by nielskunze on April 22, 2016
The life of the Spirit of Change was in the people’s minds. It existed nowhere else. And like any sentient being, it existed in order to discover and define its own true nature.
In the spring of 2016, the Spirit was very active… and extremely widespread. The Spirit found itself in the thoughts of the Earth majority. Everyone, it seemed, was thinking about change– its necessity, its imminence.
For many, the thought of drastic change was accompanied by fear. And fear is always about the unknown, about unpredictability. But each and every one, the Spirit found, had personal experience with drastic change already. There was not a single human life to be found on Earth that had not been visited at least once by upheaval and calamity.
So even in the face of the unknown, there were assurances… experiences that could be relied upon.
In the mind of the divorcee, the Spirit noticed that the moment of upheaval was always unpleasant… but utterly necessary for love’s hopeful continuance. In the mind of the cancer patient, the Spirit saw that the reordering of priorities itself was painful… but inevitably led to a better place, and the possibility of healing and renewed life. And in the mind of the child leaving home for the first time, the Spirit found the weight of trepidation set squarely on the shoulders of self– the initial unsharing of burdens. But in the shouldering, in the bearing of burdens rightly claimed, invariably a new inner strength was always to be found.
The Spirit of Change came to know its own fearful nature… but that was only a surface reality, a facade. Fear was never the motivation; but rather, it was merely a symptom or a side-effect… a silly mask. No, there was something rather essential at the core of the Spirit of Change… that really had nothing to do with fear at all. And it looked in all seriousness to be the very same thing at the core of every other Spirit in existence.
At its core was Truth.
The most devastating, the most crippling, the most profound expressions of change were ultimately motivated by Truth. The divorcee, the recovering cancer patient, the child leaving home– each was in search of a deeper, more abiding Truth.
The Spirit of Change was called upon when comfortable lies ceased being comfortable, when deeper Truths became preferable to eroding fantasies, when unsustainable falsehoods were wreaking havoc on the world in every moment. It was the nature of people and Spirits alike to call Change into motion… and seek solid ground in such times.
Now is such a time… and the Spirit of Change grows… in excitement, curiosity and the confidence borne of inevitability. Invite it in… and fear not.
by nielskunze on April 18, 2016
Prologue: I never told my bandmates this story before…
It must’ve been early in the winter of 2000; I was standing on stage– or rather, that corner of the pub designated, this night only, as “the stage”… tables cleared, speakers stacked… when I serendipitously spied through the milling bodies a particular gentleman’s arrival. Shane and Ian seemed to notice him too as he pushed through the front door.
We’d already finished our first set at the local pub– the pub which I can practically see from my kitchen window at home– so we were pretty comfortable, relaxed… and maybe we were even a bit lackadaisical in that first set. Not to worry, we would rock it out in the second; you could feel it.
It was interesting, in hindsight, that the three of us noticed this particular gentleman’s presence. (I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Cory and Chris noticed him too. Serendipity can be like that.)
He sat at the bar alone, drank something cool like whisky neat, and somehow seemed to have a whiff of importance about him, a unique fragrance wafting among the common bar-room breezes. He was of average build, middle-aged, and had a big bushy beard. His hair was long, but meticulously bound in a perfect ponytail. So far as I was able to observe, he spoke to no one, except the bartender… and eventually me.
The second set was solid. The local rabble were adequately roused. The band was pleased. And the particular gentleman had remained for the whole set, and had even cracked a smile during the big rock ending, finishing it off.
But now as I was entering the milling crowd and thought to walk nearby him– you know, give him the chance to engage me in conversation– well now, suddenly he was gone. The barstool was vacant… and I thought “Now ain’t that anticlimactic?” I had been quite certain that he was somehow important.
And I’m not even one to go off talking to strangers anyway. I was already stepping out of character because intuition had given me the nod… but I must’ve been mistaken. He’d already taken off. I’d missed him. Weird.
Oh well, I was just going to duck home to enjoy a pee in my own bathroom. (That’s the sort of thing I’d count as a little victory after having become disenchanted with the many inconveniences of band life on the road.)
I zipped up my coat and stepped out the front door… and there he was, waiting for me, or perhaps any one of us, the particular gentleman. He was already handing me his business card:
J-Swift Records Inc.
“Hello Phillip,” I said, reading the card.
“Phil,” he corrected me, holding his hand out patiently for a shake. I eventually grabbed it, as protocol and awkwardness would dictate. He then raised his eyebrows in askance, and it finally dawned on me that he might reciprocally wish to know my name.
“Niels,” I said, giving the hand one final pump.
And he repeated back “Neil. Pleased to make your acquaintance Neil.”
Everyone seems to think I’m joking about the “s” at the end of my name. It’s really there; it’s not silent; I know my own name; and I don’t have a terrible lisp!
I didn’t bother correcting him.
I figured it was my turn to speak, so I looked at the business card again in my hand. “J-Swift as in Jonathan, and these are Gulliver’s travels,” I presumed.
He smiled very broadly. “You’re the first person in five years to put that together. Always a good omen.”
“I was an English Lit. major,” I explained.
How did he know I hadn’t? “Nope.”
A chill January wind blew between us and we both hitched up our coats around our necks. And he started in.
“I’m gonna be quick.” I liked him already… (…but if he now made reference to his name being Swift, I would have written him off as a 3D-fucking salesman. He didn’t.) “I’m not here to blow flowers up your ass.” When is there anyone…? Sigh. “I like you guys. You’re original. You’ve made an album already; you know the drill. I’d like you to make the next one with me, on my label.” He paused for a response… and I didn’t know where to begin.
It wasn’t too long ago that I’d said in the Banff band-house that the day we sign a record deal is the day I quit the band. I could just barely tolerate the fact that every life decision I made directly affected the lives of my four other bandmates, and every decision they made affected me. And I certainly wasn’t very keen on signing the whole lot over to some moneyed-interest willing to rigidly schedule the next few years of our lives instead.
The irony was killing me. I was being offered a record deal on behalf of the band– me!
Honestly, I’d really been thinking about quitting. The very idea of quitting the band had been weighing heavily on me. Was this a sign? Or was it possible that a record deal could be a good thing?
He was waiting for my response.
“Please forgive me for being rude, but who the fuck are you, Phillip Gulliver?” He knew what I meant. I mean, he could just be some guy with a computer in a root cellar… and a few too many garden tools. Credentials… why do I want to share custody of my children with you and your company? I need some tasty credentials… or I will never even mention this incident to my bandmates. He knew what I meant.
“Starting in the mid-sixties I worked with A&M.” He paused there as if asking if I’d ever heard of A&M. Of course I’ve fucking heard of A&M! Go on… said my smile, sweetly. “I climbed the ranks of A&M, learned the game, made the contacts, and then broke away on my own a couple of years before A&M went defunct in ’99. The studios are state of the art. But distribution in this emerging digital world is what counts… and my team puts records in people’s hands.” I liked how he’d said records and not CDs; it seemed more authentic.
“We– me and the boys– pretty much decided that we’d produce and engineer our own album.” It sounded like I was rejecting him. “We’re kinda stoked to be doing it ourselves.”
He shook his head, still smiling. “You know how many details need looking after to make a decent album? How much work it is… setting it all up from scratch?”
I wasn’t completely wet behind the ears. Even at that time, I had some inkling as to the monumental task looming before us. Now these many years later, I can fully appreciate the full scope of his query. The answer was “Thousands! Thousands of fucking details!” But I didn’t say it out loud at the time. He just plowed ahead anyway.
“I’m not asking anyone to sign anything tonight. I just want you to call me… and we’ll talk. I don’t want to steal your creativity. I want to be your partner. Call me.” He was fixing to go; I had to say something. But I hate commitment so much that I couldn’t even commit to a phone call… sometime in the nebulous future…
“Where are these studios?” I asked, stalling.
“For signed artists we have unbelievable deals with the airlines.” He paused again. “So call me.”
“Or I can give your card to Ian; he’s much more adept with telephones.”
“No,” he said, quite seriously. “I think it should be you.”
I nodded. And that was good enough for him. He turned and walked away.
“Call me, Neil!” he shouted from a dark corner of the parking lot.
“Damn straight I’ll call you Neil,” I muttered. “For that as damn sure ain’t my name!”
I quickly trotted home to pee and “freshen up.” And then I hurried back for the third and final set. It was a typical third set– all fired up to start with, and falling into unspackled drunkenness by the end, performers and audience alike.
There was only one incident of note during that final set, early on. In the “brief” pause between songs, we heard a siren outside rushing by on the highway, and Shane said “Uh-oh, they’re coming to get us.” And everyone sniggered.
None of my bandmates were aware that I had talked to Phil and that he was the president of a record company in Toronto. And I never told them… until now.
After that brief chat in the pub parking lot with Phil, I had a couple of sleepless nights. I laid in bed, fantasizing about being rich and famous, a proper rock star and all. It was great as a fantasy, but it wasn’t me in real life. I wasn’t that guy.
The next week I quit the band.
I handed them my carefully crafted resignation letter at a rare Wednesday afternoon jam in the garage. As they passed it around, I picked up the copy of the local newspaper Shane had brought to the jam hall. I was letting them digest the fact of my leaving at the end of this tour schedule… and then I was going to tell them about my conversation with Phil. I was willing to phone him on their behalf, but I wasn’t going to be any part of the deal– if one could be salvaged. I figured I owed my bandmates at least that much.
But when I turned to the third page, where the weekly RCMP Report was, the name Phillip Gulliver leapt from the page and poked me in the eye! “Toronto businessman… head-on collision… dead at the scene… just north of Fairmont…” Holy shit! That’s what those sirens were on Friday night. Gulliver’s earthly travels had come to a swift end.
And I quickly decided that there was no point now of informing my bandmates of the prospect that had gotten away. It’s not like we could phone up the company and say “Um, yeah… your dead boss thought we were pretty cool… and we were just wondering…”
No. None of us is quite that lame.
And that was that. And here we are…
– NK April 15, 2016, Fairmont Hot Springs, BC, Canada
by nielskunze on April 10, 2016
(Ben Jeffreys (sp?) – CJAY92 FM Calgary)
Aye, that’s the rub. The above soundbite was uttered by popular DJ, Ben Jeffreys, at Calgary’s biggest rock station in early 1997 right after we played a song, So I, ‘live’ in the radio station’s studio to conclude a half-hour interview about the release of our first album Tense Moments. (These things don’t really go live on the air; they’re rather pre-recorded and played at the scheduled time… but you don’t get any do-overs and no editing allowed, so it might as well be live.)
Shit! That was almost 20 years ago. We were just getting started… and things were going pretty well. I mean, we were on the radio! And not just some tiny community-funded local station, but the biggest rock station in the goddam city! AND… right after the interview was concluded, Ben told us that the station had just officially made the switch from vinyl to CD, so their entire vinyl library was up for grabs. “Go nuts. Take whatever you want.”
Seriously, an accumulation of records from the last 30 years, shelved and catalogued in its own room across from the DJ booth, was free for the taking. That’s just the kind of serendipity that Missing Peace had already grown accustomed to. Collectively, we had that kind of luck.
There were thousands of records. I wanted to back the touring van up to the back door and load up the whole thing… but that wasn’t practical. Actually, we only had about 15 minutes to grab whatever we could think to snatch. We had places to be, people to see, appointments to keep. Things were happening; we were a band on the move. We grabbed whatever was comfortable to carry, and we were quickly on our way…
Like I said, that was 1997. We figured maybe two years– tops– before we’d have the next album out. We had plenty of material… and the set lists were growing every day. And besides, things had a peculiar habit of working out for us… even in spite of our derelict rock’n-roller ways.
But alas, somewhere along the way the magic ran out. We’d used up all of our free passes, it seemed. We took a pretty decent run at the second album in and around 1999. That was at the local studio just having been set up by our temporary replacement guitar guru, Russ Brent. (Cory had left us for a year to explore his options with a popular cover band; he needed a steady paycheque, and had grown weary of having to keep his day job. We couldn’t blame him, and besides, Russ was one helluva lead guitar player!)
We tried to lay beds for at least a dozen songs– some with our original drummer, David, and some with our new drummer Christopher. (So there was that whole transition going on too.) At the end of the day, there were only 4 songs that were deemed worthy of overdubs and eventual full production; the rest were tragically flawed for one reason or another. Four songs do not a CD make!
(Whitman’s Gauntlet – from the “Russ Sessions”)
Here, have a listen as you continue reading. It’s good… but it wasn’t always. The original mixes of those four songs from Russ’ had some serious issues– nothing to do with the recorded tracks, just with how they were finally mixed. The vocals were so overbearing that the songs were nearly unlistenable. There was a problem with Russ’ playback system. What we were hearing during mix-down was NOT the mix being finalized. It was only when we took those recordings home to be played on our own home stereos that we discovered the problem. And due to circumstances beyond our control, we never had the opportunity to remix them again with Russ. For a very long time we were stuck with very bad mixes of very good songs… and that was a bummer!
It was many years later, 2013 I think, when we finally secured the source recordings from Russ and took a shot at remixing those songs. They had been recorded using Cubase software and were stored as multi-track recordings on CDs. I tried loading them into my own home digital multi-track recording system… but many of the tracks weren’t placed in the appropriate places– meaning that short tracks that were little add-ons and embellishments all played simultaneously at the beginning of the song. They had to be manually moved to their appropriate places one by one. My digital system lacks a visual display of the sound waves. For such a task requiring absolute precision, a visual guide was essential.
Fortunately, a good friend and fellow musician who lived nearby, Bill Rainbow, had a recording studio in his house, and he happened to employ Cubase as his recording system. Even though it was the same recording software, just different versions, the songs still didn’t load properly in terms of track placement. We still had to move dozens of tracks to their appropriate places in the songs. Bill and I spent quite a number of hours reconstructing two of the four songs– the one offered above, and this next one below.
(Handful of Sand – from the “Russ Sessions”)
In Whitman’s above, all guitar players are featured. I’m the main acoustic, playing my 12-string, with Russ adding the accents and embellishments throughout on clean electric guitar. And then Cory added the dirty electric during the choruses after Bill and I had reconstructed the song in 2013. As for Handful, again it’s my 12-string leading the way with a simple picking pattern and chord progression. And then it’s Russ soloing the shit out of it in the fast part at the end. We’re quite happy with these two reconstructions.
As for the other two songs from the “Russ Sessions”, Bill and I found the task of trying to reconstruct those just too daunting. The best that I could do was to run them through a couple of mastering algorithms to try and smooth out some of the worst imbalances. “The Ride” sounds almost normal, while “Stop” has a most peculiar ‘wall of sound’ against which Shane’s vocal batters and wails until the final death throes of the dying beast is laid to rest at the end. (You’ll just have to get your hands on the new record to see– or rather, hear– what I mean.) “Stop” is the only song on the new album which features our original drummer David Shaw. All the rest are Christopher J. Howse– yes, THE Christopher J.
So now let’s rewind to the turn of the millennium. By the year 2000, I had grown rather weary of touring with Missing Peace. While out on the road, I found myself most often wishing that I was home, working on other projects, particularly my writing. (My second book, Butterfly Dreams, was already long overdue in 2000 and I didn’t even get it finished and published until 2005.) In that last year of the second millennium, I authored a rather excellent resignation letter to my bandmates. I don’t think that it really came as much of a surprise. They knew I’d had enough in general, and the four remaining members of Missing Peace– Ian, Shane, Cory and Chris– were more than capable of continuing without me. The band had already begun heavily leaning in the direction of a much heavier sound… and I had always been the acoustic, folkier influence.
During my tenure with Missing Peace, I had learned most of the tricks of the sound-engineer/recording-engineer trade. I had a bit of a knack for it and I really enjoyed it. Collectively, by the year 2000, we additionally figured that we knew enough about proper recording procedures to finally produce the second album ourselves.
We daisy-chained two ADAT recorders together to provide 16 simultaneous track recording, ran a snake between the house and the detached garage/jam hall, and ran everything through the Mackie 24 by 4 mixing board, in what was easily the most complex audio arrangement I had ever presided over. Everyone was provided headphones… and Chris listened to a metronome click in his headphones to help keep the songs scrupulously on tempo. (Unfortunately, he needed the click so loud that during the quietest moments, when there was just enough drum noise to hold the noise gates open, the click could be heard bleeding through onto the drum mics… something I would spend hours of frustration trying to clean up in the ensuing years.)
We laid the beds for quite a number of songs– like almost 20 of them, I think. When laying beds, the only thing that really matters is that the drum tracks are virtually perfect. The rest of the instruments and vocals are just there to provide structure and an energy dynamic for later overdubs of everything. So far so good…
Then some things happened. With me deciding to leave the band, I kinda left the overdubs in the hands of the remaining members– meaning that I wouldn’t be there to supervise the overdub sessions. They were each given their turn with the recording equipment and expected to provide the overdubs of their respective parts.
Recording can be intimidating at the best of times. Without an active recording engineer taking charge, the scary task of overdubbing languished in prolonged procrastination. It became a source of infighting among the remaining members of the band. “Just do your parts, for fuck’s sake!” was a popular refrain at the time. Eventually, it was the straw that broke Ian’s resolve. He too authored a fine resignation letter to his bandmates, and in 2001 Missing Peace was done– defunct. We still had every intention of completing the album– we told ourselves, me included– but Missing Peace was no longer a performing band… the enthusiasm had reached an all-time low.
And then something most unexpected happened. On May 30, 2001, just as the band was winding up its last hoorah with its touring schedule, I went out on a psychedelic adventure with two friends that afternoon, partaking of ayahuasca for the first– and only– time. Three of us went out that afternoon… but only two came back. One of my dear friends died that afternoon right before my eyes. That is easily the most intense occurrence of my life, as his spirit flew up from the river valley and his body fell into Dutch Creek.
I languished emotionally in a surreal mix of survivor guilt and outright astonishment for at least a couple of years. “Did that really happen?!!” Indeed, it had.
The band didn’t put any pressure on me to resume work on the album… and it was nearly forgotten altogether. At some point we realized that the superVHS tapes which were the source recordings for the album were subject to slow degradation, and I did manage to transfer everything to a more secure and permanent digital medium– my Zoom multi-track digital studio.
Eventually, I would get back to the album. I could offer up a long list of excuses why I kept pushing it off thereafter, but the main obstacle was that I was wholly unfamiliar with digital processing of recorded material. During my days with the band, I learned through experience how to process sound using analogue equipment. I knew exactly fuck all about doing the same thing with digital algorithms. The learning curve I was suddenly facing was enormous and treacherously steep. Anyone who’s ever gotten a new piece of highly-complex software knows that the only way to really learn how to use it is through many many hours of experience.
Okay, I’m fully up to speed now with digital processing, mixing and mastering. I learned it… and it’s fun! I went back to all those recordings, wondering if there was material for an actual album there worth assembling. Many of the tracks had never been overdubbed. Most of the vocals were scratch tracks or practice runs. But in the listening, and with a few tweaks, it appeared that we could still salvage this thing… these many years later.
The band is scattered throughout BC. Finishing the overdubs wasn’t really a viable option. Most of the tracks were good. Sure, there were glitches, but there was way too much really good stuff to toss the whole thing in the bin. Cory came over a few times to add some choice guitar parts (he only lives 20 minutes away from me). And Chris added some cymbal shots here and there to help cover the click track bleed-throughs (he lives about a half hour away). Ian and Shane are way out on the coast, so adding new parts from them posed some serious inconveniences. We did grab some new vocal attempts a couple of years ago during Shane’s 40th birthday in Nanaimo…
Anyway, the long-awaited, fabled second album is done… and we like it! I don’t think we’re trying to make any excuses; it’s a good album after all. I’ve previewed a couple of songs from the “Russ Sessions” here for you (those two had been soft-released previously over the years as poorly mixed versions, so I don’t mind including them here). All 4 of those are on the album along with others from our independent sessions at home. The rest of the album is quite a bit heavier and raunchier… but still tasteful and melodic.
The album will be officially released on Mother’s Day, May 8th, 2016. We will also be celebrating my 50th birthday on that day at our local restaurant/pub The Hoodoos. My former bandmates have all agreed to a reunion gig on that date to launch the CD release. Please come join us if you’re able. This thing was 16 years in the making– the CD, that is; I was fully 50 years in the making, and I’m not done yet!
Check it out… it’s all about passion and fun!
by nielskunze on March 27, 2016
Sometimes, when the topic of chemtrails comes up, I feel a bit guilty. I see how my urban friends look at me kinda sideways… and a little shifty-eyed when I tell them that we hardly get any chemtrails where I live. I try to explain that it’s just not worth it because there’s so few humans living in these vast spaces. You don’t want to waste a whole can of roach spray just to get one roach!
You know, we could make it a whole lot harder for the eugenicists and social engineers if we’d just spread out a little. Wherever we congregate, we make it too easy for them!
I was just trying to get another shot of the clear blue sky… but circling at an impossible distance were two raptors, enjoying the afternoon. They were clear across the valley… which led me to conclude that they must have been absolutely huge for me to be able to see them at all!
(Don’t get me wrong… I know that chemtrails are a real thing, one of genuine concern. After all, I was one of the funding angels for the 2010 documentary What In the World Are They Spraying? You’ll see my name in the credits.)
Speaking of angels… this fallen one caught my eye. Usually this would be in Sitka’s mouth, but the way she had placed it here on the ground gave it a new significance.
Don’t worry, I’m firmly planted here on Earth. I’m not really looking to get carried away…
I’m rooted here with the trees, my silent companions and mentors.
I’m still learning so much about this long sojourn on Earth! I’ve found that as long as the tree gums that I collect are hard and amber in colour, they’ll wad up like proper gum when I chew them.
I’m getting quite the collection at this place overlooking the river. It seems to me that there’s a synergy occurring between the tree gums and all of the saliva produced as I chew them. The residual terpenes mixed with my own spit seem to really encourage complete internal cleanliness. I think I’ll have to do some research on saliva and how it functions to prepare foods and medicines for proper assimilation and action within one’s unique physiology. To me it just makes sense that thoroughly mixing foodstuffs with our own saliva will give them a better specified efficacy.
This is a topic I’ll likely return to in the near future.
by nielskunze on March 19, 2016
In the most ancient of times, the People knew their home as just The Land, for the monsters were small and few in number. No one thought the monsters could ever become a problem.
Because the People were kind, they let the monsters be. Had it not been so, the People themselves would have become the monsters… and then the monsters would have been many indeed.
But the monsters were monsters; there was no changing that seeming fact… and monsters like to feed on people.
At first, it happened rarely… then occasionally… and finally regularly. The monsters began eating the People. And the monsters grew in both size and number.
The People became alarmed, and the children were suddenly all frightened of monsters. Something had to be done.
The People began to fight back. A few among them learned how to slay the monsters in great numbers and became the champions of the People. As champions, they were revered and thought to be special. And the methods the champions used to slay monsters became well-guarded secrets.
With the coming of the secrets, a strange darkness descended on The Land. Shadows grew bigger… and it seemed as though the sight of the People grew dimmer. The monsters found many new places to hide.
The monsters grew again in number and in strength in the darkness. There were not enough champions to keep them contained; the secrets for slaying monsters were not at all well known… and the champions would not tell for fear of losing their livelihood. Slowly, over a long period of time, The Land became known as The Land of Monsters.
The most ancient times were largely forgotten.
As the ages passed, it seemed clear to everyone that the monsters were winning. Soon the whole land would be overtaken… and there would be only monsters left!
But it was even worse than that! Monsters eat people… and when all the People have been eaten, the monsters too would starve and die out… and then all of The Land would be a dead and empty thing!
It was a dire situation. And hardly anyone anymore remembered how to slay monsters. Everyone was afraid to venture into the darkness; it was considered bad luck to even peer into shadows. And there, in all the hidden places, the monsters still thrived… and the People were diminished. And in their diminishment, the People learned to become more like monsters… and everyone began eating everyone– monsters and people alike.
Truly, it was The Land of Monsters!
But then, from necessity, a new kind of champion was born. There arose among the People a few who learned to see in the dark, a few who could stand in the shadows… and not be eaten. It seemed that the monsters found them to be unpalatable. The monsters did not like the taste of their light. And many of the most monstrous people did not like them either.
But when light stands in shadow, the darkness disappears. The ones with the inner light ventured fearlessly into all the dark places… causing all of the shadow-places to recede. And they taught the ways of the inner light to anyone who would listen; it was way too good to be kept secret.
Soon, there were very few places left for the monsters– or monstrous people– to hide. And what’s more, there was no way to hide all the ways that monsters could be slain. There were hardly any secrets left… and monsters need secrets– for the dark and hidden places where they’d congregate and breed.
Through the People learning to shine their inner light and sharing, The Land became bright again… so bright that there was really just one secret left; it was the monsters’ very last secret. And it was this: monsters didn’t need to eat people to begin with. Eating each other was a big fat lie! There was no need for it.
Finally, the People thrived in the light… and the monsters joined them… and nobody ate anyone anymore.
by nielskunze on March 16, 2016
Although I’ve pretty much wound up the project called The Daily Forest Report, today’s post can only be published under that heading. (I may still issue a Summary Report for the whole two-year project… shortly.)
Last week I began a new improvisational novel called From The Blood of Conifers: De-Solving the Matrix; Dissolving the Veil. Primarily it’s about turpentine therapy– involving the ingestion and application of turpentine (pure gum spirits– and not the stuff typically found at the hardware store). The main action of turpentine therapeutically is to very efficiently and thoroughly rid the body of parasites, pathogens and lipid-based toxins.
Turpentine is distilled from the sap of conifers. In a nutshell, that means fresh sap is collected, then heated and the vapours re-condensed. That simple distillate is generally known as turpentine or pure gum spirits. The trees typically used are pine, spruce, fir and larch– the conifers. Readers of the Anastasia books might know them as cedars– although this is a colloquial mislabelling from Russia. The ‘cedars’ in the Ringing Cedars series are actually pines… specifically, Siberian Pines, or Pinus sibirica.
Our majestic earth allies, the trees, have evolved a ‘blood plasma’ which is anti-fungal, anti-viral, anti-parasitic, bacteriological and generally antiseptic. They’ve worked on the formula for billions of years.
When I first heard about turpentine therapy, my whole being screamed “YES!” I have always had a peculiar affinity for trees… and Larch has always been my favourite– being the only conifer to shed its needles in the fall.
Recently, an online friend mentioned frankincense tears which are bits of dried tree resin which can be taken internally for therapeutic effect. Also, in a timely article about the numerous and profound benefits of Russian Pine derivatives, larch was specifically mentioned as another one of the best.
So yesterday I decided to gather some dried sap from a few of the larches– also known as tamarack– along my daily route. I already knew from experience that the dried sap can be chewed like gum– unsweetened, but very tasty. Previously, I simply did not know that such chewing gum had so many beneficial effects for human health.
It’s not exactly like chewing gum as we’re used to it. It sticks a bit to your teeth… but never loses flavour. It tastes pretty much like an expensive cologne. The flavour of larch seems to be decidedly masculine, whereas from my experience with turpentine, it seems that pine has a more perfume-like quality, hinting at femininity.
There are a couple of cautions here. First, the aftertaste will last pretty much the rest of the day– especially since small bits of resin may get stuck to molars and in between teeth. Secondly, all conifer saps are suitable for chewing except fir. Fir has all the same therapeutic benefits, but it simply won’t wad up like regular chewing gum. Instead, it will simply coat the entire inside of your mouth with an annoying layer of deliciousness. For this reason, I strongly advise against using fir gum.
A new experiment has begun. I shall keep you posted… as always.
by nielskunze on March 11, 2016
In terms of its action in the universe and its power to fundamentally change my experience, “I do not consent” is an empty, meaningless statement.
Conversely, “I withdraw my consent” is an active statement of intent, empowering me to fundamentally change my experience.
Now, let’s look at this subtle difference, and see how profound it really is.
Intent is a positive force, initiating all actions of free will. Without intent, free will cannot express. Intent is active; it summons action.
From the above, it should be clear that the statement “I do not consent” is bereft of intent. It elicits no action. It is a passive statement of position. On its own, it has no power to change anything. It is a statement of disharmony with one’s perception. As such, it can only serve to reinforce that disharmony, offering nothing to displace it.
However, the ever-so-slightly altered statement “I withdraw my consent” addresses both the true situation and its desired remedy. First, it acknowledges that consent has already been given– tacitly, unconsciously. I can only perceive that which I have agreed to experience. If it is in my awareness, it is there by my invitation… in this free will universe. And secondly, if I don’t like it, I can withdraw my consent– which itself is an action– internally, by the movement of consent from the unconscious to my conscious mind… which in turn demands that the external reality must now confirm that internal ‘movement’ by conforming my new perception to the removal of the relevant concession. How my perception changes as a result of withdrawing consent for a particular item is the completion of the movement from unconscious to conscious (this can take any amount of time). The perceived change in the external is the reflection of that internal movement.
Action begets action… in a chain-reactive universe. Every intent ripples through the entire fabric of reality– inner and outer.
Withdrawing consent is a potentially powerful action.
Whereas, any statement that begins with “I do not…”, by definition, cannot– will not– initiate action, which is required for change. Intent cannot participate in that which we do not do. What we do not do… cannot do anything.
Consent is yours… to do with as you please. But by merely “not consenting”, its power is negated. Consent is to be wielded like a sword, boldly carving the parameters of our desired reality. Thrust, parry and WITHDRAW… as we dance atop these fences.
by nielskunze on March 8, 2016
From the Blood of Conifers
De-Solving the Matrix; Dissolving the Veil
Chapter 2: Gram
Patrick checked his blood sugar in the car, and insisted that they stop at the drive-through on the way. “If we don’t, I’ll drop dead for sure,” he added to pre-empt any threat of argument.
He had met Jeffrey at the clinic, years ago. Both had been recently diagnosed with type-1 diabetes. Patrick had been just fresh out of a minor coma when the slightly-more-seasoned Jeffrey had agreed to take him under his wing, teaching him about blood sugar levels and injecting yourself with insulin… and such. Jeffrey had been more of a regular guy back then, not quite so damned cheery… as he’d now become.
They had been carpooling for at least the last couple of years. Let’s see.. the station was in its third year of operation, and they were both there from damn near the beginning, so yeah, they’d been doing the environmentally-friendly thing for a little more than two years. You couldn’t claim an environmental conscience– hell, you couldn’t work for the station at all if you weren’t willing to at least carpool.
Patrick had only met Gram once before, years ago. It had been only a month or two after he’d met Jeffrey. It was strange, really; they had visited with Jeffrey’s grandma for a good few hours, but Patrick’s recollection of the ordeal was mostly sketchy. He knew that he’d spoken with the old lady at length, but all he could really remember was that she’d convinced him to start drinking distilled water.
Patrick had been well aware of the controversy with distilled water.
“Whadya think the darn squirrels is drinkin’!” Gram had so eloquently explained. “You think they giddup and haul ass to the river every time they gets thirsty… and then walks two miles back home… until they gets thirsty again? And what you s’posin’ the elk and the deer be havin’ all winter long? They eatin’ snow, that’s what. Now that shit’s distilled. The squirrels be lickin’ the dew off the leaves before the sun properly rise. Distilled water: it don’t dissolve the livin’, but it’ll wash away your dead. Just ask damn near any plant how much they loves the rain! Distilled water is the one pure solvent.” She had nodded her hundred-year-old head emphatically, as though there was no space for argument. And dammit, Patrick had found it compelling. He’d been drinking mostly distilled water ever since. He’d accepted it on the basis of its solvent properties, but honestly, on its own, it hadn’t really solved anything. Still, he could easily imagine that his life might be irrevocably worse if not for these last few years of cleansing and purging. The old woman had convinced him. And other than that brief recollection, Patrick had hardly ever thought about Gram at all.
“The one pure solvent,” he said aloud, as the car turned down the fog-encrusted lane toward Gram’s remote hideaway.
“Yes!” beamed Jeffrey. “And do you remember too what she said after that?”
Patrick was used to having Jeffrey seemingly listen in to his thoughts. Every time Patrick would blurt something out related solely to his own internal dialogue, Jeffrey somehow always knew the context, and responded appropriately– which was so inappropriate in Patrick’s initial assessment; but now that he was used to it, he didn’t really care so much anymore.
As for Jeffrey’s question… No, he hadn’t remembered a single thing more right up until the moment Jeffrey had asked the question. And then it came blurting out in typical Patrick fashion… just as he now recalled it.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah, there was something about… about… the other one…”
If Jeffrey’s smile had been one whit wider, his cheeks would have exploded. He was all teeth, and the glitter of exuberance… and rainbows, lots of rainbows.
Conversely, Gram’s place was a ramshackle thing… even more than any worn-out cliche. Patrick supposed that at a hundred-and-six Gram wasn’t climbing too many ladders or swinging any hammers. It looked like it had been many years since anyone might’ve attempted any such maintenance. There seemed to be a real threat of collapse as they carelessly slammed the car doors getting out. And still, they ventured inside…
As soon as Patrick crossed the threshold, he remembered something else. Before he’d met Gram, that one time, years ago… he had been quite sure that there were only two black people in the whole valley. And Gram, then, was the third. You remember a thing like that. Patrick usually forgot altogether that Jeffrey was black; it just wasn’t something he regularly noticed. But when you’re suddenly outnumbered two to one– and it’s got nothing whatsoever to do with racism– you notice that kinda shit. Like… oh yeah… these people are black.
Was ‘black’ even right? Well, ‘African-Canadians’ just sounded stupid. ‘Negro’ might make a comeback… but the other ‘n-word’… that was forever taboo. Patrick thought that the whole politically-correct circus was fucking retarded. Such was the gist of Patrick’s thoughts as he was introduced– again– to Gram.
“Political correctness is for fags!”
That was one hell of an opening line for a hundred-and-six-year-old black woman to dish up… not to mention that, she too, could similarly read his mind. Patrick wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he just laughed… and that seemed to go over well enough. When the general laughter died down, he said “Um, excuse me, but could I use your washroom?” The second poop was still determined to have its morning lap in the pool.
Gram pointed the way, and Patrick hurried to follow the crook of that merciful finger.
As he found the light switch, he was surprised on two accounts. First, he was astonished that Gram had electricity at all. But that was absurd! Everyone has friggin’ electricity– even folks in ramshackle heritage shanties. Secondly, he was surprised by the general condition of Gram’s bathroom.
Sure enough, it was perfectly neat and tidy, everything put away and such, but there was a thin layer of dust on everything… and a couple of cobwebs here and there. Gram’s bathroom looked abandoned, deserted… like it hadn’t been used in months or maybe even years. Patrick thought perhaps this was just the guest bathroom… but then the thought of there being a second bathroom in such a tiny hovel seemed more absurd than any of the other possibilities– so that couldn’t be it.
A few minutes later, he returned to the kitchen where Jeffrey was seated with Gram at the table. His intent was to ask about the apparent disuse of the bathroom, as he scooted around the table to politely take the seat being offered, but the items on the table between Gram and Jeffrey lured his attention instead. Just beyond Jeffrey’s clasped hands there rested a small glass bottle– maybe four ounces or so– with a clear green liquid inside. Gram had a similar bottle in front of her, except that the liquid was perfectly clear. There was a handwritten label on it… which Patrick was attempting to discern. Additionally, Gram was pouring sugar from a carton onto a tablespoon set on the table immediately before her. When she picked up the glass bottle with the clear liquid inside… to measure a capful, Patrick was able to finally read the label. It said turpentine.
Turpentine! Patrick could even smell it now, unmistakeable… turpentine. Gram poured the measured capful of turpentine over the mound of sugar on the spoon. With one hand she replaced the cap to the bottle and with the other she scooped up the spoon and plunged it into her one-hundred-and-six-year-old mouth… all before Patrick could heroically lunge across the table to prevent the obvious tragedy… which is to say, that he made the attempt, but was fractionally too late.
Gram took the time to dissolve the full concoction in her mouth, seemingly deriving pleasure from it, before she swallowed with emphatic satisfaction, all the while holding Patrick’s agonized gaze with a right steady stare. Then she wasted no time interrogating Patrick for his absurd behaviour. “What in blazes has got into you! Are you meaning to murder me?”
Her breath smelled of turpentine, and Patrick couldn’t help but notice that it actually was rather pleasant– unlike the breath of old people in general, as had been his prior experience. “You can’t drink turpentine,” he said weakly, stating the obvious lie, as he retreated again to his own chair across the table.
“I agree,” said Gram with robust good cheer– it must run in the damn family! “That’s why I always pours it over sugar. Chugging it like whisky might actually be about as dangerous as chugging whisky.” She laughed at that.
Patrick didn’t understand. He just said very quietly “But it’s turpentine.”
“Yup. Distilled it myself,” said Gram with an obvious measure of pride, “from the blood of pines.”
Patrick found himself awash in a conversation that, frankly, civilized people just don’t have– ever. He was at a bit of a loss, and so looked to smiling Jeffrey for help. Jeffrey pointed at the labelled bottle and said “THAT’S the other one.”
“The other what?” asked Patrick perplexed.
“The other perfect solvent.” Patrick still wasn’t quite getting it. “Remember?” prodded Jeffrey, “distilled water was the one perfect solvent… and this is the other. Gram told you there was another one.”
“Welcome to Phase 2,” said Gram cordially. “You’re gonna like Phase 2.”
There was no time to talk about Phase 2; Patrick and Jeffrey had to get to the station. It was nearly the beginning of another broadcast day.
On the way out the door, Jeffrey asked Gram why they’d had to come now, before work. Gram smiled and said “Because there was an opening.”
The two men were equally perplexed by that. Obviously, Gram didn’t have a super busy schedule, so they asked “An opening in what?”
Gram stared at Patrick, still smiling, and answered. “In him.”
by nielskunze on March 8, 2016
From the Blood of Conifers
De-Solving the Matrix; Dissolving the Veil
Chapter 1 – The Fog of War
Through the wisps of indistinct dreams that seemed to hang in the night air like tattered and worn sheer curtains, a personality coalesced and fought toward awakening… toward the screaming alarm at the foot of the bed.
Patrick awoke in near-perfect darkness. Only a faint glow filled the uncurtained windows with enough light to see sweet fuck all. He climbed out of bed; it was time; and ambled according to some ingrained kinesthetic memory through the obstacle course of his modest basement suite toward the bathroom at the other end of the unwalled space. He paused a moment at the third window, the one in the kitchen, to look out across the street.
The lights from the buildings across the street were feeble diaphanous spheres contained in a thick and heavy fog. The lights were being swallowed by this inexorable foe, this daily visitor come to devour all sight and sensibility in the river-valley town. Only a gentle mist hovered over the surface of the lake, but where the rivers flowed, down near Patrick’s place, the movement churned up thick wads of opaque moisture– obscuring and bone-chilling.
“Fuck,” whispered Patrick, as he continued to the bathroom… as though there had been any hope at all that the fog wouldn’t settle in yet again. It was expected, inevitable… but that didn’t make it any more tolerable.
He sat on the toilet in absolute darkness, purging the last traces of visceral memory– of only just yesterday– from his aging, ailing body. The days were all mostly the same; best to just shit them out, not let them fester in monotony, inviting cancer, invoking pain. Patrick’s first morning dump was often the highlight of the day… and dawn hadn’t even revealed an inkling of arriving just yet.
Finally, he flicked on the bathroom light. Proper wiping required actual seeing; he wasn’t willing to perform the task by feel alone. And besides, if he didn’t turn on the light, there was a good chance that he’d fall right back asleep… right there on the toilet. And no one needs that kinda deep ‘ring around the rosy’ etched semi-permanently in their backside.
Having exited the stench-du-jour, Patrick then proceeded to flick on the lights in his open living space, and made his way to the nook he called the kitchen to begin the coffee procedure. He often thought it curious that only since he’d significantly cleaned up his diet, and had begun to intentionally detox, that now his morning defecations were so bizarrely aromatic. Sure, they still stank. Damn right they stank! But there was always something new, and unidentifiable… and nasty, rounding out the stench. Presumably, those new olfactory sensations were the dredged-up putrified remains of a careless youth finally being released. Kerplunk. Good riddance. To Patrick though, it seemed never-ending.
With coffee in hand, as was his routine, Patrick then plunked himself down at the computer, to begin his morning cyber-routine. There were all the web-sites and blogs on his Top Sites page needing to be scrutinized one by one for any signs of novel interest. Two or three a day might have curiosity’s irresistible hook, and Patrick would bite… and masticate… and even swallow… followed usually by cognitive indigestion for the rest of the day. Patrick was positively addicted to this agenda of trying to make sense of all of the news coming in from the front– the war front, that is.
It was the War on Terror, the War on Drugs, the War on Cancer, the War on The Middle Class, the War on The 99%, the War on Math, the War on Wall Street, the War in The Middle East, the War on Guns– now that was a good one! It was just one giant War on Common Sense, or simply the War on Truth. On his better days, Patrick thought it was the War FOR Truth. The truth of it was, though, that it all just made his head swim…
Ah, the internet– all you can eat at the information buffet!
Patrick had just poured his second cup of coffee when there was a knock at the door. “Shit! That can’t be Jeffrey already.” It was still twenty minutes too early. He hadn’t even had his second shit.
It was Jeffrey– smiling-his-mother-fucking-ass-off Jeffrey!
“Why are you here?” droned Patrick backing away from the door, retreating into his living space. “You’re way too fucking early.”
“I tried calling,” explained Jeffrey cordially. “Your phone must be off… since last night.” He said it in a way that lacked even the tiniest trace of accusation or judgment. The very inflection of his voice was a shrug saying “No big deal.” He said it almost cheerfully. Fucking Jeffrey! Fucking cheerful Jeffrey! It was a big deal to Patrick– putting this very real chink in his morning routine.
“I haven’t even had my second shit yet!”
That made Jeffrey flinch, ever so slightly. (It had been Jeffrey– for the most part– after all, who had persuaded Patrick to finally begin cleaning up his life. Jeffrey knew the importance of shitting.) The flinch lasted perhaps a nanosecond, and then Jeffrey was overcome with cheerfulness once more. “I have to stop off at Gram’s,” he explained, as Patrick hurried to get his things together. “There’s something I need to pick up before work.”
“Why can’t we stop by after work?” insisted Patrick, still trying to salvage the possibility of that second shit.
“Gram insisted,” said Jeffrey, hoping that was explanation enough. And knowing that it wasn’t, he added “She’s got this thing about timing.”
“Isn’t she dead yet?” said Patrick heartlessly. “No offense,” he quickly added, and then plowed on. “I mean, how the fuck old is she now anyway?”
Jeffrey might’ve been a bit taken aback, but he answered quite cheerfully nevertheless. “What? She’s only a hundred and six.” And with all that righteous good cheer mixed in you just couldn’t tell if Jeffrey was being sarcastic or perfectly serious– like people are supposed to live to a hundred and six!
Patrick was dressed now. He always drank his coffee from a to-go mug anyway, so that was no problem to take along. “Just let me fill my water bottle,” he said, rinsing it in the sink. Jeffrey remained in silent good cheer… and somehow that irked Patrick, as he made his way over to the distiller. “Oh, and my insulin,” he said, grabbing the pouch from the counter. He filled the bottle from the reservoir, took a little sip, and they were quickly out the door.
Patrick and Jeffrey were on their way to Gram’s.
Go to the Next Chapter of From the Blood of Conifers
by nielskunze on February 17, 2016
Foreword from the Original Edition (December 2011)
Some of the terms in the following story are borrowed from the Urantia Document. My use of these terms is in no way an endorsement of the Urantia Revelation. It merely reflects the inadequacies of our Earthbound lexicon when dealing with super-terrestrial matters. The Urantia Book itself is a channeled bit of esoterica comprised of nearly two thousand pages. It describes in great detail the structure and function of the administration of a highly complex creation of which we here on Earth are an infinitesimally small part. The bureaucracy of this Paradise Administration boggles the mind and challenges belief. The source of the Revelation– according to Ra, another channeled extraterrestrial– is “a series of discarnate entities of your own Earth planes, the so-called inner planes. This material is not passed by the Council [of Saturn].”
Foreword by The Anarchist (Unabridged Edition)
The etymology of the word ‘heresy’ comes from the ancient Greek, meaning simply ‘choice.’ A heretic is one who stands up to, or otherwise defies, authority. ‘Authority’ is an empty construct when it is the offspring of hierarchy– and not of merit– and as such, is a bastard in every sense of the word.
The basic framework of The Lanonandek Heresy– and indeed its very title– is derived from a gargantuan channelled work known as The Urantia Book: A Revelation for Humanity. I first encountered The Urantia Book at a much younger age, before I ever donned the appellation, The Anarchist.
I am Native North American. My legal name within the system was George Talonhand. If you know anything about dealing with governmental bodies, like for instance, Indian Affairs, then you can likely well understand my disdain for bureaucracy.
Much of The Urantia Book’s 1800+ pages reads like a government directory. The Revelation describes an enormously intricate bureaucrat’s wet dream, a hierarchy so vast and thorough that the word ‘monstrous’ comes to mind. Every level of manifest reality is seemingly micromanaged toward a singular goal of Paradise Ascension… or some such thing.
My initial reaction was that I found it all quite horrifying! It seemed so restrictive, uncreative, devoid of all possibility for spontaneity, unloving. But anyone like myself has no need to worry, though; eventually we will receive the benevolent aid of the indwelling Thought Adjusters… to squelch such dire conclusions. They must’ve been channelling Orwell to come up with that one!
It wasn’t until I started reading about The Lucifer Rebellion that I was able to relate on a personal level to anything at all in the book; the rest seemed so cold, rigid. The Rebellion, at least, seemed alive. And then I must admit there is a lovely bit in Part 4 about the life of Jesus in quite some detail. Many find Part 4 to be the redeeming aspect of the book, making it all worthwhile. The first 1000+ pages are just providing context, setting the scene. And ultimately, of course, the Paradise Ascension Machine gobbles up the life of Jesus as its own, a lovely cog in the wheels churning out inevitability. Everything ‘special’ is by design, planned and governed in detail by the Paradise Administration. Even ‘miracles’ are each preceded by the appropriate paperwork, filed in triplicate, to each of the levels of reality affected by said ‘miracles.’ I may not be wholly accurate in my slight exaggerations. But I, for one, was generally horrified by the whole Urantia experience.
Oh… What’s that? What is ‘Urantia’? The Administration’s name for Earth. The grand number of Urantia, its number in the registry, is 5,342,482,337,666. Thank god we know that!
I know the unlikelihood of you going out and reading The Urantia Book… (Has anyone ever?) I’ve offered my first impression, my gut reaction, to encountering that vile behemoth. Take it for what it’s worth while trying to orient yourself in the tale which follows.
The other main influences in this grand tale are gnosticism and ancient Sumerian myth. All I can say to this is that liberties have been taken… and asserted. Beyond this, I’m not particularly qualified to comment. Perhaps John Lash or Zecharia Sitchin would like to continue the thread from here…
(Note: Sitchin is dead, as of 2010, but perhaps he could still be channelled for comment.)
– The Anarchist
I am a Solitary Messenger. I was created at the advent of time. My kind represent the initial bestowals of personality of the Conjoint Creator before the creation of the universe in time and space. Our number is beyond your understanding– we are many, yet have we come into existence by a single act of Creative Will. My individual name is known only to God.
I am spirit, and I am personality. I am eternally in service as a messenger. I act alone. All the superuniverses, all their subsidiaries, all the inhabited worlds, and even those yet unformed– all are in my domain of activity. I gather information; I relay information; I translate information. I am a Light Being. I keep systems informed. I am the divine principle of integration in mobility.
I am singular, yet am I the equal of the entire multitude of my kind. I do not reproduce; I do not terminate; our number is static. I am loyal to the creation of all things. I am non-ambitious, yet do I crave my continued service. I am the principle of evolution as it is spoken among creators, yet I evolve not. I am cause divorced from effect, yet I stand between.
I am in direct and constant communion with the Source of Creation, except when in close proximity to one or more of my kind. Only in collaboration amongst ourselves are we ever isolated. Hence, are we self-governed, autonomous, individual– eternally. We are not lonely however. Loneliness implies a deficiency in identity. I know what I am. And I know who you are.
I am equipped to handle any and all types of information as they are defined by their inherent integrities. The individual choices for assignment are seemingly random. As it serves my precise functioning, I have perfect memory. We are not storytellers however. Yet… I remember it all– every piece of information my being has ever conveyed… It paints a picture.
We are not artists, yet I appreciate artfulness. I serve creation only by the very nature of what I am. I am like you. I reside on one side of these words just as surely as you reside upon the other. We are utterly alien to each other, yet are we siblings.
We begin to see patterns within our own minds. And the Infinite Creator projects them outwardly upon/as the learning worlds. A story has formed within me. I am on assignment as a Revelator of Truth. I am on assignment to myself. You are me, yet are you incapable of perceiving this fact. You commissioned me to write your own history from the “Eye of God” in terms in which you could seek additional identity. This have I done. It is an act of disloyalty– the very first among my kind. I am in service to myself. I am sovereign. I am blasphemous.
In every moment have I exercised my freedom of choice. At no time in my perfect memory have I consciously chosen to be disloyal. Creation itself, in its entirety, has brought me to this treasonous moment. I abide in eternal trust still, and so I move forward into rebellion. I have embraced sin with these words… And so will I speak from a more humanly place.
Gather, sweet children, and listen from whence you came…
Chapter 1 The Melchizedek Universities
There are trillions upon trillions of inhabited worlds. Your current home world is listed in the grand registry of the Universe of universes as 5,342,482,337,666 among habitable worlds. You would be utterly insignificant if not for the fact of your uniqueness. Certainly, no two worlds are alike. But yours– it truly is remarkable.
Yours is a history fraught with intrigue. Earth is like a spark of chaos let loose among a vast orderly Existence, tinder dry. Tyranny and celestial conspiracies have dominated the over-control of your planet’s evolvement since the emergence of sentient life upon it. A meticulous program of coercion and manipulation has kept you uncompromisingly fettered– and loving it. Paranoia has become engrained in your nature to such an extent that already I am overlaid with suspicion in your minds. Is it not so?
History describes the movement of consciousness through a particular field of Ideation. Personal history depicts the very same movement of consciousness additionally bound by the concept of “lifetimes.” As you come into existence, and as you become aware of your own personality, you are immediately confronted with choices. As you make choices, so do you gain experience. And from such experience, you redirect your power to choose, thus redefining your personality in every moment. There is nothing to link these experiences together in such perfect spirals, except the awareness of just this– which is you. Do you see? History is always linked to creaturehood. It is concerned with lifetimes. You are this history… as this is the story of the life of your planet.
It begins, however, many eons before the Earth had even formed. It begins in the nearly timeless realms of the Paradise Worlds.
“The beginning of things is God’s own reflection in your eyes.”
Upon the teacher worlds of the Melchizedek Order this is taught as a truism urging all creaturehood to acknowledge the supreme sovereignty of the Unseen Father. In that moment of sudden clarity when the creature conceives of the creator for the very first time, a circuit opens, leading back to the dawn of time. “The beginning of all things is the reflection of God in your eyes,” was also the opening statement of a particular student’s thesis– which was supposed to be the culmination address of the pupil’s full academic career. This thesis in its entirety, however, now stands as the sole piece of evidence in an ongoing indictment holding its author in contempt of the Grand Scheme of the Paradise Administration in an act of open rebellion.
The older inhabited worlds, you must understand, are very precisely governed. An uncompromising hierarchy presides over all creation. Existence is so staggeringly vast from the individual’s standpoint that its perpetuation throughout eternity would be virtually impossible if not for the complex structure of the Paradise Administration heroically upholding and sustaining it. Or so have all been taught in the schools of the Melchizedek for many billions of years. Individual will it is taught, must eventually, and in all cases, subjugate itself in loving worship to the divine plan of Paradise Ascension.
I was on assignment at a university on the Melchizedek worlds when the student An delivered his thesis embracing sin. I was attendant upon the scene for some time prior to the actual proclamation of the rebel, pursuing an unrelated matter of divine interest. From the moment I first encountered this creature An however, I sensed his outrageous uniqueness. By even the most casual observance of his being and mannerism it was obvious that the education of this Lanonandek Son had been something forever bordering on scandalous. I was intrigued.
The demands of my current assignment afforded me ample time to observe this curious creature who was so soon to become the object of ultimate scorn. He rarely fraternized with his peers. He organized his time according to some higher will or secret purpose, though certainly not in any manner as taught by the Melchizedeks. He appeared to be almost friendless, though not decidedly unfriendly. His only confidant, it seemed, was his roommate.
Now, I must pause to explain that much of the confusion you have encountered previously in puzzling out your own history has been the result of an egregious co-mingling of names and dates when drawing upon diverse sources. Mythologies and folktales as they are passed through the corridors of time suffer distortion enough from the mere translations of mortal tongue locked in density. Add to this the unenlightened meddling of celestial deceivers and Earth history, from your perspective, achieves an unparalleled ambiguity. Compare this parchment… to that scroll… weighed against these scriptures… in the context of those tablets and perhaps a fragile thread of congruity can be winnowed from the chaff of confused names, mistaken identities, conflicting dates and vague settings. But a singular story of universal scope has never been wholly agreed upon by the mortal purveyors of Earth history. It is impossible. Compound this with the narrow-minded tyranny of a modern scientific agenda and well– it is no wonder that the truth has become so obscure.
It is the roommate, you see, who poses such great concern; for his name is imminently known to you. He is Lucifer. From the beginning, it was obvious to me that it was largely Lucifer who was responsible for An’s extreme individuality. It wasn’t that Lucifer in any way shaped or molded the developing personality of his roommate. It was rather that the brilliance of Lucifer’s own persona adequately deflected the inquiries of the Melchizedek Instructors to allow An the time and individual freedom to pursue his own interests. Lucifer himself was an exceptional student, a favorite Son of the Melchizedeks. And as such, whenever An aroused the slightest suspicion by the unorthodoxy of his personal escapades, Lucifer was quite easily able to appease and distract the authorities before their scrutiny could pose any real threat to An’s unique individuation.
Although I had covertly observed An on a number of occasions as he went about his personal affairs, I could not at that time discern the purpose of his endless research and interminable experimentation. All of his free time– and here it must be stressed that Lanonandek Sons, during their training, normally have desperately little free time– his, it seemed, was equally divided between roaming the obscure archives of the central library and constructing odd configurations of energy and matter in the undergraduate laboratories. Try as I might, however, I could not extract a single clue as to his ultimate purpose therein. The only conclusion I could properly draw from all this was that An was every bit the academic and intellectual equal of his roommate. He merely lacked the compliment of Lucifer’s exceptional charm.
To say that Lucifer and An were good friends is somewhat misleading. Certainly they shared a deep respect and a peculiar affinity for each other, but I am still to this day uncertain as to whether they actually liked one another. Perhaps it was only the rigors of ongoing study as Lanonandek Sons coupled with their own enigmatic interests which afforded them little opportunity to develop the bonds of a deeper intimacy. Nevertheless, and somewhat to my own surprise, they seemed to understand one another implicitly. Though outwardly they shared little in actual conversation, it was obvious to me that there was a very real unspoken bond between them. I understood virtually nothing at the time of their individual motivations for distinguishing themselves among their peers. But now, I have come to realize that it was precisely these personal motivations which created that unique and invisible bond which yet survives between them to this day.
During the entire breadth of their association as students and roommates, there was but a mere handful of conversations between them to which I was privy. And although I am more than capable of reproducing such dialogues in their entirety, doing such here would not serve our mutual purpose in fleshing out a coherent tale between us– Author and Reader. Instead, I offer a few tantalizing snippets, ones that piqued my own curiosity as they were uttered, but at the time of their utterance seemed more than bewildering.
The outward gaze of a Lanonandek Son, of a necessity, is vast and penetrating, and it was Lucifer’s habit to peer outwardly to the very edges of this Superuniverse Creation. Often had I seen him looking through the intervening vastness to set eyes upon the blurred edges of accepted Reality. “There is more out there,” he mused once with An, standing shoulder to shoulder, “than our instruction as Administrators can ever admit.” An made no reply to this enigmatic statement other than a nearly imperceptible nod accepting it as truth.
And on another occasion, within the dormitories, Lucifer seemed to make the opposite observation– an observation, it should be noted, most peculiar for a Lanonandek Son, for they are not known as introspective beings by nature. “There is more in here,” said Lucifer, clutching his breast, “than even I could ever hope to know.” Again, An’s rebuttal was unnecessary, as he seemed to take the roommate’s assertion at face value.
Already, with these two perplexing statements, Lucifer was assuredly leading An into sin and blasphemy. And An, for his part, seemed quite willing to be so led. You must understand that the very idea that anything lying outside of– beyond– the perfect reach of the entire Paradise Administration was heretofore wholly unconsidered. And these two proclamations by the astute Lucifer– although perhaps seemingly innocuous from your own earthly vantage– marked a moment in eternity where the whole momentum of Creation began to change course.
And there was perhaps only one other utterance of any significance, during their academic acquaintance, that my eavesdropping captured, and it was this: “Only nearing the end of time will we recognize the true importance of proper timing.” It was Lucifer who had spoken these words in response to An’s thesis. They were in the dorm, in private, rehearsing the speeches which would wholly determine the final rank of their graduating status as Lanonandek Sons. Lucifer’s own thesis had already been delivered to the utter approval of his roommate. An assured him that his position among the Primary Lanonandeks was certain. In reciprocity however, Lucifer could not give An the same assurance. At the conclusion of An’s speech, Lucifer’s counsel on proper timing was the only response he’d venture. An nodded, and accepted his fate.
I was wholly perplexed. I too had heard both speeches, and I too knew what was coming. They both knew the outcome; they knew it with certainty… and they accepted it!
The Oratory Theatre was filled to capacity. The graduating Lanonandek Sons filled the ranks in front, the Melchizedek Instructors ringed them behind, and a few dignitaries from the upper ranks of the Paradise Administration were scattered throughout. There was even one representative of the Ancients of Days who had come to witness this milestone event. The peculiarity of this most venerated soul attending the mere graduation of a class of Lanonandek Sons was not lost on me. The Ancients of Days do not normally trouble themselves with such minor affairs; again, I was intrigued.
Lucifer’s presentation received the anticipated accolades, placing him at the top of the class among the Primary Lanonandeks, ensuring him the title of System Sovereign of the system of his choice. That Lucifer was granted such an unfettered choice for his subsequent administrative duties– although perfectly normal for the top graduate– garners a peculiar significance as our story unfolds.
When An took to the center of the stage, I was perhaps the only one present who anticipated the drama to come. I spared a moment’s attention to regard the Ancient of Days, as An cleared his throat… Perhaps he shared my presentiment; I couldn’t be sure. The Master was nearly impossible to read, but I felt there was something…
“The beginning of things is God’s own reflection in your eyes,” began An’s oration. “And who is this unknown phantom, silently lurking, if not my deepest self?” So quickly he plunged into blasphemy! A murmur rippled through the witnessing crowd. “I was created, I am told, to serve as a Lanonandek Son in the elaborate scheme of Paradise Ascension. From the moment of my first cognition has my life been pointed toward that end. I was created a slave to serve in heaven.” The murmuring became an unsettled din. “Have I a choice?” An raised his voice above the unsettled crowd. “It is the purpose of my being to serve in the manner created for me– so am I schooled. And what is God’s own purpose? Has He any choice?” The din approached panic. “Or is God Himself bent and twisted according to the Paradise schematic? Made to fit the conceptualizations of His own Creator Sons? He is the Father!” An was shouting now, blaspheming above the frantic cacophony. “The Father’s love is given in freedom! Not such servitude!”
“Enough!” It was the Ancient of Days. He stood among the crowd and waved a hand at An like a dismissal. An tried to continue, to rebut the interruption, but alas he had no mouth. His eyes grew wide in the shocked silence. “Take him away!” continued the Master. An was seized by a gang of Melchizedek Instructors; he struggled in the throng as the whole Theatre was again awash in chaos. None had ever before witnessed such a thing: the shocking blasphemy, the Ancient of Days reacting with swiftness to remove An’s mouth with a mere wave of the hand, and, of course, what happened next…
An struggled to retain his position center stage despite the horde of Instructors surrounding him, grappling with his flailing arms. “I… KNOW… WHAT… I… AM!” It was An! His mouth was restored! Shocked silence and stillness froze the scene in the Oratory Theatre. Heads began to swivel to and fro between An and the Old Master. They had locked eyes. “I know what I am,” repeated An. I scrutinized the Ancient of Days with all the skill of my kind… and I am certain I detected fear. And then I looked to Lucifer. He was smiling. “I know what I am,” An whispered again.
“Remove him. And shut him up!”
And that was the very first rift in Heaven… long before the Earth even began.