A Refined Cosmology To Address Cosmic Anomaly

Thursday 7 February 2013

Canto XXII

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.

Canto XXXII

Canto XXXII

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

satellites.

Why we are Wormwood, misnamed for wormfood.

The last hour approaches the last station to get off.

Canto XIX

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.

Canto XVIII

Canto XVIII

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

found.

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:

THAT NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH MATTERS.

Canto XX

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

enough

The shot is unnecessary?

Indeed, virtue set with clarity is just

that...

And Equational Zero IS the last departure point.

It is how far we can go as we are as inevitability.

Canto X

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.

Canto VII

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.

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 VI

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.

Canto V

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.

Canto IV

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.

Canto III

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!

Canto II

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.

Canto By James Horak

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

Relentlessly:

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

well.

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.

JCH

Sunday 27 January 2013

Civil-War in America - Mark Snider With James Horak and Crystal Clark

by Ohio Exopolitics

Edited version, 1:02h

No matter which branch of absurdity (death by ignorance) mass media is used to sell you on participating in for your perceived benefit, they must use propaganda to do it. Managing your perceptions of reality is a BIG part of perpetuating ignorance, because they know people will respond to what they BELIEVE is true, not what IS true. Again, ignorance is the cunning thief of free will—people will not make choices they don’t know they have.

1.Civil War
2.Gun Control
3.NWO
4.Global Government

Courtesy
blogtalkradio.com/ohioexopolitics
Information-Machine.blogspot.com
drowninginabsurdity.wordpress.com

The Night of Drawing Out - James Horak

This present is the time of unbelief, the time mankind professes itself
to the least of what it can imagine in the assurance nothing better
exists. Feeling free to focus on the mundane, sex becomes the pilot for
almost every endeavor. In one aspect or another. While "pushing the
envelope" amounts to nothing more than excess. Even to take another's
last breath is nothing more than an extention on theme. Evil though it
be, it is not remarkable for being else than evil. For there is no
anchor that can attach the soul.

This is an understanding the controllers do not want the brave to
have. They would place you in fear of your soul. Once they have taken
all else from you, and you realize this, you are a loaded cannon
wondering the cannon deck of a ship in a storm.

Time and time again, horror movies are churned out, all transgressing
ties to the soul beyond the grave, as if it were a debt owed the
company store and passed on by the death of a father to his surviving
son.

The horror depicted stigmatizes this fear into you and it doesn't
leave just because the lights come back on in the theater or you
have a commercial break. The residue, the suggestion that your soul
can somehow suffer blight, be taken, become less or even mortal,
persists.

On this Eve, I would say this to you, when you leave this veil of
tears, you go where you will, and as well and completely as clarity
allows. How, by any right, could it be any other way? If life has not
robbed you so astoundingly as to render you wholly lost to possibility
you retain nothing of this innate awareness, I pray, by the Grace of
God, you are furnished with astonishing awareness before you depart.
And that I have done what I could for your benefit.
JCH

JCH

Saturday 19 January 2013

Link To EMVs Blog

Welcome to our blog readers. Please be aware that if you arrived here from a different link, all our work can be found at the EMVs blog by clicking on the link below or in the side bar.

Many Thanks in Advance

www.emvsinfo.blogspot.com

Thursday 25 October 2012

The Rush of Human Consciousness

The Rush of Human Consciousness to Resolve Earth-bound Past Years back, “the quickening” was a touted observation discussed at length and probed by various talk show hosts and guests but never really examined so that the concept of events culminating at a terminal point in time could be fathomed. Attempts to do so were so failing that the carry-over from the quickening concept hardly survives today. It would have if the penetration had been conducted on a more expanded level. Why it was not is a story in itself, but important to realize in order to show the pattern in which so many hopeful starts in revealing astounding discoveries are simply reverted back by a centering mechanism that is not only the province of an individual, but that of a collective...even perhaps a worldwide one. I have ventured here for you, but to let me know you follow closely so that I can defeat such implanted mechanisms you must earn the answers with “stay on the path” questions. Else I cannot take you where we might both wish to be. Something of a quest. JCH

Monday 15 October 2012

A Refinded Cosmology To Address Cosmic Anomaly

A Refined Cosmology To Address Cosmic Anomaly

Lifting the Veil

Crystal Clark interviews James Horak

In association with

www.information-machine.blogspot.com

www.jameshorak.blogspot.com

www.emvsinfo.blogspot.com

Click here to download the interviews as single mp3 file

This may well be the first time earth-bound humanity has been told the truth about our past—ever.

Should that be the case, this is a Great Day for the people on this planet—this is no small thing. It is entirely natural and expected that people will ask themselves, “How can we possibly know if this is true?”

As you move through each segment of this 3-part series, the answer will become self-evident: If we are able to turn things around on this planet fast enough, which will also ensure that we survive our own technology and those who abuse it, we will be in a position to TEST this story… I like that. :)

I want to thank Helvetic, creator of the www.information-machine.blogspot.com for inviting me to host this series, and I would like to thank James Horak for his assistance to humanity at this time. I would also like to thank OmetaOne for all of his hard work on the audio editing. It was gracious of him to honor your time as individuals, consequently condensing these files to the shortest time frame possible.

I would imagine some of you are wondering if I personally believe this story?

Yes—I do.

At the same time, as another friend (Mel Fabregas) often says in his own way, I would rather *know* than believe but there’s only one way to do that, and we deserve that opportunity. I look forward to it…

Blessings and enjoy the view, Crystal Clark

Crystal Clark
is author of the books:
Who Are We Really 101 - Return of the Shaman
Who Are We Really 102 - When Tomorrow Comes
Crystal's website - thesolsociety.com

Wednesday 20 April 2011

It Was Like That....

It was like that. And then it changed. By the death of one man we were all told to forget too early. Just to “get him behind us”. A quick solution to complications never meant to resolve. An acid water that never lost its bite, but always kept the bad taste from the corrosion it caused. We sailed past dragging a heavy anchor (like shoals were near and the storm would not subside.) It didn't, just came and went anew. Always over something else, like a rogue's theft... the same but behind a different mask. Another quick solution with the same oily feeling somehow the soap left behind.

Time and time again. The media but a drumbeat to a cadence more redundant than an African dance. Would that slumber had some exoneration; would that justice could be had by capitulation. Until the very word, would, became its own rebuke. When found in the eye of a storm (one that grew forevermore) named Fukushima, our moral sleep-walking could no longer “get him behind us.”

JCH

Sunday 27 March 2011

The Illusionist- written by James Horak - 2007

I am always given permission to delve back into the writings of the man I have come to trust and respect more than I do my own self-judgement, not for any other reason than he always has been open, forthcoming and patient with me and the hundreds of questions I ask in my driven need to seek the truth and to gain knowledge that is kept hidden from us.

I have a few pieces written by James from before I knew him and have been waiting for an appropriate time to publish some of them on the blog for all to enjoy and there are many now who do and many more who come to me on a daily basis, thanking us for doing what we do..freely and for the betterment of the whole...
Given light of current circumstances, I felt this piece was apt and deserves a read as much truth is contained within it.
Enjoy..
Torz

	James Horak
	Feb 12, 2007 10:22 PST

The Illusionist

In this age of unbelief, ruled by incredulity, the accounts of the past are skimmed over and ignored when they broach significant anomalous observation, with little heed given them. Mesmer, Tesla, St.Germain, incidents of documentable faith healing, and accounts of Admiral Byrd's experiences with the Blonds in Antarctica are only a few examples. There come to be thousands once you begin in-depth research.

The movie, The Illusionist, is a superb example of how mankind goes about refashioning experiences to accommodate limited expectation.

Actually the movie script writers have done little but make a composite of various "performances" given over the years by various "illusionists" before (as they were advertised) the crowned heads of Europe in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Bearing in mind no technical means were available then to produce a hologram, remote casting of spectre, or imagery that could interact with the audience to everyone there. Because, as you've been told hypnosis alone cannot do this for not everyone can be put under the suggestion to do it. The extensive accounts, however, all agree this is exactly what happened. No one came forward throughout it all, to disagree.

Even in the presence of men of science who knew how to avoid being hypnotized and how to debunk the hoax "spiritualists" of the day.

There is a reason magicians today revere Harry Houdini. He didn't just come to illustrate the super-human aspect one could achieve through dedication to a profession taken to purpose-driven length.

He came and passed the extent to which such devotion alone could reach. They simply can't figure that out. To them, in their mindset of today, he was just the best example of the craft they can conceive.

We don't really believe today in the sorcery through which Moses parted the waters. But it was a common technique among certain of the priest castes in Egypt. Read Budge's book on Egyptian magic if you don't helieve me. No, we have fashioned out of incredulity a comfort zone that leaves us bereft of so many faculties: keen observation that can penetrate psychic block, the ability to follow inevitability to rightful conclusion (probability) if that conclusion is astounding and the endurance to persist observing what we perceive as incredible when it threatens that comfort zone. We will run screaming to get away. That's what you people all do, just over the things I want to develop into discussion with you.

We will not endure our own technology much longer until we overcome these childish fears. No matter how you have been entrained to view and not to view, you are at the brink with a blindfold on.

Minimalism is not objective, ignoring that of the past, historically, only cookie-cutting what you wish and denying what doesn't fit into mindset, is profitless. No one gains by trying to occupy an hostile country and what brought down the Soviet Union is about to do the same to the United States. All because military historians are avoiding important historical lessons to stay in favor with an idiot.

Are you beginning to get my drift? The war drums are beating, as they did with Iraq, to attack Iran, a truely devout Moslem nation that Mecca will be moved to protect with a declaration of Holy War against the United States. You, as part of what the media and society has made you, are about to embark on a folly that will exceed the world's entire ability to control. What will come of it will not be an environment anyone would choose, even those at the top. Not even the Moslems, disunited as they are today, realize the potential.

But a good historian of the Middle Ages would well know what to expect. That is why they will not be asked.

JCH

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