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Tuesday, 30 November 2010

In Dealing with Dishonesty...

My dearest friend Torz has worked very hard to establish this blog. Together, she and I have sought to avoid the confrontational imps that are personal hit artists on forums and discussion groups throughout the internet. How do we discern between them and honest skeptics who simply want to penetrate to the truth, whoever holds up to scrutiny best?

It's quite simple, if someone is, in reply to another, unwilling to be responsive to your message and resorts to the illogical, emotional, or the confrontational at length while avoiding substance, why should they be indulged? Obviously they shouldn't be.

Most of us can find that kind of contact over our backyard fence and is why we search the intenet for something better. Allowing open discussion and permitting another soapbox to the redundancy of systemic incredulity are entirely two different things and we will not put up with the latter.

If you will search the net you will find I do not shirk from honest skepticism and its arguments. And never will.

James Horak

Sunday, 26 September 2010

Canto Part II - Written by James Horak

Canto VII

They knew when I had come. Possessed of so little faith, they could not be brought easily to belief. Then the five corners began to complete and they shuddered. And they began to tamper with time.
My father, the first to jump from a plane...with a chute he designed himself.
The target was on a runway, one he was assured was reserved (true, for the plane that nearly hit him.)
While he was recovering his signature was forged so that the Germans could begin blietzkrieg.
Whom did he think he was working for in the US Army Air Corps? It took the bad knee to teach him...the munitions industry. And when he forgot, there was seeing his tri-chimney (intended to give steerage to men not bent on enemy fire and mine fields) used to bring a visit from the sun upon two Japanese cities. Slowing fat bombs so that bursts would be high enough overhead for the fireball to go down, before up.
His uncle just a little later finds the Moon Shaft. Deep inside all the time knowing what it was.
Later, intimating only to me. The others had no need for such enormity. Mother would not talk about my father, the man she left before I was born. I had to wait 12 years to know why EBEs had attacked us that night in 1947 in New Mexico, as we moved to Texas.
Looking into oval pools I had passion not to join, one thought had driven them away...sending them in their own oval ship sparking into oblivion.
My beloved grandfather died just before the completion of that third. Summoned to his bed too late, I returned with heavy heart. A wait in Albuquerque brought me face to face with their own again.
The Man In Black, Rinn Clark, to give the reluctant warning. Even THEY must play by rules.
Rinn, the man of eternal mystery, magician guild president, owner of the Western Hills Motels
(where Marinna was "debriefed" two weeks following the assassination,) and the only Chinese emperor's robes outside tombs today...all seven of them! Rinn had to place the offering, he had to hope I would come over. That night just before Christmas (1962) in Sasebo Harbor was the fourth. The night of my awakening to what I was, from whence it came and my purpose. When the lights came over those small mountains and formed a V to my mind. What Rinn Clark had known...and what he had hoped would not.
Aimless for so long, until that summer in Utah...like what I had done in that stone in Arizona for 50,000 years, still dormant to purpose, waiting for the time of clarity to come...when it did. The place for the new heaps. Watched over by timid children that can't stop digging in their own dirt. Watching the Hand of God deposit the source of life. Not knowing what forbodes, what hope lingers for the rest.
The five corners of the pentagram were complete. Compressing time was but a part of it.

The Host

There are so many ways to tremble...
that we would have you learn.
So many ways to cowardice beyond
to strangle, stab and burn.

The Highest has placed us near to spite
our ever intending goal
That we would make of man an equal
inspite of never having had a soul.

Copyright April 2001 James C. Horak

Additional Notes:
The quality of this Canto is not in keeping with the others. Hurriedly I wrote this, since I may not be allowed here much longer. Too, this is not according to my plan of how I meant to present this work. For I've not been allowed the "run around" your incredulity, with which I know you will react. Wondrous things have never ceased. It is purely an invention of industrial tyrants that they ever have. Men that would replace dragons and sorcerers with cold steel and glass buildings...and soulless efforts just as empty as themselves.
You must ask yourself, in the recently revealed reality of how little concern there is to secure national secrets from other nations, just for whose benefit the secrecy is maintained? Especially the secrets about UFOs, the EMVs in the Rings of Saturn and around the sun, and the constantly increasing pathogens intentionally developed in the name of military preparedness.
In the end, if you pursue the matter long enough, one inevitable conclusion can be reached. The secrecy is maintained to prevent the human species from realizing its potential. We have the most wonderful potentials. Our imagination is just a glimpse around the corner of that.

Canto X

The Old Man on The Road, Part One (of three)...The Past

Orestes had met him, as had Phillip of Macedonia, Napoleon and Robespierre, even the resolved General Patton. He had tolled the bells for Hemingway and resided close with the elusive Mr. Traven.
His inspiration was on the pages of hundreds of magnificent works by authors that might sparingly mention him, but always with reverence.
How he did it, traveling through time in between dimension upon troughs at just the right frequency (phase)...so as not to disturb the layering, was wonderful. All of it was not to adventure, not to take anything...even slight artifact (though he had permitted himself a few.) It was to argue with adopted lie, the context of mindset, when it became so unyielding no one saw through it.
He told me of the Martian Exodus. And of those superb beings so long forgotten that had allowed it. That had to leave their homes themselves, so deep beneath the soil of Mars, to trade the Martian moon for our survival. The engine my uncle found in the TatrasThen the earth would be ready for the "mineral".

The Hand of God

These priests you call scientists
would have the strangest things matter.
While slighting wonder and elegance
to justify soullessness.

Easily in their view is spread the difference,
working as it had to prepare the Garden.
Laying empty bits of rock and other matter
in rings around the planet Saturn. 

To be kissed by the Sun.

Copyright May 2001 James C. Horak

Canto XX

The Old Man

Part II (The Present)

Our bravest moments are always those unwatched by others, unheeded by the mass of mankind that proclaims such titles of respect. So little attention is paid subtlety, much less that not extolled over and over again by those suited to flattery.
Now, however, the negative aspect issues forth...that prescribed to attribute motive and denigrate the uncomfortable truth. Ahh, yes, attributing motive, the refuge of cons and cowards constantly seeking fault with their betters to confuse the truth even farther from the mark than where lying governments have misplaced it.

He had reached a new resolve. This last high school reunion, the fortieth, led to it.
He would tell them all what he really did, what he had done now these last near forty years.
"I", he said, resigned to it, "do contract work for think tanks. I have the only job left
where I must be furnished with the truth to effectively work."

They were curious, "think tanks?" "Yes, like Rand, Westinghouse, The Ford Foundation, the Company." There weren't many questions following that. The small talk resumed.

But he had cracked the ice, the ice entombing him to a form of endless decay.
For it had not been enough just to back up whistle-blowers when they came forth to tell truths so few were prepared to hear. He must open up some "avenues" himself.

Equational Zero
Can a thing be so astute,
merely uttering it settles the matter?
Placing cross-hairs on a target perfectly
The shot is unnecessary?
Indeed, virtue set with clarity is just
And Equational Zero IS the last departure point.
It is how far we can go as we are as inevitability. 

Copyright June 2002 James C. Horak


Cantos above XVII are about the future. Here in XVIII, is the threshold of what is presently becoming an inevitability. A die already cast, but with outcome not wholly decided. And why we are "revisited".

I am Maldanus now, shepherd of the Hand of God,
Thing that gives life and Natural Order
Where else nothing of flowing substance would be

Science and art to you are, at one, to look with
telescope at what is close...and microscope at 
what is distant, the other...
At what is of no import, to give heed, while to 
the very cradle of your life, spend nothing.

What brings me now?...and do I come with sword?
(Strange little details upon which to fasten.)
*Like the last time, when you asked if I love you.
Only enough to come again.

Hardly off your starboard, the work of my charges
readies the vast heaps.
Saturn's gossamer rings give them treatment by the sun. 
The last needed to renew the worm life you've poisoned.

The question is "do you love yourself wisely?" Enough?...
To plant and grow harvest rather than profit from famine.
Only one truth can stand you well enough to matter:

Copyright April 2001 James C. Horak

Canto XIX

The poet and historian Robert Graves had found Her, locked away among the musty, still forbidden, past. No less glamorous than the last day Her feet had been bathed in wine and dried by the hair of fair maidens. Shining forth, immortalized forever, his name to be attached to a Goddess...The White Goddess.
The One whose ambivalence (Hers alone) is blessed. The One that cannot be denied...though hidden from view these millennia. A woman with power is stern to so many who would model the fair as the earth...to plow, place seed in... to dishevel in hunger, to abandon to meagre Winter. The White Goddess is more than earth, She is the very disposition of the elements. Nothing persists without Her. One nation after another needed to personify Godhood in their kings...lusting for power that paid nothing to Her. Never allowing even that one Roman day to set aside for Her.
Wanting no one to know how She gave both the men and their women new seasons of expectation,
allowing love to come with harvest...not just wealth...preferring even famine to grasp that last hoard of gold from the poor.

The White Goddess

I was not whole until You took my lust,
Giving back love.
I was not open to all You had to caress
Until you showed me tenderness.
I was not intoxicated to gentleness
Except when You sang the Song of David,
Making forged iron soft to sweet Earth.

The maidens gather at Your temple steps.
Baskets of flower petals blessed by
their tiny picking finger tips.

Can I love You any better than this?,
To throw what I have at Your feet.
Counting You will return in brown season
To harbor me, changing bitter to sweet.

The maidens gather at Your temple steps.
Baskets of flower petals blessed by
their tiny picking finger tips.

Copyright May 2001 James C. Horak


Crossed harmonics is what it's called. That place where molecules and atoms are so unsure of providence. So null is created. A place to start going upward, into the crystalline lattice with something more than a jack-hammer, or less. All the while mere sound (attenuated close to the frequency of thought)is all it takes to exterminate man rodent. But it isn't costly enough to count...to keep pot-latch in place in the economic scheme Machiavelli tried to avoid announcing. Places were set aside to be little more than null.
Ed Storm found one, there in South Africa. But his love and profit over succulents wouldn't let him leave it alone. And he wouldn't gracefully bow out when his officers cut off his supply...there in the diamond zone that had no diamonds. Did his wife plant delicate cactii on his grave?
Then there's one in Mexico, and here in the US (I won't tell you, you've better things to do with life.)
We all had the one in Siberia loudly announced close to the beginning of the last century.* *When you start out, sometimes you screw things up...just to learn to get them right. The hydrogen bomb was that way, a little side step Oppenheimer tried to discuss. And when both USSR and China had to take their own terrifying view into parallel dimension, the New World Order suddenly became expedient.
But the stupidity didn't stop. My uncle's engine transported all the way South. Placed in Lake Vostok, near another of its kind. Simply to see how bad the havoc can be...like with A.I.D.S., the ultimate sign of the times.
Then there's the thing in the circular mountain range in Utah (the only circular mountain range observed...even on the moon.) Perhaps I'll tell you about that, when I, Dimosthenes, discover something new to love about you.

Center Point Passed

Nothing mattering is not delicate.
Even dog slaves of Rome feeding swine
with their dead...
Have the tears of you or me.
No one has the right to blot.

Whether truth, life, hope...
When does the diminuator become
the executioner?
That first step sets the inevitability. 

Ivan Grozny was taught to be amused
throwing dogs upon rocks one hundred feet down.
Lovely little lesson to bestow compassion.
To but be relentless, more in mistake than might. 

Now we haze, we brandish women as trophies, we
Count merit with poker chips.
And we gauge how far we've been by how much fuel 
we've used. 

We would approach stars that way, and their tender
Why we are Wormwood, misnamed for wormfood.
The last hour approaches the last station to get off.

Copyright April 2001 James C. Horak

Canto XXII

What lies beneath the German castle and what noble gas perplexes disease? You would know, you say. And still you haven't found the likeness in the hand that wrote Titus Andronicus with that of Malta's Jew, odd. Nor drew the culprit practiced forth, when Elizabeth and Mary stole their wonderful husbands' work. Neither do you tolerate the astute that do.
Now the Eve approaches...for you to stand bare to what you are. Wanting to know, you say, but only what does not disturb complacent comfort. While the answers never moved far from your feet, even to scurry away from your frown. And you've never tested the gap between your thought and its essence to your soul. Even to be one with Gods. Lying about pulsing sun vibrating earth to its core is the lie you can least afford...just to hide the secret power you've discovered, that makes a wave to oval surface. A wave to ride upon. While my vast engines will shake you until you abandon one tune to try another. I, Maldanus, would test this shroud you wrap yourself in to deny the Heavens.

The Suicide

The World is not my place,
she said,
The corners falling down.
And in some timeless attic way
The lace departs my gown.

My body zoned permits no frown
Still on with life I go.
The attic way, a lonely place,
My house for dolls that sin.

With hair uncut (to silence change)
Inside my vault I pace;
Unheard, the echo fades
And shatters my disgrace.

Copyright April 2001 James C. Horak

Posted by Torz Baron Copley

Canto Part I - Written by James Horak

Foreword: The written word speaks to us on many levels. When put together they can communicate to the reader the writers memories and thoughts. Memories of love, happiness, sadness, longings, warnings, regrets and life experiences. The list is endless but depends upon how the writer weaves those words together to create a picture that the reader can visualize and follow in his mind. Some of us have a special ability to go deeper into the written word and they create beautiful Poetry. Poets could be seen as memory keepers, they have an ability to mould the written word into a form that is long forgotten and rarely used in our busy lives.

In times past, people who could write were a treasured commodity and were employed as record keepers. What would it be like if we could remember our past lives accurately and bring them into the present with the power of the written word.

What you are about to read is exactly that, a writers words and memories penned into an Epic Canto, which unfortunately isn't complete or finished and I doubt ever will be as the moment of writing has now passed. However, it's contents give a unique glimpse to those who are able to read with an open mind, into a past and persons we cannot currently verify the reality of and I present it to you the reader, with full permission, to judge for yourself the authenticity based on my knowledge of the author.

The author is James Horak, someone I am very close to. I have made it my business to know him and as such, I know he doesn't lie nor embellish and is a rare and unique person in that respect. I trust that he would not, as a writer, a man and poet, pen something so important as this Canto that didn't give us an insight that we should take heed and notice of. I was granted access to this Canto freely within only days of meeting James, they made a profound impression upon me then and continue to do so every time I re-read them and they WILL require numerous readings in order to fully grasp what James has written. Please read them in the order they are written and let the mind find it's own order.

Victoria Baron Copley

Consciousness is not limited by anything but underdeveloped expectation... JCH 2010

Canto I
What shall follow are non-chronological segments of a tale whose authenticity you will have the presumed audacity to pass upon. Take heed that you do so wisely, neither out of incredulity nor spite.
 Otherwise your lot may fall, as did mine, upon countless ages of unrequited good works still yet to satiate the pressing need to make amends to Gods your awareness still waits to apprehend...well.

Canto I

In the land of terraced stone pyramids pointing to an ever
blood thirsting sun...
I am Quetzechoatl.
He who rides upon the Plummed Serpent, thought to mark one
Ending its New Beginning.
But I am not.

These people call me that, that I would be but another part
of what they paint their dreams
The copper smell of endless steaming blood tracing down altar
blood grooves
to mix with oceans.

No, I have come to offer new metaphors for what they make of
the Meanings
that frame their Works.
And I will either set them free of this blood fever or.....
present them with new masters
that will.

It is only at such times and for such Purpose I come to Fallen host,
cast out island planet
where failed souls
suffer aimlessly
to try purpose

Copyright April 2001 James C. Horak

Additional Notes:
I intend this to be but one Canto of many. I may present some of the others here, but not all. Even though the "tale" is not complete without them.

Canto II
Rome had not fallen. She was pushed, bruised and battered from the inside, her precious substance trailing to Byzantium like the dying pig dealt the dirty slit in that final run to lose her insides. Just to save a little work for teaming slaughter.
Giving those flying the Red Cross something to sack to save the same effort and avoid the Saracen, some nine hinging centuries later. *Give or take a century or two.
Malthus had not visited her in time...nor had the wise of her enemies.
All of whom had her blood, not just on the outside, but the inside. Bravely and lusting so much alike...all to come to commonly inevitable ends.
And I, her Patron, had deserted her?! Hardly. Count the lives I gave her back. Count those maddened hearts I quieted, Sulla, Caligula, Nero...to name but a few. Just so that I might entertain the rare splendors of Augustus Caesar, Antony, Cladius, the mighty clans that shone through the squalid bickering of Patrician arrogance.
Men of grandeur, men that knew vanquishing a foe meant to make a whole race indelibly an enemy. Granting citizenship and favor to common men of brave heart.
Not even Sparta had shown such wonderful council. An eon and nothing so wonderful had blessed the earth. Wonderful enough to give a dying soldier's spilled blood meaning.
I am her Patron, unknown to you, highest God of the Etruscan Priest Caste.
God, in that I am strong enough to strike down even the dearest when they would defeat themselves...if for no other reason than to save them the final despoliation, shame.

Lament of the Fallen to God

It makes no difference,
Water has washed under the bridge.
You have stoned me--yet,
Water reforms the gap
And the stone's smooth-likeness.

It is my best to know this,
Not to prod memory further--
Further than forgiveness comes
And where kindness is out-paced.
Let the water wash past.

Not so long ago, still
I sat at Your table.
The room seemed larger than before.
Inside the walls whispered.
Even when Yours was One Voice repeated,
One of, among...with the others.
Honesty darkened with Your Brow.
For whom do You reserve the Word?

Outside they laugh, the others laugh.
We have known of the others, You and I.
We have never known What We are
(For We are not like the others)
And cannot see Ourselves but in each Other.
--To know and be helpless to remedy,
Instead, to seek stones
For mutual targets that are...
tragically mutual.
Water washes, will always wash. 

Copyright � May 2001 James C. Horak

Canto III
The tradition began there. Of those that could see the blue flame.
They came to that smooth oval surface knowing full well without words it was of and about other worlds...what they called of the Great Spirit.
Some of them had room for knowing, so I gave them something to take away.
I had been a long time there. Reckoned in eons.
This place I kept with fused silicate and armoton metal put together under pressure
as a gas then taken to a solid without ever losing integrity as a liquid.
It could not be broached, and I might stay until called again.
The day I began the tradition Yahpuah came. Placing his hand on the glassine surface,
he asked to know how to help his people. 
He would give his blood for them, even go into the strange slave bondage of a war captive.
Pleading, he described the fever upon all the children and old women.
Could he take it all upon himself?
I broke with my own. Giving him just a little of what had sat so idle all of these countless ages.
He received what he needed, and I, now a Lord Jim among savages.

My great uncle, the last of the Old World.
Knew what stood before him that day...in the cave.
It had pushed up, all the way from just above earth's mantle.
In moments, sheathed with the uplift of Tatra Mountains,
it came from where it had been placed. 

Like the spire of some mammoth cathedral of glassine strength
that nothing of this earth might mar. 
Wonderful engine, playing moon motion still, holding with its
others the parity to hold moon to earth...the alien moon
Taken from its Martian cradle to perform as it had there,
to bring life to one and leave death for the other. 

We build...for nothing comes solely of time. Anything living
has been our nurtured. 

We protect...nothing stands alone against fusion star, more
ambivalent in its wake, than earth human in his deed. 

We provide the mineral, wrested from the firmament and drenched
by the sun so its substance becomes manna, promise of all life.

Among those who can compress time began Purpose.

And what vacuum must be to think so much from accidents come!

Copyright April 2001 James C. Horak
Canto IV
The Abroyt were wonders of their worlds...almost as far as the warmth from their sun could touch. 
Even in stellar infancy they had not sent their own atop Roman candles into empty black of off-world night. Little wonder that when it finally came to adventuring beyond their realms, realms that bordered on the edge of vast gravitic anomaly, they would bio-tech-engineer the very beings best suited to do it...to travel into empty night and have no relent for what they left behind. 

In their early nomenclature the USAF gave away they knew of these bio-engineered entities.
It was inherent to their designation of them, EBE, Extra-Biological-Entity.
They had their own use for these hapless creatures, now derelict from their objective...
with the Abroyt long gone almost an eon ago...especially now they could make them.
But then it happened, the EBEs went berserk.

Nature is our Protector, whether as moral guide or provider...whether as Creator or White Goddess. 
But we cannot be protected from ourselves. Nor from the acquisition of vain self-image the EBEs contracted from man as he trafficked with them unwisely.

For now the EBE would be a specie, having sensual and reproductive ability. It would have desire...
It would have soul. Even if it had to take these things from man.
Even if one endless gruesome experiment after another would be performed, age after age after age.

The Abroyt, however, were still involved, long gone but still involved. Not wishing to overstep boundaries, they had made a creature with no genetic number that could be specified. 
That could never biologically reproduce, that could never contain genetic knowledge. 
That could never possess a soul.

Vibrational Integrity

I heard you just the other day,
the brave words, remorselessly given,
That still won't go away.
To you, all of these disturbed "illusions"
were but created, needlessly spoken,
Challenging one favorite delusion.

That madness exists without cause.

Copyright May 2001 James C. Horak

Canto V
It was not enough to take what they had and humble them in the streets before man as I will you, before God. Even ripping away babies at breast to behead their powdered skin mothers.
Dancing in the streets with sightless eyed heads upon poles.
While your Marat bathes in their tubs waiting to be shaved a little too well by a wench tired of living.
Only the genius of a Blake or Sir Hugo can find any beauty, 
separating what little justice and/or mercy that remains and telling us, by doing so, 
we might still have a little grace left, perhaps even...a few more centuries of such folly.
I am Gabriel now, but my sword never thirsted for so much blood. 
Let me relent but a little...just to find something that might temper this fury shaking its fists 
all the way to the Gates of Heaven.

The Resurrection 

The light of early morning fell through
the garret opening with warmth to touch,
arouse, to tender. Mingling with window bars 
it sent their image with itself, along its
downward course. The smoke of mist it raised
gathered on the glass to pull the air's last
restraint to day, the frost, and inward still
crept upon the corners least its showers for 
the panes be lost.
Swollen near a hand might move to kindle
yet its own...and inward, too, a tribute owed
that a new warmth paid.
A face would raise, a tear would fall and
mingle with the dust as scaffolds would
upon the panes presently adjust.

Copyright April 2001 James C. Horak

Canto VI

When does the secret yearning we have for what touches our dreams and reaches beyond the daylight world, know our soul?
What challenges our faithfulness to promise, and holds answering lust to more stead than knowing love? 
How will fear for the future allow us time to pursue something more than to but digress,
again and again, away from a course that comes to these answers?
These are questions more important to us than the brevity of lifetimes.
Lifetimes that recreate the same failures and where we learn the value for not
failing only after the value is diminished.
Would we view life as some carnival ride taken on a dare...new to possibility,
with the resolve to try that next level of testing our courage? And when the rider
could be even more brilliant by grasping the unknowns haunting the past with doubt?
Just by venturing, without weighing one single thing but to know something new.

Child Wonder

Nothing is more astute than thee
meddlesome, brazen little gnome.
Head too big, feet and legs unsure,
Incredibly frightened to be alone.

Testing everything, then back again...
to pull kitten's tail and puppy's ear.
Punishing the air and whatever else is there.
Never questioning that exhuberance....
until you're murderously told to.

Copyright May 2001 James C. Horak

Posted by Torz Baron Copley

Click here to Continue to part II

Tuesday, 21 September 2010

Humanity on this Planet is Dynamic for all its Faults...

The reply I received after my first email to James FEB 2010

Torz, humanity on this planet is dynamic, for all its faults. Great writers, poets, artists and performers taking the expression of their genre constantly to new heights. That lineage is too precious to lose, but poised above all this are the mindless power grabbers who won't be content until they possess even the souls of those they've already begun to plunder in mind and body.

If you only knew how much effort I've put into averting the madness that would turn a world into a place where no one would wish to live! To have seen it over and over again...like some residue of the past kept it all in this inevitable cycle. Knowing full well this is NOT the way it has to be.

You may very well have a connection to many events and places remote to this period. That may come from times where your subconscious is allowed to participate with the conscious, when the systemic fear the conscious mind has of its subconscious counterpart somewhat abates.

This is not a natural state of mind and has become a feature of earthbound humanity, a counter-productive one. Because of it, you have been entrained to sublimate dichotomy and cannot think of good without evil, peace without war.

The children are the most of all prizes, yet they are protected least. You are taught to protect them adequately is to be "too" protective. For a father to be so, to be "too" controlling. That should tell you this "inevitable" that has been designed. And that you must go backwards to find the right path from the point where the wrong one was taken.

I was saddened to have to answer that ETs are indifferent, long ago having given up this "experiment". Still there are those among them that display their craft and retain a hope that what they possess will example better things are obtainable.

Actually I do not resign to any decision, I merely lose the strength to withstand others making it. As I am pulled back to my source, leaving the "field of battle". Perhaps you can understand, I didn't feel trying to express it on the show would be successful.

On, UFO Updates are a few of my articles under my name. You might be interested in them and find they strike chords with you. There is genetic knowledge and you will have it after the "field" the mind actually is, incorporates with the soul shortly after death. I've tried to help develop an awareness of this process in others
here many times but always failed. The few ET civilizations that have, have gone on to a field energy state of being and almost always separate entirely from those that haven't.

The civilization that did succeed beyond this point became part of the extended community many ET worlds share. You know them as "blondes". But that lineage is so deep in the past they themselves have forgotten how close they came to this very point. Though I have dealt with the ET extended community I am not a part of it, but associated purely with the EMVs, sometimes their liaison with the ETs. Of late ETs are disgusted with me "having gone native" with the people here....so that you might appreciate my place in things.

Their memories are short. As always that breeds arrogance. The die is not cast. Do not fall to despondency. In all this "drama" something might emerge from among you to carry the day. Something that might cut away the disease there. All the potential is there, I've always fathomed it. So I have stayed.

Worlds exist where every life is regarded as precious and no one wants to raise a hand to another. Persist on the hope to see this. And don't fear the worst. Even it will bring wonders to you. But don't reach for that before your time. We all have discoveries to make as each expression of existence plays out.

Wise men have told you "no task too great will be put upon you". That means that instruments have been placed throughout the cosmos to prevent any soul from being robbed of its integrity. I know that you know what that means. And you must, as well, know that only God is capable of such a grand scale.

Most of all, nothing has any meaning or purpose to survive that has no moral core.


© Torz Baron Copley