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The book’s business

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I gather my stories–

The Other Side of Resistance: Stories of Living Beyond Dying is written around eight stories of mine.

Not just any stories. It’s not a memoir.

These are stories I tell.

I claim them as “mine” for a few reasons. Not because the stories “happened” to me but because they came to me. Maybe repeatedly, in dreams as real as the point of death. Maybe in broad daylight, with a sense of time and place as real as the kitchen I stand in. They “happened” to someone else, but I stood in their world, seeing and hearing and smelling and feeling it just as it happened to them, as if it happened to me.

I tell them because of the compelling feeling of immediacy, significance, and truth they carry. I’m caught in the primacy of experience with them and it resonates through me. That resonance, which carries the excitement of a party, is the arrival of the opportunity the experience holds for me. This is the reason I believe the stories come.

I don’t believe I’m alone in the experience of stories and variations of stories, either.

I believe you can gather yours–stories caught in coincidences and synchronicities, daydreams and night dreams, epiphanies, deja vu, clairvoyance, and sudden knowings–to see what their uniting tells you.

Why we’d do it–the gathering of them, the juxtapositioning of them, creates another story. It’s like doing a reading of seven tarot cards rather than reading just one. Each informs the whole. For example, I put together what could be considered “past life” stories, one set in the French Revolution and one in a medieval English field. They led me to a story about the Twin Towers’ jumpers on September 1, 2001.

You get your own proof of a larger, more encompassing story of life, outside the mainstream story we’re all been taught. For example, I could no longer believe in death after sharing the stories of some who had died. Yes, we leave this “now” life, but I could see that we enter a larger field of activity. In this “now” life, the stories give us real equipment for living this “now,” rather than following a social or cultural model or someone else’s advice for what to believe and how to live.

The idea is that the stories are not random tales that crop up at unpredictable times for no reason. I began to see that hey are guidance that comes at our request, when we need it. They show us where we want to go and how to lead ourselves there.

Those stories come for their own reasons, too. There’s a reciprocity of resonance in operation that benefits all sides.

So, it seems useful to know our own stories.

And exciting, as it expands my understanding of how extensive our reach is across more connections than we can imagine.

Tomorrow we’ll start with a story.

How to know if you’re a drone

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I feel the Pleiadians at the door . . .

We are the Pleiadians, come to call on Jane in her openness.

That’s all it takes. The openness, combined with the intent it be us.

She’s open to us because she’s a Pleiadian, and we’re her intergalactic cohort, riding the vast, impersonal forces of change right to her door.

From our view, the worldwide shift in consciousness is already well on its way. Consciousness has descended into the birth canal. It has your permission to be there since each of you is parent to the change. But, having forgotten your complicity, you’ve clenched against it in an agony of resistance. The kind and size of this change blinds those on Earth who remain Earth focused, who fragment the change to fit the kind and size of their own fears, rather than seeing it as the liberator it is. Caught as they are in their resistance to the who-what-where-when-why of it, they charge at anything that shows a face, in the process, laying waste to every trail marker left to offer guidance.

How does it help to come to her?

We can show her the change through our eyes and then she can tell you.

And what would we do with it?

Rejoice.

So, why does she do this?

Let’s let her tell you.

To answer a persistent yearning. I might have thought I yearned for romance or the open road or bursts of creativity or the opportunity to be a better consumer or just the ability to settle for what I have. But deep down I knew I yearned for the comfort and companionship of myself, to feel that fit of self that ensured a foundation for everything else that I might or might not do. To create a reality out of that. That fit had the sureness of happiness.

So, what the yearning really yearns for is the self?

Yes.

Poetically said.

Is that really possible?

The change says yes.

To be in possession of yourself is to be in possession of your life and to live it.

Question: I thought you’d be giving your perspective on galactic histories wreaking havoc on humankind over time, stripping it of awareness and will, crippling it to the point of humanity serving as drones to more advanced drones until the planet is depleted of all resources.

Answer: We’ll get to it. Today we begin with how you might be a drone yourself.

The Pleidians are coming. Are you up for it?

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Actually, they’re here, and apparently this isn’t our first Pleidian rodeo.
Maybe they’ve always been here. We have a long galactic history with them. We have common ancestry that demonstrates our involvement with each other. It’s a very human ancestory, in terms of each side making bad karmic choices having to do with power and greed a long time ago on that cosmic level, choices whose consequences are now catching up with us. We and they must still own up to those choices because by doing so, we can change the future, which is looking pretty dire for all of us, galactically speaking.
Well, this is the kind of thing they’re saying and have been saying for a while (see the books of Barbara Marciniak [1992-2013], Barbara Hand Clow [1995], The Abbots [2011], and nowadays, a slew of others).
The Pleidians offer a perspective on knowing ourselves beyond the usual psychology of mind and behavior or the sociology of environment and influences and pressures. It’s even beyond the study of past or future or simultaneous selves, a place fewer of us go. It’s knowing ourselves through the interdimensional cosmology–the history of our off-planet origins–that ended up making us into the stripped-down model of humans we are and made it necessary for us to need to be awakened.
It’s the knowing that gives us the opportunity to choose to be asleep or awake.
Who’s up for that? What have you got for snacks?
Am I in touch with the Pleidians? I wouldn’t be writing this blog if I didn’t think I was. Am I crazy? Blindly trying for a quick ticket to fame and fortune? Naively seeking? I would have no idea, would I? And I could say anything. So, as you would do anyway, you decide. What I do know is I’m bored with reading about who we might be spiritually, tired of being a follower, and trying to discover what I can know, left on my own. I recommend this path, especially now, when the times could hardly get crazier. Why not be your own crazy, rather than take on someone elses?
Some people think the Pleidians are angels or demons or gods. I can’t get past the fact they’re from outer space. And they think they’re family. That’s the part that resonates with me.
The final hook, for me, is that the Pleidians say we’re long over due for a reconceptualization of the cosmic situation from a feminine-rising perspective. Practically everything that makes our and their situations dire was brought about by the fact we were riding a wave of dominant male influence. The Source, as we think of it, is a feminine vibration, they say.

From: The Pleidian Sisters’ Weekly Star: All the News That’s Fit to Print (no conspiracy theories).

3/9/2021

The Boy

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The Boy
–15 year old local boy (from the Rosebud area near Little Bighorn, 1876), lied about his age to be part of the Custer campaign. Probably not registered to the 7th Cavalry.
May 6, 2019
Though it was Custer I’d thought and read about, it was not him I had the direct connection with. It was the boy, all of fifteen-going-on-sixteen. I used my own words when I couldn’t catch his or his were more feeling than words. I could tell he was re-living it, and I hope it helped.
“Out of my skin with the excitement of being here. I wouldn’t-couldn’t be anywhere else once I knew of it. What a tale to tell, afterwards, of the hero I’d be just by being there. I saw it as a great beginning, to do as Custer did, to make my fame on the battlefield. He spoke of our connections to battles long gone in history, but the men who fought them still remembered for their courage and bravery.
He sat his horse better than any man I’d seen, riding at times with his boots outside of his stirrups, as the injuns did, who were really the best riders I’d ever seen. We were so afraid of them! They never looked anything but angered and mean about it, painting theirselves to look more so.
And there was Custer, standing in his stirrups, clean-faced–this being clean was important to him–his clothes fitting him better than any woman’s. We hardly knew what to think of him, both this and that, soft and hard, afraid, too, and yet not. A man knows fear in another man no matter how he (sallies? slays?) to hide it. It can’t be hid. It can’t be hid in total. It can’t. We knew he had it and we were (troubled?), but we rode. What else for it?
And we fell and fell and fell. How could it be happening? We were the best. They weren’t to kill us. We were to be their executioners. It’s as if I sat and watched, doing nothing. Doing nothing. Nothing to be done. It was their day. I saw them advance on him and knew I was lost to this life. I thought of how my ma would miss me, and how I was already missing her. I watched my death blow fall and felt myself float free, more melancholy than sad, seeing the vista of what might have been–knowing my ma as an old woman, seeing my children, knowing my girl. I felt it all come out of me and go elsewhere, taking part of me with it. And I went up.”
I feel like he’s my own child, or I’m his, that we shared this experience that he led. I have such gratitude for being of him.

Flash Fiction

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Prompt:
something such as laundry, dishes, a mundane task.

They sit in silent rebuke, telling anyone who will listen of my secret shame.
I didn’t do my dishes last night. Or the morning since. Or the lunch. They don’t blame me, but still, they silently scream neglect, if not abuse.
Just saying it aloud in my head unleashes a fast-running, familiar river of invective.
“A clean house says all that can be said of you,” my mother floats by, face averted.
“It’s just slovenly,” says Tia, boldly staring me down as she dogpaddles up to me and then lets the stream carry her away.
“Germs!” shouts Stevie, my old co-worker from the Department of Health. “Hepatitis C!” he calls back over his shoulder, but he always said that.
“First impressions…” says my least favorite sister, sitting serenly, almost royally, aboard her pristine canoe, picking lint off the front of her sweater, not making eye contact.
“Me, too!” calls out my most favorite sister from her kayak. “Hope you had fun!” She circles before she hurries off downstream.
I wend my way to the headgate to shut off their water.
I did have fun. I started off making a batch of cherry jam from a secret recipe known only to me and my best friend Mary Rose, MR for short. What with my ex stopping by, I didn’t get any further than pitting a mound of cherries with my hands–messy work. What with one thing leading to another, he left with my cherry prints on his backside, for all the world to see, unbeknownst to him.
Then I had to think about what I’d done.
What is an ex, anyway?
Maybe he’s an unwashed dish. Apparently I’m still finding some kind of nourishment on him. Maybe it’s me those river floaters are talking about.
I stand up from my kitchen table and walk over to the sink. I pull the dishes out of the sink, one by one, piling plates and bowls and mugs into one coherent stack. I pick up the stack in both hands and take it out the screen door, down the steps, to the concrete slab that serves as patio. I stand a moment, between picnic table and barbecue grill, breath calming. Then I let my hands drop.

We are the Shift: Navigating the global shift in consciousness

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Introduction

 

Son: We wouldn’t ever eat anybody, would we?
Father: No. Of course not.
Even if we were starving?
We’re starving now.
No matter what.
No. No matter what.
Because we’re the good guys.
Yes.
And we’re carrying the fire.

Then they set out along the blacktop in the gunmetal light, shuffling through the ash, each the other’s world entire.

—The Road, Cormac McCarthy, 2006

 

“…you engage within a global shift of consciousness, which is a much greater mass event than a revolution of a country. It is a greater action than your world war. It is tremendous…You would not be speaking with this essence were you not approaching this shift…You all are contributant to the action of this shift…” (Elias 1997).

2015 in review

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The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 400 times in 2015. If it were a cable car, it would take about 7 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

“…if I had my goddam choice…”

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“You know what I’d like to be?” I said. “I mean if I had my goddam choice?…I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all…And I’m standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff–I mean they’re running and they don’t look where they’re going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That’s all I’d do all day. I’d be the catcher in the rye…”
Catcher in the Rye, JD Salinger
Who wouldn’t like to have written that? You can hardly put into words everything he’s caught in those lines–every bit of longing and need, every bit of hope, every bit of love. We want to know Holden, and we think we do.
I don’t think JD Salinger even wanted the fame and fortune that book brought him. What he wanted was to write it.

The death of the sun

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better chimney pots

“Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes–gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun.”
Chapter One, Bleak House,Charles Dickens.

Written for profit? For an audience? For fame? Maybe. But I think you can see and feel his love for and enjoyment of writing in every word. You can open his book anywhere and find sentences like this one.

I know, we can’t all write like a Dickens (I can’t), but isn’t this the underlying goal? To try to?

And it’s a murder mystery, not a lofty book on social justice. One reviewer said of the main character, “Bucket can claim to be the first detective proper in English fiction…with his fat forefinger, his false bonhommie, his omniscience and his indifference to everything other than solving the crime.”

Dickens was one of eight children, raised in poverty, with little formal education.