all roads lead to mi-fu  //  our earth is purging




Mega-Deluxe November/December 2014 Newsletter Extravaganza... with Accessory Attachment


“The Galactic Ascension machine has been switched off;

we’re running strictly on the placebo effect now.” - The Galactic Historian


Reality creation is an inside job.


Awakening War Veteran: “And here I thought I was slaughtering people abroad

for all the right reasons!”




In this warring of the world(s), it might have seemed to be forever autumn, but this winter of our discontent promises to poke and prod us in the most de-lightful of ways! The status quo is really taking it up the poop-chute now!


The keyword for humanity in this upcoming year of 2015 is ‘reorganization.’ And as my own body of work shyly slips into obesity, I too will be diligently reorganizing my blog in anticipation of many newcomers... the foreshadow of which has already been made clear. We haven’t quite broken the quarter million mark for monthly visitors, but it’s getting damn close!


I fully realize that as newcomers visit the blog, there’s just way too much friggin’ material to try and slog through in a timely or coherent manner. In the past three years, I’ve produced literally thousands of pages of original content. Look for the heading ‘Introduction for Newcomers’ in the category index on the right in the next few weeks. I think that even longtime readers will find it useful for locating and refreshing the ‘essential bits’ upon which all the worlds and heavens depend. I could probably use the refresher too.


The onslaught of happenings in the current news cycle is very encouraging heading into this year of The Devil (according to the archetypal journey through the tarot I described earlier in the year). The Devil’s keyword is ‘trickery.’ It’s not so much that we’re in for a new round of shenanigans; it’s more that we’ll become privy to the longstanding shenanigans which have shaped our societal experience for decades, even centuries. We will all become wise to The Devil’s old tricks, whether we want to or not... so buck up, buttercup!


2014, the year of Temperance, has served to hone the steel edge of our discernment and resolve. As it comes to a close now, the whetted appetite of our swords of discrimination are ready to expose the cowering despots who rule through fear. “I acknowledge your pain.” But the buck stops here!


And today only, we are giving away Poetic Licenses for free. Get yours now... and say whatever the fuck you want! I usually do...


Foreword To The Lanonandek Heresy

by The Anarchist


Note: The Lanonandek Heresy is a complete novel which was written from December 2011 to January 2013. Each of the chapters appeared in the monthly Newsletter spanning this time, as it was written. Shortly, it will be compiled under its own category heading on the blog, for convenient access. The brief foreword appearing in the original will either be renamed as a preface, or will be replaced altogether with what follows. (Editing pending.)




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 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. And anyone like myself has no need to worry, though; eventually we will receive the benevolent aid of the Indwelling Thought Adjuster. 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 so far in the book; it 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 likelihood 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.


Its other main influence is gnosticism. I’m not particularly qualified to comment. Perhaps John Lash would like to continue the thread from here...

The Transformation of... What?


Dr. Mikhail Nostro stood a moment outside the door. His knock had gone unanswered. No matter. The quarters which housed his patient were functionally separate from the rest of the house where the son lived. Dr. Nostro had a key.


He let himself in, as he had done many times before. The son-- what was his name? Harold? Yes, Harold, was often out attending to life’s niggly details; either that, or he was simply too busy with housework to answer the door. No matter.


The patient, Harold’s mother, was bedridden. The good doctor was the last of a dying breed. When he finally gave up these last few house-calls, the extinction event would be complete. Nowadays most people weren’t even aware that doctors had ever made house-calls. But to Mikhail it had been his favourite part of doctoring; there was a certain advantage to knowing specifically how his patients lived, of observing them in their natural habitat, so to speak. Unfortunately, none of his colleagues concurred. No matter.


He closed the door behind himself and slipped off his shoes. A coatrack stood by the door awaiting his hat, cane and coat... to which he obliged. Then, retrieving the old leather satchel, his medi-bag, from the floor beside him he shuffled off to the door at the end of the hall. At the intersecting corridor, which led to Harold’s living quarters, he noticed, with a quick sideways glance, that indeed the son was home. Harold was engrossed in... something... which was none of the good doctor’s damn business. No matter; he moved on to where his patient lay.


Her condition was unchanged. Frankly, there was very little hope for recovery, but as long as she continued on the medication she remained relatively pain free. She was cogent and even cheerful-- considering the circumstances. The doctor was committed to doing what little he could.


As he exited the patient’s room, he was startled by Harold who was coincidentally on his way in. They met outside in the hallway.


“Oh, Dr. Nostro, I hadn’t realized you were here.”


Mikhail smiled and shook his head. “Please, just call me Mike.”


Harold nodded. “How is she?” The obligatory question had been asked.


“The same,” affirmed the good doctor. “But tell me,” he continued in the gentlest tone he could muster, “when did the medication run out?”


Despite the ease with which the question had been asked, Harold looked panic-stricken. He glanced furtively toward the closed door behind which his mother’s ears still functioned all too well. He grasped Dr. Mike by the elbow and whispered “Won’t you come join me for tea?”


“Delighted,” answered the doctor, even as he was being dragged away.


It was definitely his mother’s sitting room, decided the doctor, as Harold busied himself in the kitchen. He guessed that the room had probably remained unchanged for the last forty years... except for a few oddities. The books on the coffee table were an eclectic jumble of philosophy, religion and ritual magick. There appeared to be what he could only imagine was a makeshift altar cobbled together and neatly arranged on the fireplace hearth. It was complete with candles, incense, an ornate chalice... and was that a scrying bowl? And then there was what appeared to be a faint chalk outline of a circle drawn upon the carpet. The good doctor awaited his tea inside the ritual circle... feeling quite safe and rather amused.


Thankfully, Harold dove headlong into the pending conversation even before he set the tea service down... amidst the clutter of books. “How did you know about the sugar pills?” he asked.


“Had you used icing sugar, I probably wouldn’t have noticed a thing.”


“Too granular,” concluded Harold.


The doctor nodded and sipped his tea. “No matter.” He took another sip. “She’s fine. The placebo’s working.”


Harold nodded in agreement, but then his demeanor soured somewhat. “Dr. Nostro-- um, Dr. Mike-- I simply can’t afford the medication any longer. Our medical plan covers your expenses, but the prescription comes out of my pocket, and frankly, my pocket is empty, threadbare and full of holes!”


“These are difficult times indeed.” As awkward as this topic seemed, the doctor chose to  pry into the deeper gawkiness of the books, the altar and the ritual circle instead. “I see you have an interest in ritual magick.” He raised an eyebrow for dramatic effect and to give the statement the inflection of a question.


“Um, yes... well,” Harold began, reddening in the cheeks.


“Nothing to be embarrassed about. I’ve dabbled a bit myself. But if you don’t mind my asking, what are you trying to accomplish?”


The utterly blank look on Harold’s face was very telling. It was often thus with novice practitioners. Not only do they not know what they’re doing; rarely are they sure of what they’re even trying to do!


“I suppose I’m trying to affect a change... a transformation of circumstance... of fortune.” Harold too answered with the inflection of a question, wondering whether he’d gotten it right.


“So you’re not trying to magickally cure her or any such thing?”


“Oh no! Nothing quite so ambitious. I’m really just attempting to conjure a bit of luck for myself.” The doctor nodded in understanding. “It seems that I’ve been in a rut for... well, for as long as I can remember. Certainly for as long as mother’s been ill. Something HAS to change!”


Dr. Mike tipped his chin toward the scattered tomes on the coffee table. “It’s easy to think that there’s some procedure, a secret formula, some exotic incantation or obscure ritual that can transmute everything bad into something good. After all, isn’t that why we have things like philosophy and religion in the first place?”


“Yes!” said Harold eagerly. “If only I could learn it.” There was such earnestness in his eyes. “Would you teach me?” he asked the good doctor sheepishly.


“I will,” affirmed the doctor. “And before I leave here today.”


Harold looked on confusedly, expecting there to be more to the sentence... and so he asked “Before you leave here today... what?”


“Before I leave here today, I’ll teach you the secret formula of transmutation, how to transform your life’s circumstances.”


Harold was dumbfounded.


The good doctor winked.


“Now, this one here catches my eye,” he began, reaching for a specific book from the haphazard pile. Its title was Butterfly Dreams: The Nectar of Transformation. “Have you read it?” Harold nodded. “And so, what is the nectar of transformation?”


“I’ve read it three times,” explained Harold. “As near as I can tell, the nectar of transformation is awareness.”


“Ah, I see.” Dr. Mike seemed pleased with the answer. “Awareness is assuredly a good thing, essential really... But awareness of what?”


Harold shook his head... dumbfounded again.


“Then let me ask you this,” continued the doctor undaunted. “When is the placebo effect in effect?”


“I’m sorry?”


“Or to put it more bluntly, when is the placebo effect NOT in effect?”


Harold was still obviously confused, but he ventured an answer anyway. “When the medicine’s real...?”


The doctor stroked his goatee. “I like that answer, but let’s examine it.” He took a sip of tea. “When we’re dealing with an illusion-- the sugar pill, the placebo effect kicks in. But when the medicine is real, there’s no placebo effect; it’s the physical action of the substance itself... providing the very same desired result. How do we know when we’re dealing with an illusion and when we’re dealing with a proven causality?”


“I don’t know,” answered Harold quite honestly. “So, is that it? I need to develop the awareness to know what’s real and what’s not? How on earth do I do that?”


“You’ve jumped ahead,” admonished the doctor ever-so-gently. “Let’s return to the placebo effect for a moment. Allow me to tell you of one of my patients from many years ago. He was a young man, the nervous type. I honestly never liked him as a patient. Anyway, he arrived one day at my office looking for a diagnosis. He was quite convinced that he was dying. His symptoms were odd-- and a bit frightening to any layman-- but I was sure I knew what it was that he had. I told him my suspicion, procured a blood sample, and provided him with the appropriate prescription. I told him that he’d be fine in a few weeks; all he needed to do was get the prescription filled and follow the protocol for ten days. Two weeks later, he was dead.”


Harold was aghast! “You’d made a mistake!”


“No. My diagnosis was right on the money; the blood sample confirmed it. The prescription had been filled, and all indications were that he’d taken the medicine as intended.”


“So why did he die then?”


“The placebo effect,” said the doctor casually between sips. “Or if you prefer, the reverse placebo effect.”


“He was taking the real medicine--”


“Proven to work unfailingly,” interjected the doctor.


“And he died anyway...” Harold seemed to be catching on.


“So, returning to my earlier question: when is the placebo effect in effect?”


“Um... always...?”


“Exactly! It’s very much like gravity; it’s always in effect. There’s nothing selective about it. One could almost say that it’s universal law.”


Harold was nodding enthusiastically now. Something of import had gotten through.


“Now all we need to do is to return to the original question: awareness of what?” The good doctor drained the remainder of his tea and declined a refill with a dismissive wave. “So what do you suppose is the fulcrum upon which all of your leverage to affect change, to transform your life, to transmute all of the bad to good-- what do you suppose it all teeters upon?”


“I believe I know,” whispered Harold. And then with utter conviction “I BELIEVE I know!”


“Yes, I believe you do.”


And with that the good doctor took his leave.

Mother, Nilly and Me...


Who can I trust wholeheartedly?


When I was five years old,

when my inner child was still worn upon my sleeve,

All who knew me, called me Nilly.


When I was All years old,

There was one who supported every damned choice I made,


Mother understands everything.

Earth stands under my feet,

stepping confidently in syncopation

with the timidity of my dance,

catching me as I fall

In love.

Earth Mother is every possibility

I may wish to dream.


And me:

Convoluted idiot of the Now



whose poetry revels in a fast of words.

I am that which is not said,

as much as I blather on.

“Stay here now, Niels”

This is who I AM





My mind falls into my heart-space,

And I draw a deep breath

whose source lies wholly in the

Inward direction.

I am filled with whispers

of other universes,

But I turn to Nilly,

taking the hand of my own

Innocence... exhaling.

And we breathe together.

We draw again from the

Inward direction,

But Nilly is the guardian

of my soul’s whole treasure!

We stand at the threshold of all splendour’s


Filling ourselves with possibilities

without agendas.

(The new stories will be written in


We breathe out together

an arc of intent,

Like a cupped hand,

Touching the heart of


Mother breathes us in triplicate


Here in the heart of


She mirrors the arc of intent,

with our next inhalation,

And cups the shared heart of Nilly and me,

while standing firmly beneath our feet.


We breathe out--

All three--

Into the world of widely-shared experience...


I like to be hugging a tree.

It ‘works’ best when


hugging a tree.


So then, that’s

Mother, Nilly and me... and a tree.

Making Wholes


When we relinquish the need to ‘be better than’ in favour of being true to our own sense of meaning and value, unity-- the way of integration>>>integrity>>>coherence-- becomes the natural unfoldment. Even when seemingly gathering disparate parts, we begin to see the Wholes; things just seem to want to fit together, and we find a tendency toward a desire to facilitate this.


The special intrigue of Wholes is that they’re always greater than the mere sum of their parts.


When I listen to new CDs, I take notes.


This is a map for two unique, yet related, Wholes called:


Just Another Prog in the Machine... Or Knot


Obcourstacle: Clearly Obscure


I view these as singular ‘songs’ of 2 hours and 40 minutes duration each.


This is the superb work of other musicians I have no direct connection with. But if you were in my house, chatting over coffee, this is just the sort of thing you’d hear in the background. This is how I arrange and mix these sparkly phrases into a story that just might be able to tolerate yours and my listening to it.


So if you have a number of hours to kill, and you tolerate progressive rock fairly well, give these two ‘songs’ a listen... keeping in mind though, and despite what is said above, prog doesn’t work well as background music for other activities; it can even be quite annoying if listening is not the primary focus.


For the few who might appreciate it...

Message To/From the TOURS #23

The New Neural Net


Let’s begin with a new visual depiction. It is within the realm of the Collective Consciousness of humanity.


For eons of time, the place where all of our individual minds meet, where we establish agreements about our shared Earth reality, we have been held in a place of preternatural darkness. It has long been something more than the mere absence of light. We gathered in this place within Earth’s dreamtime in a state of disunity consciousness; we were in paradoxical agreement to explore our disconnection... together.


As I visited this place, falling into the shared dreamtime, I saw it as an infinite cavern within the body of Earth’s dreaming. The preternatural darkness characterizing this cavern had certain qualities beyond its obvious relationship to light. The darkness had a palpable density; it was thick and tangible, hanging like curtains, keeping the light disconnected.


The individual human beings making up the collective I saw as candles... at least those waking up to the state of our protracted disunity. Despite the many candles in the dark, the cavern itself was never illuminated, never defined. Millions of candles-- disconnected, each still shining in solitude-- could not dispel the accumulated density of our conditioned divisiveness... Curtains still hung in between.


The candles are gone! Upgraded. They’ve been replaced with fibre optics. There is a new neural net. A spiderwork of connections has slashed through the curtains, leaving them in tatters and heaps. The darkness no longer defines (or undefines) the cavernous space of our shared dreaming. The new emerging light configuration is completely overriding the entrenched darkness!


Think trauma-based mind control... and its eventual healing. Humanity’s Collective Consciousness has existed much like an abused child. Through a litany of endless trauma, the collective mind was fragmented and compartmentalized. In such a schizophrenic state, it was possible to dominate and control-- rather easily, actually.


But slowly, over time, the disparate pieces began to become aware of each other... and their undeniable kinship; we are One. Unity is a higher order than our agreement for disunity; its re-establishment, therefore, was inevitable. But what is this new neural network?


It is Gaia higher mind... Sophia... or more accurately, Sophia’s correction. Sophia is reawakened (reassembled); the Earth’s true consciousness-- and full remembrance-- is online! And we are in full partnership now. These bodies are neurons in a higher mind. Collective goals now take precedence over personal achievement.


Have you felt the profundity of this shift-- this 180 degree reorientation? It kind of snuck up on us in our dreams... and now that it’s here, we can feel a bit perplexed as our former dreams and aspirations don’t quite seem to fit anymore. What was once very natural to desire for ourselves has been replaced with a concern toward and striving for our collective wellbeing. We’re not so quick to jump aboard solutions that are merely good for us but leave many others out in the cold. We’re beginning to resonate with solutions that work for everybody instead.


It’s a big shift, and we’re still very much in the transition. But this report is about establishing the fact that the basic structure of the group mind has fundamentally changed... and it’s setting its sights on a future we can barely conceive in this moment.


Please bear with us as we bare ourselves to ourselves. Myriad revelations are forthcoming...


(A Q & A session will follow very soon.)

Message To/From the TOURS #24

Question Period (Without Russell Brand)


Q: Is there or isn’t there going to be a global financial reset and currency revaluation?


A: All indications are that something is shaking down behind the curtain regarding world financial matters. Unfortunately, reliable details are still very hard to come by. How this thing actually looks when it finally rolls out into view will tell us immediately whether we’ve truly gotten a fresh start or merely the continuation of prior inequities with a fresh coat of lipstick.


It really depends on the size of the event. If the changes to the global financial system are anything less than the biggest positive news story in the history of our civilization, then it’s just a whitewash, a scam. If we’re merely told that all banks are now Basel III compliant and all currencies are asset-backed-- and that’s pretty much the extent of it-- then, we’ve been duped. If it’s just a story fit for page C9 in your local newspaper, then it’s a lame attempt at perpetuating the old corrupt system behind a facade of newness.


On the other hand, if the reset and revaluation are accompanied by thousands of high-profile arrests, if world governments topple and reorganize in its immediate aftermath, if it is followed by a period of intense disclosure of rampant criminal conduct in government and finance, if it is finally announced to the world in no uncertain terms that human beings themselves are the source of all value in ANY economic system moving forward, then, and only then, do we have a fresh start worth mentioning.


I highly suspect that there will be an attempt to sell us the lesser version. If the masses can be appeased by a few tweaks to the system while all the current power-brokers retain their lofty positions, then we’re not ready for true reform. In today’s climate of unmitigated bullshit we’ve pretty much got to expect to be sold the counterfeit version.


When it finally begins to roll out, I’m sure I’ll have a lot more to say on this topic, so for now, we wait.


Q: How are we slaves? I have a good paying job that I like. I can afford all the things I want. From where I’m sitting, life is pretty good. How am I a slave?


A: Today’s slavery resides in subtlety. And there’s nothing wrong with enjoying one’s own slavery; in fact, it’s very popular.


Consider certain civilized concepts: nationality, the economy, value. Concepts like these are cardboard cutouts within our society. They have no life of their own-- no intrinsic energy. In order for them to exist at all they require the animating energy of living human beings to allow them the semblance of being real. The country of Canada doesn’t really exist; it’s not a real thing. Canada is a hollow conceptual construct that is made to seem real by the energy self-identified Canadians willingly pour into it. If no one in Canada suddenly saw any value in being Canadian, then the country would immediately cease to exist.


Now, when it comes to things like the economy, we are even more prone to regard this empty concept as a real and very formidable thing. It directly affects our lives-- if we buy in, if we invest our energy into its reality. Apart from continuing human participation and acquiescence, the economy has no verifiable existence of its own. It needs our continual energetic support in order to be considered real.


We are heavily conditioned to accept the value of things like money, countries and economic realities, so much so that we rarely even question them. It is a subtle but very real energy which animates these concepts within our society, within our common experience. We tacitly agree to providing this energy on a continuous basis for the duration of our lives... UNLESS we proactively withdraw that consent.


There are many, many cardboard cutout concepts in our version of civilization which positively serve the purposes of an elite few. We have the choice of whether to be slaves to these crafty concepts or to move in a different direction altogether. And that’s the thing; as long as we play the game unquestioningly, accepting that that’s simply the way reality is, we have absolutely no inkling of what may lie outside the parameters of the game... as they’ve been set up.


Our society, our version of civilization, teaches very insistently that consumerism is about the best we can do. Everything is geared toward it. Just find the means to buy more stuff and all will be well. The blind acceptance of this abhorrent concept can be regarded as nothing less than slavery. But like I said, you’re always free to choose it if that’s really what you want. But once you seriously begin contemplating the alternatives, slavery tends to lose its appeal.


One concept that actually does find validity in the real world but whose meaning has been hijacked in our society is the concept of democracy. The rule of majority is actually a real thing; it holds weight whether we believe it or not. But none of us currently lives in a functioning democracy. It’s a total scam.


This discussion wouldn’t be complete without asking the question: When Will We Ever Demand an End to These Sham Democracies? (A short article of great importance... for your consideration.)


Q: Is the internet working as intended? Instead of bringing the masses together in sharing the same truths, it seems as though the internet is just a source of deeper confusion and division! I encounter people all the time who look something up on the net only to come back with the most absurd confirmations of what they ‘always knew was the truth.’ Do you get what I mean?


A: I do. What you’re talking about is the tendency for many to utilize the internet as a means for confirming their own established biases. One’s assertions are challenged, so they look it up on the net, find someone else who agree’s with their position, and from that they conclude that they were right all along-- despite any ‘actual’ truth-- or lack thereof-- of the matter. It is rare for the average person to willfully look into opinions, and indeed data, which is contrary to their own long held beliefs. Despite this rampant tendency, the internet is working just fine.


Life isn’t about a bunch of old ladies sipping tea together and discussing how reality is-- that at some point the truth about life can be succinctly known, be published in a handy little manual, and from then on everyone lives according to what everyone ‘knows’ is the truth... once and for all. No. Life is experimental/experiential; it’s about trying things out, seeing what fits for each unique individual. Our intellect wants desperately for there to be only one truth which applies to everyone and everything-- no exceptions. Clearly, reality is no intellectual! It is a merry prankster with a wicked sense of humour!


Over time, even the dull-witted realize that there are many more opinions/options in the world than the ones they themselves hold dear. No matter what, the internet presents the irrefutable reality of multiple perspectives. And by logical extension, it suggests in all moments that other options to one’s entrenched traditional beliefs can be lived. The internet tells us in no uncertain terms that “You can always try something else... and see for yourself how that works out.” But that takes gumption. Humanity is mustering its gumption.


The proof is in the pudding. You’ve got to eat the pudding to know if it’s to your liking. There’s no other way. More and more, slowly, folks are trying the pudding for themselves; they’re choosing to live their convictions... to see what works in reality, not just in theory-- because someone on the internet made it sound too good to be true.


The internet is a place of possibilities, not one of established facts and foregone conclusions. Those only come by through acts of actual living. It’s a slow process, agreed, but as the chaos mounts and the very concept of leadership abandons our societal traditions, eventually we are forced to try things out and see what works. Our own experience is personally irrefutable... and the internet has no substitute for that. We mustn’t expect our technology to replace our countless choices to act... for ourselves.


Idiots will continue to confirm their preferred biases right up until the moment reality smacks them down and shouts into their cowering faces “Try something different, you fool!” Or they will perish.


Q: Last month you said that November always presages what is to be highlighted in the upcoming year. What did this November tell you about what is to come in 2015?


A: So glad you asked! And the answer, at first glance, might seem a tad surprising. So out of all the sordid tidbits comprising the recent news cycle, what was it that caught my attention in a prescient way? Bill Cosby and the persistent rape allegations, that’s what.


It’s not that the Bill Cosby story itself is of earth-shattering significance; it’s that it is an entryway into the public mind for something absolutely huge-- of which ol’ Bill is just a singular example. Hollywood is a moral cesspool. The public loves lurid tales of sexual misadventure. Once the lid comes off this particular can of worms, it’s gonna make us all squirm. Widespread sexual misconduct, pedophilia, sexual blackmail-- I believe that these are the very pillars of the Hollywood business model. You don’t get into the ultra-famous club without participating to some degree in things that would make Ron Jeremy blush.


And once it’s revealed in Hollywood, the political scene will quickly follow suit. The very same story is already beginning to break in the UK with the ongoing outing of highly placed pedophiles. The significance and degree of what will eventually be revealed will be truly shocking-- but utterly necessary for finally beginning to deal with the reality of the world we live in. Pretend time is over... the ugly truth is seeping, spilling, gushing out...


Could it truly be that we live in a power-structured world based primarily upon pedophilia and blood ritual sacrifice? We’ll see.

Barfuss: Time In a Bottle


Hi. Me again. I already told you about Pete, the Head Brewmaster, or Potions Master, as we say. There’s another tale about me and Pete and another special bottle of mead; I have long wondered whether it should be told. It might not be believed, but that is for others to decide, once I’ve done my part.


There is another project here at Barfuss I’ve been intimately involved in called the Meadow Flower Mead Consortium. Sometimes we like fancy names. There’s a mostly-wild field of meadow flowers which we minimally tend throughout the growing season. Then in conjunction with our resident bee keeper, we gather the honey which is specific to that particular meadow, and brew a yearly mead from it. It’s loosely a ritual process where our interventions are kept to a minimum, whilst the overall signature for the growing season is preserved in the brew.


I’d like to tell you about bottling day. All bottling at Barfuss is carried out in the labyrinthian cellar where many years’ archives are housed. Typically, every bottle sports a label which has the batch number and the date of bottling handwritten... by Pete. There’s nothing fancy about Pete’s handwriting, but it’s consistently legible, so he’s always done it.


We had just finished up bottling and labeling this year’s batch; Pete had already begun shelving the bottles for longterm storage, when I noticed that a single bottle had been missed during labeling. I thought nothing of it when I picked up the felt pen and copied the batch number and date into the appropriate spaces on the missed bottle. Of course that single bottle was written in my hand, not Pete’s. When Pete came to gather the last bottles of the batch for initial storage, I informed him of what I’d done, and he kind of just shrugged and smiled in an appreciative way. Then suddenly, he stopped cold and stared at the label I’d completed. The colour drained from his face and he said “Oh crap!”


I wondered how it was even possible that I’d done something wrong and naturally inquired. He assured me that it was nothing I’d done, and explained that suddenly a mystery had been solved. And this is where it gets a bit weird.


He immediately put the bottles back down on the workbench and dragged me over to the mysterious green door. Haven’t you found that the most interesting things lie beyond green-painted doors? I sure have. I’d idly wondered what was behind the green door in the cellar but had never gotten around to asking, until now. “What’s in there?” I asked, intrigued.


He didn’t answer straight away, but pulled me inside... beyond the green door, with lantern in hand. In the context, it didn’t appear too remarkable. There were more shelves and more filled bottles, pretty much the same as the rest of the cellar. It looked like there was about a hundred bottles or so, but the room could definitely still house considerably more. Pete went straight to the beginning of the occupied first row and reached for the first bottle. “Have a look at this,” he said, handing it to me.


I stared at the label long and hard. Even though I was perfectly certain what I was looking at, I stood there wondering what in the world I was looking at. “I don’t understand,” I said, looking up.


“I didn’t understand either,” said Pete with a mischievous smile. “I never put these bottles here; and I have no clue who did. I can’t even say exactly when they arrived. The door has been closed and the room empty for so long that it’s hard to pinpoint when exactly they were put here.” I couldn’t even begin to fathom what Pete was trying to explain. “It was the handwriting on the labels that really confused me initially; none of it was mine-- I really wondered about that, but I think you solved that for me today. Check ‘em out.”


He encouraged me to look at the other bottles on the shelf, scrutinizing their labels. Each one was penned by a different hand. Additionally, there seemed to be one bottle for each subsequent year. The thing was, though, the dates on the bottles all stretched into the future, not the past like one might expect. The only exception to the future vintages was that first bottle he’d handed me. It was the one I’d handwritten just a few minutes before, just outside the green door; it had today’s date... beneath a noticeable layer of dust. I was perplexed, so I reiterated what I’d said before. “I don’t understand. How can this bottle be here in my hand, when I know that it’s sitting on the workbench, freshly bottled, just outside this door?”


“I know, right?” said Pete with a grin. “And as near as I can figure it, that bottle in your hand is over a hundred years old.”

“You mean the one with today’s date on it?” I asked somewhat mockingly.


“Yeah,” he said still smiling.


“How?” I asked defiantly.


“It’s a time-traveler,” he said. “These are all time-travelers.” We counted exactly one hundred and twenty-seven of them.


“What do we do now?” I asked, still not believing that the situation as it had presented itself could possibly be the truth.


“I don’t know about you, but I’ve always wondered what hundred-year-old mead might taste like. I say we drink that bottle,” he said, nodding toward the one I still held.


“Do you think we should?” I whispered conspiratorially. I thought at the very least that Barfuss management should be consulted and perhaps even the police should be notified-- not that I had any rational reasons why.


“I do,” insisted Pete. And well, that’s what we did. We drank it straight from the bottle, sharing it back and forth for a good half hour.


I can tell you that it was spectacular! It wasn’t just the taste; it was the whole experience. But I’ve given you enough to chew on for now. I’ll pick up the thread of this tale again, soon; I promise.

The New Earth

The Cave of Sophia’s Dreaming

Part 2: A Conversation with Thelete (Tay-lay-tay)

by Martin Dexter


Edwin’s Note: Never you mind what happened to Part 1. As near as I can tell, it hasn’t been written yet.


Disembodied, I had always envied Lynn her time spent with the Earth Mother, Gaia-Sophia. Although suspended between actual incarnations, without a body to hold the gender role specific to my personality, I was barred from the conversation with the planetary Mother due to my maleness. For a long time, it hadn’t occurred to me that there should be a male counterpart to the Earth’s feminine aspect. Upon that late-hour dawning, I finally sought him out.


It would seem natural to now describe where, in fact, I had located the masculine counterpart to Gaia-Sophia, but the lack of a physical body seems to disorient one’s consciousness such that physical co-ordinates hold little meaning. That’s just my fancy way of saying that I didn’t really know where I was, nor, really, how I’d gotten there. I’ve chosen to call it all dreaming, but not my own; this was the grand dreaming of Earth... or so I’ve supposed.


Thelete was a cave dweller... for perhaps no other reason than it was appropriate to my thinking. The Earth Mother’s consciousness resided deep within the planetary body; so too should the masculine aspect, don’t you think? It made sense to me. So please forgive me for not properly setting the scene, but it was much more the ensuing conversation that I am desirous to convey.


“Ah, Martin Dexter, inevitability has brought you to this dialogue,” he began, cutting through the need for introductions.


I nodded. “Yes, it seems inevitability has certainly taken hold of me. It leaves me wondering the true status of my free will.” It wasn’t really a question, so I expected no answer, but loved his answer nevertheless.


“Every Earth human, every Earth soul, in its complete exploration of free will comes to a moment-- inevitably-- where the only choice left is to fully reclaim one’s sovereign free will. And periodically, such a moment comes to many all at once... and so very much changes then.”




He tipped his head in the affirmative. “But so very much more! There is a confluence of universal conundrums demanding remedy and resolve... and Earth is the point of convergence. Very ancient souls have been lured back to the gameboard to finish games that they started. You’d likely call it karma, yet you know it’s mostly bullshit.”


I could feel that he was tying a thread to my recent experience with death. Indeed, I’ve concluded that those experiences were mostly bullshit. “I’ve had experiences” I explained, “whose authenticity I doubt... and subsequently, I’ve come to doubt it all, my whole life-- essentially, because my death seemed so fake... and yet here I am. Does it have to be so damned convoluted?”


“It does. It can be difficult to orient oneself. ‘What is real’ has presented itself to you as a choice. It’s your call.”


“Can’t you just tell me what’s real and where I am in this whole mess?” I knew the answer was no; it was-- and yet, he managed to present it as mostly yes.


“I can speak of my view, from the perspective of the masculine aspect of Earth’s planetary consciousness, and render that view into relatable terms for such a one as yourself. The reality of my view however, lies in the choice of the beholder. And do not think that authenticity ever arises in externals on its own; I can only speak to the authenticity you harbour within. Have you a specific question?”


“What is the relationship of the astral to the Earth?”


“Oh, is that all!” he laughed. “As far as your current perspective is concerned, the astral realms surrounding Earth are an extrapolation, an extension of the physical Earth in multi-layered refinements.”


“Are they parasitic on Earth’s energy?”


“Are the astral realms parasitic...? I cannot condone the term, but accede to the spirit in which it is asked. There is an aspect of truth to that, but in a much-too-simplistic way.”


“Alright.” I could accept that answer. “But tell me, would the etheric realms then be an interpolation? Is the etheric the organic energy, the template, underlying the physical Earth? The etheric realm lies in the inward direction for the planetary body--”


“As for humans!” he interjected.


“While the astral realms spiral ever outward... radiating.”


“I will not disagree with you. The perspective you espouse is helpful and ultimately orienting. Authenticity lies in the inward direction... and all that goes with it too. What do you suppose undergirds authenticity? Who sits behind?”


“It can only be the Source, the initiator and sustainer of All-That-Is. Does the astral have its own connection to Source?”


“Through Earth it does.”


“But that wouldn’t be its own connection though.”


“Consider it Earth’s gift.”


“I see.”


“No, I’m afraid you don’t.” He continued. “The universe of your waking experience I shall call the Light Creation. Initially it came from Source. Where else could it come from, right? But the Light Creation disconnected itself from Source as the very purpose of its expression, to explore the finite in an infinite context... bringing experiences of limitation and lack. It was encoded to return home, to integrate back into Source, once the exploration was complete. In order for the soul-codes to be activated however, everything has to come to resolution. There have been some very stubborn holdouts who would rather destroy the whole Light Creation through a timeline paradox-- something which, incidentally, has already occurred four times-- than to simply make peace with all entities involved. We are in the fifth world. There will be no further uncreational events; we will not reset back to the beginning and try again; all must be resolved into One. Earth is the way home.”


“So we’re like a lifeline being thrown out to the rest of Creation?”


“Yes, I like the image of a line offered. Earth cannot rescue anyone, but She can facilitate the rescue of All. We are connected to Source as are all earthlings. Earth human’s connection to Source has been co-opted through devious and ingenious manipulations of free will. The lifeline is often playing the role of a wire supplying new energy, prolonging the entanglement, prolonging the bottleneck. Humans will have to find their way through the convolutions placed upon their lives and their wills in order to end the free lunch.


“The astral has grown all out of proportion,” he continued, “upon the pilfering of Source energy through unwitting free-willed humans. It must now stop before the entanglements and their seeming impasse do not worsen. We must stop feeding the convolutions so that remedies may be applied and resolution found.”


“How do we do that?”


“Find the meaning of sovereignty and authenticate it.”

Copyright © 2014 Niels Kunze, the author., All rights reserved.