen Israel…Isra HELL is an Illegal STate, this is the great deception…They are true White supremest Nazi’s out to destroy all of the middle East by killing all of their children

Aliens on Tv, and Mind Control

March 30, 2013 at 9:39 pm | Posted in spiritual rantings | Leave a comment

 

 

What Do my Favorite Martian, Mork and Mindy and Star Trek all have in common?
They are put before us to open our minds to accept the fact that there are Aliens among us, or are there?

Officially the United States Government has refused to identify any Unidentified flying Objects and has never divulged what they actually know about ET’s, or what we call extra terrestrials…

The government of the United States introduced the idea of ET’s and invasion of Aliens in the War of the Worlds, a radio spoof by Orson Welles.

This sent thunderbolts and electric shock waves through the populations of the earth…the idea that Aliens were coming to invade the Planet, opened up the idea to many humans, that we are not alone.  The reaction was so violent and repleate with human suicide that the Government decided to take a more friendly approach to bringing the Alien Agenda to the human mind.

So in a comedic genre the government subsidized Hollywood to come up with an Alien format that would be much more palatable to the average joe living on planet earth.

At first, the Aliens, were idiotic, almost retarded, yet genius.  In my favorite Martian, Bill Bixby has an Uncle, who is from Mars.  He has Antenaeii, and he calls home frequently, and appears and disappears at will, and sometimes not.  The hilarity lies in the random encounters with other humans.  Bill Bixby is in the know, but the rest of humanity has no clue…

The idea to keep it funny continued.   We have Mork and Mindy, and Mork’s favorite pick up line, Nanu, Nanu, and then we had Alf, who lived with your average american Family…things became more serious with Star Trek, and Star trek the next generation….The X files tried to uncover the Alien Agenda among the Government Elites upon the earth, and Mulder figured out that there was a conspiracy among all governments to introduce an alien race and to mix that race with humans…

There was my all time favorite:  3rd Rock from the sun, featuring John Lithgow as an eccentric Dutch man, with a big secret and a very big giant head…

If the Government of the United States was not pushing an Alien Agenda, you could not prove it by the biggest medium used on earth for the past century.  The fact is Television was a medium used by the government to inundate humanity with the idea that there are Aliens among us and there always has been.   Which brings us to Nordic Man and the Hollow Earth.

If it is true that the inner realms of our planet are inhabited by a more advanced race of beings living in a paradisaical state of existence and are in possession of greater technology than the exterior governments of the world, it can be better understood why our governments would not want us to become aware of it. If we as a people were to better understand this truth, how much longer would the masses allow the powerful elite to cause us to slave away our existence only to further line their pockets at our expense? They are afraid that if we were to know the truth, their power structure would become severely destabilized and a mass exodus would potentially occur, the likes of which have never been known.

Our planet holds a dark secret, witnessed by few and guarded by governments. The idea is equal parts absurd and fascinating, and has many supporters around the world. The secret they foster is one which says our world is actually hollow, and another society of beings lives within. All we have known of this planet, all the history and science taught in schools and universities, is only a half truth. The real truth lies within.

So how is this information, this unveiling of a human race superior to ours, a group of humanoid type creatures who have technology far superior to us, going to go over on our earthly human minds?

If truth be told, this is a part of the human race that seperated itself from the rest of humanity.  By doing this, these humans saved their culture and their lives and thier continuing strive to conquer the earth.  Governments have cowtowed to these “superhuman, nordic type men” and have aqcuiesced, signing treaties, and allowing them certain liberties among the earth’s population.

We know from cattle mutilations, and abductions, that they have experimented with dna splicing cloning, and ideas for human depopulation.    They want to appear benevolent, when in fact they have always been planning the demise of Cro Magnon man, who invaded their territory over 100 thousand years ago.

My hypothesis is that the sons of God (neanderthal) raped the daughters of men and created a race of giants, of nordic looking giants.  Blonde haired blue eyed beings who seperated themselves from the human population some 30 thousand years ago.  They did not go extinct, and they did not leave the planet.  They have always been HERE.  They are from HERE.

They are not superior, they had the continuity of consciousness, when modern humans were in their infancy, they had the werewithal to continue their culture and their technologies, when modern humans were battling and murdering for dominance on the planet’s surface. The wages of sin is death.  That is the cutting off of memory.  Everytime we war and use the limit of death as a means to an ends, our memory is cut off.  Men have lerned to use this well, by writing revisionist history, to the victor goes the spoils.  Spoiling what?  The collective memory of the human race.

These Nordic men receded first to the foremost north, and then into the nether regions of the earth itself. The powers that be like to think that they are genetically connected to these Beings.  The whole idea of Monarchy comes from believing in superior races, superior bloodlines, and superior gods and spirits.

So how to control the population of the earth?? Here is where we come to the Alien Agenda.  Instead of an encompassing ‘welcome’ to these lost brothers, mankind has devised a more devious plan to introduce our lost brothers and civilation to mankind.  Instead they want to introduce them as aliens, from another planet, from the Pleides, or from Orion’s belt.  some 7 star system, that would prove that there are superior beings in the Universe and we better listen to what they have to say. and what would happen to our belief system? How would we react to losing our ‘religion’?  In fact the majority of people would rather believe in flesh and blood aliens then the spirit of God the father.

In fact I delved into the Raelian movement.  It was so bogus it was scary.  Rael is a loon, and yet is he??  Maybe he was just a government Dupe set up to introduce these wonderful beings from outerspace and to worship them as progenitors of the human race. And that is exactly what Rael has done, created a bogus religion based on a lie..as in aLIEn. Part of the deception of the Raelian movement, is you must refute the validity of all other religions.  Apostasy is the norm among these Alien ‘lovers’

let’s not forget the dissemination of Zacharia Sitchin and Erik Von Doniken.  They both were non scholars, both disseminating half truths to push the Alien Agenda on the earth’s population.  They were funded by the Rockefellers, and that should give one pause to reflect on what money and power do to people.

The powers that think they be are being dictated to.  They have submitted themselves to these beings, who want to appear benevolent, and yet are malevolent.  We see by what the power elite has done, that these beings consider the Aryan race superior on this earth.  We need only look at the Dutch and German agendas to see that it is these people who are now ruling every aspect of life on earth.  We are being directed in their image…

The western world is ruled by a power elite who are of Germanic blood.  We find that Germany rules the Eu and Rome, and the English Throne..we find that they have taken over Jerusalem and the Whitehouse..They are bringing forth the 3rd Reich…World War II did not end…project paperclip is proof of that…the Germans were answering to the Nordic men of the inner earth…they want to introduce them to the world, but not as blood brothers, but as Aliens….now we must wait for the Blessings of the Pope.

freedom and the hope of potential lies in the Signature, just ask John Hancock

May 6, 2012 at 4:16 pm | Posted in spiritual rantings | Leave a comment

American was built on signatures.  Who can forget John Hancock, who believed in the democracy and freedom this great republic would provide.  So many people put their faith in that document and specifically on those who signed it.

Freedom meant freedom from tyranny, the tyranny that still imposes itself on Europe and the middle east.  We see the United states succumbing to the pressures of the international bankers and we see our paper fiat with the pictures of all of our forefathers becoming worthless.  The dollar is falling because we put our faith in it, instead of one nation under god.

However, we were built on signatures.  A Mickey Mantle signed autographed rookie card sells for 10,000 dollars.

You might have to put out 75.00 to get the card dna’d psa’d or graded and authenticated.  But you will receive a greater profit from doing this.

The United States of America needs a new paper fiat.  The government wants to introduce a new paper fiat called the Amero.

The people of the united states love memorabilia and they love sports, because they love their American Heros.

This nation was built on the idea of individual freedom, if a man can reach his fruition in his time and in his place, he is an American Hero.  Just ask Tiger Woods, a child prodigy filled with great potential, an almost magical life attaining great heights.

So would it not be just to use signatures to trade and barter with?

Why do I ask this?

In 1993 I was buying baseball cards for my son, they were 50 cents a pack.  I pulled out a signed baseball card of Joe Dimaggio.  I took it to the card shop and the dealer bought it off of me for 500.00 right there out of the pack on the spot.

I paid my rent with it.  I realized that the autograph is a big deal in this country.  I have procured quite a slew of signatures since that time.  The prices rise and fall with the markets.  But they shouldn’t.  Our country was at one time based on the noteriety and greatness that comes with American life.  It’s all about potential.  John Hancock signed in big bold letters to let his English masters know, he believed in this ideal, and he would fight for his freedom, and his right to life liberty and the persuit of happiness.

What signatures should be worth?

Many people understand the power of the signature and it becames popular for American Icons, like Babe Ruth, or John Wayne, or Mohammed Ali to sign their name and give the american people a thrill to have something they signed. It makes people feel they are still apart of something bigger than themselves, the American Dream….

It’s all in the signature.

A piece of cardboard is what you get from chewing gum companies who put pictures of these icons on cardboard so the American people would remember what happens in a free society when someone reaches their potential in their time and in their place.

The Iconoclastic did not stop with sports, as we see that Hollywood is also built on signatures signed in cement to stay forever as a reminder of the greatness one can reach in this free society.

Cassius Clay had to fight for his freedom against the dark forces that wanted him to pick up a gun and kill a yellow man, not based on idealology but because there was gold and silver and oil in Vietnam, and Cassius said no. He would fight for freedom, but he would not kill in the name of his white masters. He stood up to the dictates of a tyrannical government, spent time in jail and traded his slave name for one of Freedom. He gained his freedom from his white slave masters, and persued his career as a great pugilist. He did not disappoint. His skills and talent were the microcosm of the macrocosm. This free society allowed men of any color, race or creed to reach their greatness, and surely Mohammed paid the price for that freedom. How much should his signature be worth?? many thousands.

I HAD A DREAM

We have seen the men who have had to fight for this freedom, how they gave up their lives so that this potential would not rot away and return to the ink black ether of void, but would come to fruition, bloom and give full glory to god.

And…many sports are based on the bloodsport. Many connotate real war, war to conquer, the actions of Lucifer. But some sports are played out so that the paths are cleared so we can be safe at home.

Baseball is played on the diamond, a holy geometry for sure. The game is based on the law, and how it is used to keep us safe at home.

So the constitution and the signatures on it, were written big, to keep us safe by combatting those who would undermine and destroy the law.

The Bat, or beth aleph Tav, means house of the whole image, and we use the universal law to fight against the tyranny of lawlessness. When we practice the austerity to keep the laws contemporary and free from malicious attack, we are allowed to persue our potential without fear of reprisal, because we have the law to protect us.

The signatures of all great men who have reached their potential because of the law need to be respected, yes even given a monetary value. What better way to serve the law and the Iconoclastic american dream, then giving the signatures of all of these greats presidence even over the paper fiat of the dollar, an illuminati invention to enslave the people of the world.

I say the people have already decided.  People are collecting signatures like never before, we must keep the American Dream alive, we must pray that our children and grandchildren have the same opportunity to reach their potetntial, to love their lives and to do what they love to do in persuit of life, liberty and the persuit of Happiness.

DON’T LET THE DREAM DIE!

James Truslow Adams,  coined the phrase:  The American dream,   “It is not a dream of motor cars and high wages merely, but a dream of social order in which each man and each woman shall be able to attain to the fullest stature of which they are innately capable, and be recognized by others for what they are, regardless of the fortuitous circumstances of birth or position.”

So America remember, your birth, and the labor pains, remember those who stuck their necks out so we can live this incredible experience, and remember the dream.

And when a child progeny wows a generation, it is more than serendipty, it is magical, it goes beyond mere mortality, as the child shows it genius to the world.  This is what we hope for, in this all hope springs eternally.  Gregory Smith a child prodigy who will graduate with a master’s degree at the age of  16 is an example of the greatness we feel when we see the child full of potential, who does incredible feats of ingenuity or magic.  It is a magic we all crave.

This is what keeps us believing in the Christ Child, the one who brings redemption to all of us who hope for a better day, a fulfillment of dreams, hope in what we bring forth.

We should celebrate potential, we should celebrate the people who reach this potential.  We all believe in this potential.  We put our hope and trust in it.

This is what we find in the signature, all of our own hopes and dreams as the human experience.  This proves we are not here accidentally, it insures us that life continues and the magic of potential is in all of our reach.

Find your potential, sign your name.

D E Bartley

Al Mahdi, 2nd born of the dead

July 10, 2011 at 6:53 pm | Posted in spiritual rantings | Leave a comment

     

For all intents and purposes John Hicks, prisoner of Guantanamo was dead. Rumor had it that he had been reanimated by alien technology. But no one knew with an absolute certainty. He appeared one day in the offices of George Noory , the executive producer of Coast 2 Coast, a radio talk program known for its off the wall, in-depth approach to the paranormal.

When it was medically verified that the John Hicks was indeed dead after his execution, Art Bell assigned one of his top producers and star reporters to do the story. The producer ran into some obstacles when he tried a human interest approach to the story’s spin. He wanted to establish a history, interview family and friends. But John Hicks wanted nothing to do with it. His reason for coming to the world’s attention was to make people happy, he said. His past, his family, his origins were not important, what was important was the truth…and he wanted to share it with everyone.

When the show aired, the ratings went through the ceiling. The Executed man was an immediate success. People loved him. They wanted to invite him to dinner, even if it was only to have him sitting at the table. Politicians from around the world and religious leaders from every denomination wanted to consult with him. They felt that he had insights into life that were given to him by God. What became immediately apparent was that his mere image on the TV screen instilled a sense of happiness and contentment in the viewing audience that was unheard of in the annals of television broadcasting. No one could account for this phenomenon. Corporations were quick to see the value in all this. They asked John to sell their products and wanted his photos for print ads. They offered top dollar, butJohn hicks said he did not need money, and no longer felt the urge to chase that beast. Furthermore, he made it plain that he had not come to sell candy, soda, cereal, or anything else to anyone. He came only to be seen and make people aware of the continuity of consciousness in the Bardo State.

Although he had not given permission, toy makers were manufacturing action figures and dolls in his likeness. He refused legal representation, thus allowing anyone who cared to market his image to do so with impunity. He began to appear in ads all around the world, on trading cards and billboards. The ressurected man was seen drinking beer and eating foods that he had no use for. He had become an overnight celebrity. Hollywood wanted to sign him to do feature films; TV execs wanted him to star in his own sitcom. He refused all offers. Nonetheless, paparazzi and reporters followed him everywhere he went along with mobs of autograph seekers. Fan clubs sprung up on every continent of the planet. Glossy photos of him were in countless households, even in shacks and shanties in third world countries, all of them signed by John Hicks.

No matter where he was seen, or where he appeared, he always wore the same clothes–a white pair of pants, and a white tunic, and a thin black tie with a star and quarter moon embossed upon it. No one knew where the dead man lived. He would simply appear where he was expected, and in places where he was not expected at all. People from all walks of life invited him to come live with them, wealthy individuals offered to build him air-conditioned mausoleums around the world so that he would have a comfortable place to stay no matter where he went. He would have nothing to do with it. It was apparent that he was enormously reticent and valued his privacy above human comforts. Scientists took interest in him because he did not decompose. There was a bright aura and halo emitting from him, but this did not increase over any length of time. He was a true enigma who always sidestepped a question with a shy and wry smile.

When he met with Ratzinger at the Vatican, this press release was handed to reporters:

After many a millennia, the time has come to complete the true, long awaited role of the human species. My presence on the planet at this time is to draw attention to the ressurection that befalls everyone alive today. The time is near when the great culmination that the human race has long expected on a subconscious level is but a sun flare away. The technology is in place; the required number of human beings is in place; the political antagonisms and spiritual malaise are ripe and very much in place. The momentous time has arrived, the sun has returned to it’s place of
origin, only doing so when times like these arise. The great culling of the human race is
about to begin. I am the second born of the dead, pick up your lives and follow me, take
no food, no clothing, no possessions, they will not be needed.

The minions from every nation, every race, every creed, left their homes and domiciles to
search for John Hicks, he was spotted in the Himilayas, or on the Pyramid of the Sun,
or beneath the Denver Airport, he preached to the Liberals and the Republicans, baptizing
them in the Potomic River.

He would appear at bar mitzvahs and family picnics, at Christian baptismal ceremonies, and at pubs and nightclubs where he was seen dancing with delighted females who slipped their phone numbers into his olive green jacket in hopes of a late night rendezvous. Drug addicts toasted him as he passed because they believed he had reached the highest high attainable. Post offices had to open up special divisions for all of the fan mail he received. They had to store all these letters in huge warehouses because Hicks had no known address.

Then suddenly John Hicks made an announcement, he would speak to the whole world on
december 21, 2012. He said he would reveal many truths, and needed the world to listen.

On the night that this broadcast was to occur, everyone was in front of their TV set or radio, eager to hear what he had to say. Soldiers on battlefields stopped for the occasion, crime halted during this announcement, the flow of human semen ceased while sex was put on suspension. All ears and eyes were peeled to hear the second born among the dead.

He told the world, there was now so much more to life, that life extended far beyond our dreams,
that it now extended into the bardo state. The sun had returned to it’s place of origin and erased
the limit we call death. He said “men will seek death and shall not find it.”

No more suffering to die, no more giving up the ghost, all of mankind would now experience
the reality of the universal consciousness. He suggested World Leaders release prisoners
 and stop all wars, and destroy all missiles and nuclear warheads. He told the people they no longer needed food or sustenance, that the ether was all they needed to sustain their consciousness, because it was the very face of god.

Without hesitation, or thinking of the ultimate consequences, The illuminati gave orders to launch missiles of mass destruction at countries that were at the top of their adversary lists. They also deployed troops on their home front to decimate the civilian population. They would not give up their power without a fight. They controlled the womb, and they controlled the tomb. While the sheeple sat in front of TV sets listening to the gunfire and explosions in their cities, they waited patiently for the nuclear, chemical and biological warheads to hit the earth; and they watched John Hicks, the executed second born of the dead on the screen with smiles on their faces, in complete tranquility, as he opened wide the door to heaven.

heroes always remember

April 2, 2011 at 11:43 pm | Posted in spiritual rantings | Leave a comment

I was sitting on the porch when I heard the sound of the dove come from the old millpond. The dove’s mournful call stopped, and then I heard death coming down the country road that ran passed my grandparent’s farm. It broke the Sunday afternoon apart and silenced the dove.

My grandmother’s name was Gloria Roberts. My grandfather was already dead by that fall, finally killed by the gas that began to eat his lungs in the trenches of France in 1918; buried with his Croix de Guerre.

My grandparents lived in the tobacco country of eastern North Carolina, in a place with a name you couldn’t find on a map. They lived in the midst of horizon-to-horizon tobacco fields that grew over my head; hid me in forests of green like the jungles of Tarzan, and where I ran wild, invisible to the world, feeling the hot sand of the fields between my bare toes.

I was ten year old, sitting on the porch of my grandparent’s house and dreaming a boy’s dreams, when the call of the dove stopped.

I heard screaming metal, an engine trying to tear itself apart, howling like a tortured animal. I looked toward the road. I could see the small white dot of my grandmother’s mailbox, atop its post and leaning a little to the right, on the other side of the road.

Then I saw it. It came from the left, a flash of blue. And it began to fly. If left the ground and climbed toward the sky over the tobacco fields, trying to fly over the ditch by the side of the road. The sky and the car were almost the same pale-blue color.

Halfway up the arc of its climb, the car rolled, like an airplane doing stunts. I could see the workings beneath it. They were lewd, as if the car was naked. The car seemed to hang at the top of the arc, its black belly exposed, and then it fell.

The car fell into the ditch and kicked up dirt that floated and drifted in the air around it. It landed on its top and the wheels kept spinning. The roaring engine died when the car hit the ditch and I could hear the spinning wheels. They made a rumbling and whirring sound.

I jumped off the porch and ran. I don’t know why I didn’t run to find my grandmother. She was in the garden in the back of the house, bent over her black-eyed Susan’s. But I didn’t run for her, I ran toward the upside down car, its wheels starting to slow down now, but still spinning. I was thirteen years old and I was running toward death. But I didn’t know it.

There was a breeze ruffling something; making something pink move and dance. I kept running. I saw a woman lying on the white line in the middle of the road. The breeze was moving parts of her pink dress.

I stood in the middle of the road, breathing hard from the running, and felt the heat from the asphalt on the soles of my bare feet, like standing in my grandparent’s fields. I looked down at the woman in the road. She was an older woman; she was a thin black woman dressed in her Sunday church best.

I looked both ways down the road. There were no other cars. The whole world was filled up with me and an elderly black woman in a pink dress lying like a rag doll in the middle of a road surrounded by North Carolina tobacco fields.

Then, a car came. I didn’t know it was there until I heard the door slam and a man came toward me.

“Son?” the man said. “Better get out of the road, boy. I’ll go on down to Pappy yoke’s Store and call an ambulance. You’d better get out of the road, son.”

“I know,” I said.
“You Van Robert’s grandson?” the man said.

“Yessir,” I said. Now, I wanted to cry. As long as it was just me and the woman lying in the road, as long we were all there was in the world, I didn’t think about crying. But now, I wanted to cry.

“”You’d better get out of the road, son,” the man said again. “You come on with me; there ain’t nothin’ you can do for her.”

“No,”” I said. “”Somebody’s got to keep the cars from running over her.”

“You reckon you can handle that, boy?””

“Yessir,”” I said.

The man looked at me and said, “I reckon you are Van Robert’s grandson. You just stand on the side of the road and wave ‘’em down. There ain’t likely to be any on this road on a Sunday, and I’ll be right back.”

“The store ain’t open on Sunday,” I said.

“”I know, son, but they live in back and I know your gramma ain’t got a telephone.”

The man got into his car and drove toward Pappy “yoke ’s Store, but I didn’t watch him go. I didn’t watch him drive around the woman lying in the road.

Because I saw the woman’s eyes. Maybe they were closed before; maybe that’s why I didn’t see them sooner.

Her eyes were open and she was staring at me like I was the only thing in the world. Her mouth began to move, too, like she was talking. She was staring at me, her eyes wide-open and not blinking – staring at me and her mouth opening and closing. She was talking to me, but she couldn’t make the words come out.

I looked up and down the empty Sunday road; I don’t know what I was looking for. Maybe just for someone to come and take this woman away, to rescue me from her staring eyes and her silent moving lips.

But, I had to look at her, to look straight back into her eyes – I had to – because I knew that if I looked away it would be like I just left her to die. So I looked back into her eyes, trembling and wanting to cry again. And her mouth kept moving. Talking to me. Telling me not to leave her. I felt that inside. I didn’t have to hear it. I knelt beside her and held her hand and would not leave her.

When I heard my grandmother holler, I jumped. For a second I guess I thought the sound came from the woman on the road. But it was my grandmother.

She was waddling down the dirt road from the house as fast as she could go. She hollered again; “”Lawd God a-mighty!” as she came, trailing little clouds of dust at her feet. My grandmother was a great fat woman with huge all-encompassing breasts and upper arms as big as a pro-wrestler’s. She could envelope the whole world, hold it all tight against those huge bosoms. “”Lawd God a-mighty!”” she yelled again, even though her mouth was bulging with snuff.

Then my grandmother stood next to me on the road, breathing hard. She put her hand on my shoulder. “”Charlie?”” she said, and I started to cry. If she hadn’t put her hand on my shoulder and called my name I would have been all right. But now I was crying.

The woman lying in the road kept looking at me, her eyes never leaving my face.

“”We got to get out of the road,”” my grandmother said.

“”No,”” I said, and my grandmother kept standing in the road beside me until the man came back from Pappy Yoke’s store. The ambulance was right behind him. The highway patrol came too and the road was full of cars, blue and red lights flashing; all gathered around the old black woman lying broken in the road in her pink dress.

They put the woman on a stretcher. She didn’t move until they rolled her into the ambulance and she turned her head a little so she could keep looking at me. I heard one of the ambulance attendants say; “Nice Chevy. Too bad she tore it up like that.” Then they were all gone. All the cars drove away and the flashing lights were gone and silence fell again, like a blanket, over the tobacco fields. Not even the sound of the dove over at the old millpond. The woman couldn’t look at me anymore.

Nobody ever taught me how to pray. But I tried to learn that night. My grandparent’s farm was nine miles from Snow Hill and at night it was swallowed in darkness. I could lie at night and hold my hand to my face, almost touching my nose, and not see it.

That night, in my feather-bed, I looked at the blackness over my head and tried to pray. “Dear God, please help that poor old negro woman,” I said. But my prayer didn’t seem to go anywhere; it just went up into the darkness over my head and disappeared.

I don’t remember how long I prayed like that. But I do remember why I stopped.
I stopped when I saw the woman’s eyes, shinning in the dark above my bed. Luminous, and staring at me. The woman’s eyes stayed in the darkness above my bed until morning; they melted away with the first dim light that seeped into my room.

I watched them all night. I could have reached up and touched them. But, I just lay there and looked back at them until morning came.

It was when the first filmy rays of light broke into my room, when things were just beginning to turn into clumps of gray, that the woman spoke to me. “”My name is Marlie Robinson,”” she said. “”You remember my name,”” she said. I said I would remember. Then the eyes and the voice were gone and the day had come.

I told my grandmother the woman’s name.

“”She tell you while she was layin’ in the road?”” my grandmother said.
“”She told me,”” I said.

My grandmother didn’t know any Robinsons. She said they must be from over in Yellow Springs, or maybe Greenville.

After a while, I quit thinking about the woman. Sometimes, in high school, when I talked about her my friends laughed, punched me in the arm, and said; “”bullshit!”

But, I could close my eyes anytime I wanted to and see that pale-blue Chevrolet on its top, its wheels spinning like the legs of a bug on its back moving and trying to find the ground. I could close my eyes anytime and see the woman’s pink dress blowing in the breeze that came softly down the road that Sunday afternoon. It was a memory I would always have. And I would always have the woman’s name too. And every time I heard a dove’s cry, I remembered.

Even though I never once doubted the eyes and the woman’s voice that night were real, they never came back again. Many times I wondered why I wasn’t afraid that night. The woman’s eyes were soft and brown, with the whites of her eyes shinning bright, and her voice was soft too. – “You remember my name.” Other than that, I don’t know why I wasn’t afraid. In 2001, I went to the woman’s grave. It wasn’t hard to find, there was only one black cemetery in Yellow Springs. I took some flowers and laid them on her grave, in front of the stone that had her name carved on it.

I was wearing my uniform. I was in the Army and on my way to Iraq. I knew I would run toward death again; toward bodies tossed like rag dolls and lying broken on the ground…..I knew I was looking down at my own broken body. I looked up to see Marlie Robinson standing above me looking down at my broken body, I asked her not to leave me. I asked her to remember my name. Marlie Robinson held my hand, she never left my side.

Posted by graceofgodgoI at 12:26 PM 0 comments
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Birthing the Lucifer star, Book review
Do We hear the call?? In our everyday reality, the great spirit calls us to redeem ourselves and those around us from the ruler of this world. If you heard the call, what would you choose. For many are called, but few are chosen. Those who hear and answer the call do so to the peril of their very soul. Follow the woman of the wilderness and the hero, a great warrior of the first nation, as they risk life and limb to redeem first themselves then all of turtle island…

A sparse, my…more Do We hear the call?? In our everyday reality, the great spirit calls us to redeem ourselves and those around us from the ruler of this world. If you heard the call, what would you choose. For many are called, but few are chosen. Those who hear and answer the call do so to the peril of their very soul. Follow the woman of the wilderness and the hero, a great warrior of the first nation, as they risk life and limb to redeem first themselves then all of turtle island…

A sparse, mythical writing style and complex storytelling ensure the success of D. E. Bartley’s portrayal of a celebrated Native American warrior who rediscovers his divinity, and a Brooklyn daughter of Jacob who wanders the wilderness trying to answer the call.

EXCERPT:

Chapter 15: Secret Bilderberger Meeting
The Lords of Belgium sat in conference, reviewing the current state of the economy around the world. Sir Rothschild was receiving the reports of his lesser chief, the royal crown of England.
“My faithful servant, what is your report?”
“Sire, I bring disturbing news from the American sector. The production targets on the flu vaccine are being met, but industrial progress is slow. Asia, meanwhile-they are much closer to their targets and have been making greater progress.”
“What should I see as disturbing in that last report?”
“Sire, if you will recall, the Americans are leaderless, their President, is our puppet, so no one really takes him seriously %u2026 They have been making these improvements on their own initiative. As they clearly are outstripping India and China, where there are strong leaders in place, they are gaining pride in their own progress, their own initiative.”
“I see. That could be grave. The dollar has not yet reached its intrinsic value of zero. Confidence in their own capabilities could cause them to resent the taxes and levies they pay to us %u2026 damned Americans refuse to be subservient.”
“In fact, sire, there have been inquiries regarding certain levies of ours. Complaints have been made that certain line items are excessive.”
“Then we need to take action. Tell me: has their progress been steady?”
“For the most part, sire, yes. However, in the last reporting period, we note a leveling out. Some discontent with this is evident in the tone of the reports; there have even been rumors that certain states want to create their own greenbacks.”
“Then we have our window of opportunity.”
“Sire? I don’t understand.”
“My faithful servant,” the Lord Rothschild said, a tone of deliberate patience in his voice, “please recite for me the mantra of progressive evolution.”
“Evolvement is not a steady upward curve, but is a series of steps punctuated by periods of little or no upward movement, known as plateaus. When a table is reached, it is important not to forsake the methods bringing progress, but to persevere and accumulate the incremental improvements that will finally break out of the plateau and once again bring upward mobilization.”
“This is what brings us our opportunity to institute change to our benefit,” the Lord Rothschild stated.
The queen was clearly perplexed. “Change, sire? I thought the mantra of progressive evolution dictated steadfastness, patience, and perseverance?”
“Recite for me the mantra of reconstruction.”
The queen stood silent, at a loss. Across the table from her, Warren Buffett stood up, smiling smugly. “Reconstruction is good when instituted and controlled from above. Altering the status quo from below becomes good only when it is accepted and taken under direction from above.”
“Very good, Warren; you may sit down. Now, explain how this fits the current situation.”
Ben Bernanke stood, was recognized, and then spoke. “The current situation allows us to invoke the mantra of reconstruction to our advantage. We can accomplish our objectives by instituting a change of our own that will co-opt their change and bring it completely under our control.”
“Most excellent, my loyal servant. I see that you, at least, have been paying attention. Put yourself in for a raise. I will approve it.”
“Thank you, sire!” Bernanke wiped a tear of gratitude from the corner of his eye.
Lord Rothschild gestured, and his underlings sat down. “The Americans cannot be allowed to continue to self-govern and question our legitimate rule.” He smiled coldly. “Therefore, we need to create a large enough altercation to shake their little world. The silly mass shootings being blamed on Muslims are just not viable; the Americans are seeing through these black ops. However, there will be a new sun in place by the time the current plateau is overcome, and we’ll see that the credit for this incredible feat or progress falls to us. Thus, we will reassert our control, and the questioning of our levies will cease. George, when does Cassini II launch?”
“It launches in just 7 days-a most wise plan, sire,” said George Herbert Walker Bush. “We will show them our power and confirm our control.”
“Thank you, George. The Cassini is equipped with two tons of plutonium; we have directed the ship toward Jupiter, and hopefully the nuclear fission will be enough to create a sustainable blaze, creating a new sun. It is imperative that we get this right. Does anyone have any questions? No? Good. Then this meeting is officially adjourned.”

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Labels: Ben Bernanke, George H. W. Bush, George Herbert Walker Bush, India, Indigenous peoples of the Americas, Lord Rothschild, United States, Warren Buffett
Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Heroe’s always remember

I was sitting on the porch when I heard the sound of the dove come from the old millpond. The dove’s mournful call stopped, and then I heard death coming down the country road that ran passed my grandparent’s farm. It broke the Sunday afternoon apart and silenced the dove.

My grandmother’s name was Gloria Roberts. My grandfather was already dead by that fall, finally killed by the gas that began to eat his lungs in the trenches of France in 1918; buried with his Croix de Guerre.

My grandparents lived in the tobacco country of eastern North Carolina, in a place with a name you couldn’t find on a map. They lived in the midst of horizon-to-horizon tobacco fields that grew over my head; hid me in forests of green like the jungles of Tarzan, and where I ran wild, invisible to the world, feeling the hot sand of the fields between my bare toes.

I was ten year old, sitting on the porch of my grandparent’s house and dreaming a boy’s dreams, when the call of the dove stopped.

I heard screaming metal, an engine trying to tear itself apart, howling like a tortured animal. I looked toward the road. I could see the small white dot of my grandmother’s mailbox, atop its post and leaning a little to the right, on the other side of the road.

Then I saw it. It came from the left, a flash of blue. And it began to fly. If left the ground and climbed toward the sky over the tobacco fields, trying to fly over the ditch by the side of the road. The sky and the car were almost the same pale-blue color.

Halfway up the arc of its climb, the car rolled, like an airplane doing stunts. I could see the workings beneath it. They were lewd, as if the car was naked. The car seemed to hang at the top of the arc, its black belly exposed, and then it fell.

The car fell into the ditch and kicked up dirt that floated and drifted in the air around it. It landed on its top and the wheels kept spinning. The roaring engine died when the car hit the ditch and I could hear the spinning wheels. They made a rumbling and whirring sound.

I jumped off the porch and ran. I don’t know why I didn’t run to find my grandmother. She was in the garden in the back of the house, bent over her black-eyed Susan’s. But I didn’t run for her, I ran toward the upside down car, its wheels starting to slow down now, but still spinning. I was thirteen years old and I was running toward death. But I didn’t know it.

There was a breeze ruffling something; making something pink move and dance. I kept running. I saw a woman lying on the white line in the middle of the road. The breeze was moving parts of her pink dress.

I stood in the middle of the road, breathing hard from the running, and felt the heat from the asphalt on the soles of my bare feet, like standing in my grandparent’s fields. I looked down at the woman in the road. She was an older woman; she was a thin black woman dressed in her Sunday church best.

I looked both ways down the road. There were no other cars. The whole world was filled up with me and an elderly black woman in a pink dress lying like a rag doll in the middle of a road surrounded by North Carolina tobacco fields.

Then, a car came. I didn’t know it was there until I heard the door slam and a man came toward me.

“Son?” the man said. “Better get out of the road, boy. I’ll go on down to Pappy yoke’s Store and call an ambulance. You’d better get out of the road, son.”

“I know,” I said.
“You Van Robert’s grandson?” the man said.

“Yessir,” I said. Now, I wanted to cry. As long as it was just me and the woman lying in the road, as long we were all there was in the world, I didn’t think about crying. But now, I wanted to cry.

“”You’d better get out of the road, son,” the man said again. “You come on with me; there ain’t nothin’ you can do for her.”

“No,”” I said. “”Somebody’s got to keep the cars from running over her.”

“You reckon you can handle that, boy?””

“Yessir,”” I said.

The man looked at me and said, “I reckon you are Van Robert’s grandson. You just stand on the side of the road and wave ‘’em down. There ain’t likely to be any on this road on a Sunday, and I’ll be right back.”

“The store ain’t open on Sunday,” I said.

“”I know, son, but they live in back and I know your gramma ain’t got a telephone.”

The man got into his car and drove toward Pappy “yoke ’s Store, but I didn’t watch him go. I didn’t watch him drive around the woman lying in the road.

Because I saw the woman’s eyes. Maybe they were closed before; maybe that’s why I didn’t see them sooner.

Her eyes were open and she was staring at me like I was the only thing in the world. Her mouth began to move, too, like she was talking. She was staring at me, her eyes wide-open and not blinking – staring at me and her mouth opening and closing. She was talking to me, but she couldn’t make the words come out.

I looked up and down the empty Sunday road; I don’t know what I was looking for. Maybe just for someone to come and take this woman away, to rescue me from her staring eyes and her silent moving lips.

But, I had to look at her, to look straight back into her eyes – I had to – because I knew that if I looked away it would be like I just left her to die. So I looked back into her eyes, trembling and wanting to cry again. And her mouth kept moving. Talking to me. Telling me not to leave her. I felt that inside. I didn’t have to hear it. I knelt beside her and held her hand and would not leave her.

When I heard my grandmother holler, I jumped. For a second I guess I thought the sound came from the woman on the road. But it was my grandmother.

She was waddling down the dirt road from the house as fast as she could go. She hollered again; “”Lawd God a-mighty!” as she came, trailing little clouds of dust at her feet. My grandmother was a great fat woman with huge all-encompassing breasts and upper arms as big as a pro-wrestler’s. She could envelope the whole world, hold it all tight against those huge bosoms. “”Lawd God a-mighty!”” she yelled again, even though her mouth was bulging with snuff.

Then my grandmother stood next to me on the road, breathing hard. She put her hand on my shoulder. “”Charlie?”” she said, and I started to cry. If she hadn’t put her hand on my shoulder and called my name I would have been all right. But now I was crying.

The woman lying in the road kept looking at me, her eyes never leaving my face.

“”We got to get out of the road,”” my grandmother said.

“”No,”” I said, and my grandmother kept standing in the road beside me until the man came back from Pappy Yoke’s store. The ambulance was right behind him. The highway patrol came too and the road was full of cars, blue and red lights flashing; all gathered around the old black woman lying broken in the road in her pink dress.

They put the woman on a stretcher. She didn’t move until they rolled her into the ambulance and she turned her head a little so she could keep looking at me. I heard one of the ambulance attendants say; “Nice Chevy. Too bad she tore it up like that.” Then they were all gone. All the cars drove away and the flashing lights were gone and silence fell again, like a blanket, over the tobacco fields. Not even the sound of the dove over at the old millpond. The woman couldn’t look at me anymore.

Nobody ever taught me how to pray. But I tried to learn that night. My grandparent’s farm was nine miles from Snow Hill and at night it was swallowed in darkness. I could lie at night and hold my hand to my face, almost touching my nose, and not see it.

That night, in my feather-bed, I looked at the blackness over my head and tried to pray. “Dear God, please help that poor old negro woman,” I said. But my prayer didn’t seem to go anywhere; it just went up into the darkness over my head and disappeared.

I don’t remember how long I prayed like that. But I do remember why I stopped.
I stopped when I saw the woman’s eyes, shinning in the dark above my bed. Luminous, and staring at me. The woman’s eyes stayed in the darkness above my bed until morning; they melted away with the first dim light that seeped into my room.

I watched them all night. I could have reached up and touched them. But, I just lay there and looked back at them until morning came.

It was when the first filmy rays of light broke into my room, when things were just beginning to turn into clumps of gray, that the woman spoke to me. “”My name is Marlie Robinson,”” she said. “”You remember my name,”” she said. I said I would remember. Then the eyes and the voice were gone and the day had come.

I told my grandmother the woman’s name.

“”She tell you while she was layin’ in the road?”” my grandmother said.
“”She told me,”” I said.

My grandmother didn’t know any Robinsons.  She said they must be from over in Yellow Springs, or maybe Greenville.

After a while, I quit thinking about the woman. Sometimes, in high school, when I talked about her my friends laughed, punched me in the arm, and said; “”bullshit!”

But, I could close my eyes anytime I wanted to and see that pale-blue Chevrolet on its top, its wheels spinning like the legs of a bug on its back moving and trying to find the ground. I could close my eyes anytime and see the woman’s pink dress blowing in the breeze that came softly down the road that Sunday afternoon. It was a memory I would always have. And I would always have the woman’s name too. And every time I heard a dove’s cry, I remembered.

Even though I never once doubted the eyes and the woman’s voice that night were real, they never came back again. Many times I wondered why I wasn’t afraid that night. The woman’s eyes were soft and brown, with the whites of her eyes shinning bright, and her voice was soft too. – “You remember my name.” Other than that, I don’t know why I wasn’t afraid. In 2001, I went to the woman’s grave. It wasn’t hard to find, there was only one black cemetery in Yellow Springs. I took some flowers and laid them on her grave, in front of the stone that had her name carved on it.

I was wearing my uniform. I was in the Army and on my way to Iraq. I knew I would run toward death again;  toward bodies tossed like rag dolls and lying broken on the ground…..I knew I was looking down at my own broken body. I looked up to see Marlie Robinson standing above me looking down at my broken body, I asked her not to leave me. I asked her to remember my name. Marlie Robinson held my hand, she never left my side.

The Mayan Prophecies and sunspots

March 22, 2011 at 8:00 am | Posted in spiritual rantings | 2 Comments

 

Our sun is a giant magnetically based electric generator.

As the angular momentum of the planets pulls on the sun’s equator, it also pulls upon,
and distorts the magnetic forces within the sun.

This tug from the planets takes one complete lap every 87 days. The effect of this is a
winding of the magnetic forces within the sun.

From the sun’s north or south pole, this effect (if we could see magnetic lines of
force) would resemble the ‘swastika’ symbol.

This is an important note as all the ancient cultures of this planet used the
swastika as a symbol at the core of all of their ‘end times’ myths. This symbol did
not originate with the NAZI movement in Germany, and was deliberately
chosen by them due to its fundamental importance to humanity, and civilization.

As each ‘arm’ of the magnetic winding crawls up the surface of the sun, it will pass the
‘magic’ number of 19.45 degrees of latitude. This number is magic as that is where the
sun spots happen, and coincidently where all the storms happen on the gas giants, and such
interesting places as Hawaii happen here on earth. This number is magic as it is also
the point at which the internal hyper dimensional merkaba (interlinked tetrahedrons) will
contact the edge of the sphere we perceive as the sun.

The sun spot cycle is so named as this point of contact between the merkaba and
the manifesting reality of the sun’s surface is where sun spots develop.

These sun spots are to the ‘heart’ of the sun, what a ‘pulse’ is to the heart of a human.

To continue, as the ‘winding pressure’ increases on the sun over time by each 87 day lap,
a larger structure of magnetic pressure is created both internally, and externally to the sun.

This larger pressure builds within the huge forces tugging on the magnetic structure of the
sun over a period in excess of 11,500 years.

The result of the pressures is a level of chaotic ‘tension’ in the magnetic structure
of the sun. As the pressures bend the magnetic arms of the sun, and they crawl up
the sun like windings of string around a ball, they will cross the 19.45 latitude. If they
happen to do so when the internal rotation of the merkaba is coincident, a sun spot will
form and it will continue as long as the winding arm is synchronized with the rotation, usually
about 25 days or so.

As the forces pressuring the magnetic structure of the sun increase with time, the pressures
can naturally be expected to build until a ‘breaking point’ is reached. ALL of the ancient
warnings via myth and symbols point to the ‘breaking point’ of the sun spot cycle as
THE KEY indicator of a pending pole and crustal shift here on earth (as well as other planets).

The reason that the pressures on the magnetic structure of the sun results in a pole, and
crustal shift here on earth is due to our own planet’s magnetic nature.

Our planet is basically a ‘dirt and water covered’ magnetic generator similar to the
core of the sun.

The magnetic health of our planet is directly tied to the sun. As a note worthy fact,
the magnetosphere protecting our earth has weakened constantly these last 10,000 years.

No longer healthy, as in the above graphic, our magnetosphere is both

weak, and full of holes that are growing over these last few years.

As the sun’s magnetic structure nears its ‘breaking point’ relative to the pressures exerted
by the angular momentum, it will expand in a spherical fashion outward as the 11 (there
is that number again, hmmmm?) centuries of stress are ‘blown off’.

The following graphics illustrate this process.

Any resemblance between these illustrations and recent crop circles is entirely
a meaningful coincident manifestation of reality.

As may be expected, having the magnetic sphere of the sun expand and bulge out
past the orbits of the inner planets likely will have an impact on earth since we are
one of the inner planets.

The thinking is that a magnetic ‘bow wave’ will be followed by a Coronal Mass Ejection
(CME), which is what the PowersThatBe seem most afraid to encounter.

However the real danger to the planet comes from the magnetic bow wave itself.
Especially when we have a diminished, and weakened magnetosphere.

The impact of the magnetic discharge from the sun will overwhelm what is left of earth’s
protective magnetosphere and initiate both a pole and a crustal shift. Details of this process
may be found in Geryls’ books.

The effects will be profound.

As the inner core of the earth rotates due to the impacting magnetic solar discharge, the
actual physical alignment of the earth will change from our current positions.

Pre Shift:

Potential Post Shift:

Other view:

Coincidentally (curious, eh?) the pyramids at the Giza plateau are in the exact center
of the planetary landmasses. This begs the question of why? As a marker perhaps as to
the center of rotation of the planet under such circumstances as a free floating crust?
Bearing in mind that there is no ‘down’ in space, when the crust of the earth rotates, its
position and point of rotation will be determined by gravity as determined by what
object in space is closest to the ‘center of mass’ of the earth, conveniently marked by
the Giza pyramids. The two candidates that we have to specifically affect our rotation
are the moon, and the sun. Though smaller, the moon is closest, and if it may be
a primary determinate for how these periodic crustal spins resolve themselves.

Summation:
It can be seen from the illustrations above that such a mechanism would account for
the multitudinous effects that are currently manifesting in our solar system, as well
as the previous fossil, and geologic records of such cataclysms, and it does so without
requiring any extra-solar system spatial or positioning inputs or energies.

Further it can be noted (from reading Geryls books) that the math involved is both precise
and predictable, for us as well as our ancestors.

Geryls book, and web site,
http://www.howtosurvive2012.com/,
both contain strategies as well as ancient
historical reference from humans who have survived. This of course, is the personal key
to all of this. NOTE: Humans have survived this in the past. Your very existence is living
proof of that. No reason that humans can’t survive it again. Of course, time is very short
(as of November 3, 2009, less than 1144 days remain if the Mayan long count is accurate),
and energies and resources must be used very intelligently in the time remaining.

What if Geryl (and us nutters here at HPH) are wrong? Well, then the solar system is
still seriously disturbed by *something*. As are all the planets. And earth is clearly in
crisis, and getting worse. So the question then is, if we are wrong, how are we injured by
preparing for a crustal shift (in the immediate future)? Hmmmm. Let’s see, store food…ok,
that works either way. Have an unsinkable boat…ok, that can be a pocket cruiser if not
needed as our planetary life boat, and can be used if civil chaos descends to stand off shore.
Or can be used as an emergency RV if earthquake….et cetera.

And all the while noting that the level of stress on the planet is rising toward
some form of crescendo….

and ThePowersThatBe both know about it, and are constantly telling you about it. If you
are American, pull out the 1/One dollar bill. This note from the private elitist organization
known as the federal reserve bank which is not part of your federal government, has no
reserves, and is not a bank, but *is* hugely tied to all kinds of secret societies, tells you every
time you handle its 1/one dollar note, that they know what is coming. Look to the back of the
bill, look under the pyramid with the strange symbol of the floating eye above it. There
you will see the words ‘novus ordo seclorum’, which actually translates as ‘new order
of the ages’. Note that it is wrong to think this means ‘new world order’, rather the
word ‘ages’ means ‘astrologic or zodiac ages’. And the pole and crustal shift is intimitely
involved with a new ordering of the zodiac ages. Such symbols about what
ThePowersThatBe actually do know are everywhere, and are a fascinating study in and
of themselves, but we simply don’t have the luxury of time for that any more.

The facts of the matter are that such pole and crustal shifts have happened repeatedly in the
near and far past, so denial of the potential under these circumstances is more willful than
scientific. And it only takes observation of the global chemtrail agenda, or the visual changes
in the sun over these last 10 years to understand that big transitions are occurring. Plus, even
the mostly gutless NASA folks are actually saying that solar cycle 24 will be exceptionally
active. And solar cycle 24 coincidentally peaks in….2012. Hmmmmm?!

If the sun spot cycle mechanism is accurate, will there be pre-cursors? You betcha’. No
doubt about it. And it can be postulated that the cracking of the Indo-Australian tectonic
plate in the tsunami causing earthquake of 2004 is within the expected precursors. Other indicators
are (will continue to be) increasing earthquakes, and other tectonic plate cracks. Further signs
will come from solar behavior as well as the impacts of solar radiations here on earth.
The radiation impacts will include damages to plants, and animals. Further as the pressures
within the sun continue to build in the last days (perhaps weeks, maybe even months)
before the energetic release, there are likely to be predictable effects throughout the solar
system. Most of these will be of electric or magnetic nature and may include truly bizarre
problems such as rapid changes in magnetic and electric properties of metal things here on
earth. Further, the sun’s magnetic output would predictably become increasingly subject to
‘fits’ of chaotic expulsions (CME’s), as well as, very erratic sun spot activity as the magnetic
fields become distorted to extremes. The electrical problems here on terra would include
our communications satellites going wonky, perhaps even to the point of failure. This should
happen some months prior to the energetic release by the sun. Other predictable electric
effects will include strange ‘ground’ properties and static discharges of note at specific
spots on the planet (internal hyper dimensional locations). It would seem likely that the
planet would also continue to heat up internally in spite of atmospheric cooling. Thus the
oceans will continue to warm, and the ice melt at the poles, even as large snow masses
begin to build in formerly temperate zones. It seems likely that a large ice release from
Antarctica is probable in the last year or so prior to the shift. This will be related to an
increase in ‘energies from space’ that should have (in general) 2009 be ‘warmer’ in
the northern hemisphere winter, with both 2010 and 2011 exhibiting exceptionally odd
warming patterns, especially at the poles. This will lead to some spectacular ice ‘releases’
in both north and south poles.

Rice Crispy Treats on Scifi Sundays

February 6, 2011 at 3:30 pm | Posted in spiritual rantings | Leave a comment

A small town in more innocent days was a fine place to grow up. Children were free to wander and explore, without many of the fears we have these days. I took full advantage of such freedoms. Any one’s back yard was everyone’s backyard. I could be away from home for hours and, although I was out of my parents’ sight, the watchful eyes of a caring community would protect me.

However, this was not a life without rules. “Yes sir” and “Yes ma’am” were among the required dialog, but I understood why and truly felt the delivery of respect such words imply. Politeness was a necessity, glue that kept neighbors and friends at peace, but these gestures were never a struggle, never done without feeling. The spirit of sharing lit the town in ways that sunlight never could yet I was never to actually ask for anything from a neighbor. It all had to be offered first, whether it was a glass of water, the use of a phone to call home, cookies from a newfound recipe or, even, Rice crispie treats..

Perhaps, it was a gimmick to get housewives to try something new for sprucing up homemade desserts or just a wild idea by some marketing specialist in a high-rise office many miles away. The world had suffered with plain cereal long enough. No more s’mores of brown and white. The Waldorf salads just weren’t colorful enough. There just had to be a way to make a mug of hot chocolate look prettier and nothing could stop the inevitable. The recipes were on the shelves in Back water, North Carolina, and they were all the rage, why everyone was making them.

I was eight at the time and often went to the mayor’s house to play basketball. We had a yard of our own, but ours had sand and grass for a court, while the mayor’s was paved with concrete. I really don’t remember the mayor at all. I suppose he was always off doing whatever it was that mayors do. There was a son or two, but they were older and friends of my brothers. The lady of the house, Mrs. McNeil, was always home. She was one of the many adopted grandmothers a young child acquires in a small town. Anyone over 60 and friendly became an automatic grandparent. It may or may not have been a law back then, but it probably should be on the books today.

From a young boy’s point of view, it would be difficult to describe Mrs. McNeil. At that age, everyone is either young or old. It isn’t a disrespectful perception, but rather a child’s way of comparative thinking, categorizing people by groups for future reference. Mrs. McNeil fit into the “old” category, in a sweet and affectionate way. She was just a nice old lady.

One particular day, I’d been playing basketball by myself when she asked me if I’d like to come inside for something to drink. The kitchen welcomed me in with a strangely pleasant combination of cinnamon, cooked beef and floral scents that only works in a setting like this. It was a beautiful place with detailed, hand carved cabinets, antique tables and sense of importance. I’d been in this room many times before and every time it seemed new, as if you could only take a fraction of it in with each visit. With all the stains and varnishes, the room had a rich, brown hue, but on that day, something broke the color pattern. On one of the many countertops, was a plated piled pretty with rice crispie treats. My eyes widened at the amazing sight. It was almost magical. Marshmallows weren’t among my favorite treats, but these puffy, crispy treats were something, and I just knew they had to be special. Surely, Mrs. McNeil recognized their beauty and made them on this particular day, they must be very special, after all her husband was the mayor, almost royalty.

“Aren’t those cute?” she asked, looking back as she stirred something on the stove. She walked over and held the plate of Heaven up before my delighted eyes, as if to let a better light reflect off of it. “Who would have thought of such a thing?”

She had seen the look in my eyes. Why was she taunting me? Maybe she wasn’t so nice after all. I finished my water, thanked her, and headed for the door.

“Wait,” she called out.

A few minutes later, I walked in the front door of my own home, with a basketball under one arm and a bag of Rice Crispy treats clinched in the other hand. Supper was cooking, and my mother stopped me as I walked through the house evading the tugging and pulling of my brother’s and
sister’s little hands, wanting to know what I had in the bag.

“Their all mine.” I yelled at my little brother, and gave him a shove to reinforce my statement.

“What’s that?” she asked, looking at the bag filled with my heart’s desire.

“Rice Cripsy Treats,” I replied proudly, lifting the bag high into the air. “Mrs. McNeil gave them to me.”

“Did you ask for those?” she interrupted, angrily.

“No, ma’am,” I answered, but it was too late. She surely thought that no one could possibly hand out something as rare and special as these treats, unless someone asked for them.

“You can’t go around asking for things like that!”

“Yes, ma’am”.

“You wanted them,” she said, “so I guess you can have those instead of supper. All of them!”

It seemed like a great idea at the time. What kind of punishment was this? These were rice crispy treats, lots of them, 22 of them, wow what a meal I thought. This was just like giving Charlie the key to the chocolate factory. I sat down at the dinner table and started gobbling down rice crispy treats, before she had a chance to change her mind. I was the luckiest kid in the world.

But something strange happened about halfway through my dinner. The magic began to disappear, the treats didn’t seem so unique anymore and now were harder to chew than shoe leather. . It became painful to finish the 10 or so that were still on the plate. I remember sobbing as I ate the last ones, not from the punishment but rather the disappointment. I was sickened by the sweetness, and now they were hard and no longer enjoyable.

My eyes were bulging by the time I filled my mouth with the last dreadful bite of Rice crispy Treats. I swore to whatever God might be that I would never eat another Rice crispy treat again in my life.. My stomach was distended and if someone lit a match under my butt It would have
become a blow torch.

I was holding my stomach and crying, My dad was taunting me, “You’re going to need your
stomach pumped for sure” He giggled.

But instead Mama grabbed the enema bag, “This is what happens when you beg for food.” “This is what
happens when you don’t share.” She beamed at me.

After shoving those ‘treats’ down my throat, and then getting an enema shoved up my ass, I knew there
was a lesson for me somewhere in all of this. A Treat can be very deceptive