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  MISCELLANIA  ------------------------------------ THE UPDATES


      Sept 26, 1995, 3:05 PM  Tuesday afternoon.


      I just had a quick phone conversation with a long time aquaintance
 who in the late 80's made frequent trips with his wife to the Laurentians
 north of Montreal in the Province of Quebec. What had made me curious
 about these trips was that I knew Visnu Devananda, a swami with a large
 ashram at Val Morin next to Val David in the Laurentian Mountains.

      Recently Val Morin and Val David made the international news due
 to the fact that a sect had had quarters there and in Switzerland, and
 had become a doomsday cult with some 6 dozen members being taken out of
 the picture in one day, both up in the Laurentians, and on a farm in
 Switzerland. So, since this was the first I had heard of that doomsday
 cult, which seemed to have had very high level activities with the
 Canadian Federal Govement, I began to wonder if my friend had had
 anything to do with it. So when unexpectedly he called in today
 on the phone I screwed up my courage and asked. It turns out,
 according to him, that he and wife had many friends associated
 with the Vishnu Devananda ashram and also the other cult but that
 was not the reason why the frequent trips to the Laurentians back in
 the late 80's. But all of this is just setting the stage to the short
 story. Today I got around to telling him something I knew about Vishnu.

      It had happened in the mid 70's that I had gone to the ashram and
 stayed incognito for 8 months for the purpose of trying to get a handle
 on what constituted Eastern Law, from the point of view of someone who
 was increasingly coming across references to it and running into people
 who were believers or practitioners of it, but otherwise I knew actually
 nothing about what in fact constituted Eastern Law, in particular
 fundamental vedic yogi beliefs of the Hindu religeon.

       So, up to the Laurentians went I, one day, arriving unannounced,
 only used my first name, talked nothing of my past, stayed 8 months then
 departed the usual way telling no one, at 2 AM in the middle of the night
 hitching back into Montreal to end my one and only involvement with Eastern
 Law. I left a couple of days after being asked to take over as Treasurer
 of the International Organization, with a move to the Bahamas for me
 coming up. That was not what I wanted, so left as quietly as I had
 arrived. Co-incidentally, a telegram arrived on the same day inviting
 me to take part in some new plans that were beginning to be unfolded
 in the west. So, deciding to leave was as easy said as done. Getting
 west however was a different story.

       In the meantime, the very day I arrived, I got immediately to work
 cleaning up garbage and rubbish which had been accumulating on the grounds
 (65 acres) and in storage areas under the backside of the dining hall, and
 other mounds of decayed overplus. For instance under the dining lounge one
 day I began to haul out a coagulated mess of gelly and wires, which turned
 out to be a huge stash of old mattresses which had been stored there years
 before and forgotten. Most of the cotton stuffing had converted to a thick
 slimy greenish transparent gell. I pulled this stuff out, and with the
 help of a recruit who happened to have been wandering by, loaded it into
 the back of an International Harvester station wagon of 1950's vintage,
 and hauled the mess to the town dump, several loads to get it all. It
 turns out that in Hindu beliefs, nothing can be thrown away, it has to
 be kept, to keep the gods happy. I did not see it that way and so of
 course spent most of my time the first couple of months, hauling the
 god's garbages away. The grounds were littered with paper scraps,
 candy bar wrappers, and just about anything you can name. I
 cleaned up all of that, too, just to keep busy and pay my
 way since I was at the time working on creative writings
 and mathematical formulas and was therefore penniless.

       On the phone today I told my friend two things about Vishnu
 Devananda that had impressed me. The first was that one day in the
 fall a load of us had gone to Mt. Tremblay for a picnic and in the
 afternoon suddenly a rowboat was seen to be being propelling at rather
 high speed across the lake. How this was happening was that Vishnu,
 50 years old and at one time one of the world's most famous adept
 Yogis, was doing a handstand on the back of the rowboat, his legs
 fishtailing back and forth vigorously through the air, the up and
 down pumping of the vigor propelling the old rowboat at rather high
 speed right across the small lake. It was the only time in 8 months
 that I had actually seen the swami do a yogi event, but it was enough
 to impress me that yes indeed he was no amateur when it came to
 physical agilities and such. A home movie was shown one day of
 him cleaning his inners, by swallowing an orange cloth of several
 yards, then pulling the yards back out of his mouth to yogi clean
 the pipes and stomach. The back door job was done by stooping in
 the ice cold head waters of the Gangis River, arse dipped in the
 ripples, somehow sucking in, then squirting a long spew back into
 the water that could put a fire hose to shame. How this was done
 was a matter of advanced yogi techniques, of which, only a few of
 the best could master, in India.

       He was dark skinned, with pitch black hair.

       He had two personalities. In western modern mode, particularly
 when any camera was focused on him, he would transform, become as good
 looking as a movie star, in fact noted for the amazing likeness to the
 looks of Cary Grant. However when looking back into the vedics and in
 discussing why, for instance, he could claim that Hindu Vedic was the
 best religion in the world because it was the oldest, he would transform
 in the opposite direction, his face becoming dark, twisted, contorted,
 his body writhing as he struggled to get words out in discordant broken
 sentences. He is the famous guru who made the remark one day up there
 in the Laurentians, we sitting there hearing this, that in answer to
 a visitor's question, 'what is the meaning of spiritual humility', he
 answered; "So, they named me Vishnu, because I am a God, but, so what,
 I don't go around the world acting like a god, and that is the true
 meaning of being humble". Needless to say, many of us just sat in the
 temple casting quick fleeting eye glint urgent glances at each other
 around the room, on the moment of that  verrrry  strrrrange  remark.
 It is about the most innapropriate remark I ever heard anyone say.

       The other thing that DID impress me, however, to the utmost, was
 one day in the late fall, when the power had failed, and the Quebec Hydro
 had been hard at work since noon trying to factor the cause. For instance
 the main line into the camp (ashram) was 550 volts and a lineman outside
 the main gate had a 20 foot long pole, used to lift wires off insulators
 to empty standby grooves, with mighty scary loud  BZZZZZZZ'  occurring
 as a thick snake of electricity arced from one wire to another as the
 lineman lifted each with the 20 foot pole. I got to appreciate how
 much current was going through a typical small line of telephone
 poles up a gravel curve up a mountainside, in those days.

       Now it was twilight, the sun going down, all was quite, several
 dozen people sitting around the lobby of the main lodge, candles lit,
 since there was nothing to do because the power was out, when all of a
 sudden there was a horrific long loud cry piercing the quiet twilight, the
 echos of it diminishing long into the dark distances of the mountainside,
 a real hair raiser. Everyone in the room was struck dumb with the same
 telepathic astral/psychic hit, paralyzed in the intensity, could not
 move, strange eyes filled as big as saucers. Except me. I raced out of
 the lodge looking frantically to the left and right. There was no sign
 of anyone, except the guru, Vishnu, his pencil thin legs covered with
 dense back hair looking like spider legs, a round golf ball body perched
 on top, had come out of his cabin, his orange robe lifted above his waist,
 his black hairy legs propelling through the air faster than the eye could
 follow, running like the wind in the direction of the yell, screaming in
 a thick Hindu gutteral accent: 'Help that MAN! for GOD'S SAKE, HELP that
 MAN!", and the two of us continued running at top speed into the distant
 woods behind the dining room hall, where the cry had come.

       It turned out that a seeming abandoned old hydro pole back in
 those dense heavily overgrown maple tree woods, had a wire coming down
 the side to a large fuse sitting on the side of the pole, and this, blown,
 is what had caused the hydro outage for Val Morin that day, and when the
 hydro man had finally found it at twilight, had yelled at the top of
 his lungs in jubilation.

       When we finally got there, he was happily whistling to himself
 and wiring in a brand new modern fuse box. He had had time to get back
 out of the woods to his truck, and back, before we, out of breath,
 plowing and clawing through the tangeled folliage, found him.

       The most interesting thing about that event was that, of the
 hundreds at the ashram at that time, only two of us responded to what
 we thought was an appalling cry for help, we two were Vishnu Devanada
 and myself. His instantaneous reponse to help impressed me a great deal.
 It was beyond a state of grace, it was beyond being important, for both
 of us the response for help was totally fundamental.




       - Finis -






  MORE MISCELLANIA  ------------------------------------



      Sept 29, 1995, 11:50 AM  Friday morning.


      This picks up on a short story reported
      in the prior update dated  Sept, 26, 1995.

      There were four more incidents at the yogi Camp I wish
      to report, now that I have had time to think about it.

      First off is that after three months, I was offered a nice big room
 right off to the left behind the desk of the main Lodge. This is because
 someone swiped a day's receipts from the cash drawer, the young French
 Canadian girl who was in charge of the registration desk, announcing,
 after everyone had been called together for an emergency meeting, that:
 'Tonight I check for the cash but all of the money in the drawer it is
  missing'.

      So it was felt someone should be on hand more than before to keep
 an eye on things, so I was asked in the knowing that it was not me who
 swiped the cash and I was not capable of committing willful felonies.

      Hence the next day I was offered, and accepted, a large room
 currently in use for storage immediately off the left of the
 registration desk.

      Thus, presto I had a nice large room with plenty of wall space
 and a large work table to start a new project, which was to explore
 aspects of the Golden Harmonic Ratio, and numeric permutations, in
 particular in regard to how these ratios tied in with geometric 5-sided
 and 6-sided images. I was using for calculations a circular slide rule,
 a device with inherent limitations as to intrinsic accuracy nevertheless
 it was possible to follow certain mathematical permutations and ratios
 with meaningful results.

      But back to the swami's ashram in the Laurentian mountains
      north of Montreal in the Province of Quebec, circ. 1974.

      My intent was to find new aspects that could be concidered a
 part of Cosmic Law, thus translating the mis-use of 5 sided images
 and the pentagram out of the realm of promiscuous occulties and black
 magic esoterics. The work on the wall gradually unfolded as several months
 went by, into quite a display of art, in that I used colored art pencils
 to grace information on each page of small and large sheets of paper,
 including brown wrapping paper when supplies got short, and knew that
 I had new information aboard, except it was all lost four years later
 in a house fire on an executive estate of 10 acres immediately west of
 Calgary, these colorfully artistic sheets, plus most everything else I
 had put together and accumulated since the summer of 1971, went up in
 flames when stored in an attic over the 5 car garage. It was the second
 time in my life that a major accumulation of creative efforts was lost to
 mayhem, in that the house fire had been deliberately set by a temporarily
 derranged former associate of a number of like kinds to myself, who had
 decided to try and destroy what he could not have, before coming back
 to his senses, ergo the fire, an event for which no one was charged
 because it was said by the RCMP to be an act of a group of weirdos
 who were trying to destroy records. Can you imagine!  The very
 opposite to destroying of our co-creative records was what we
 (all of us involved) had in mind. We had nothing whatever to
 do with the fire and those present were desparately trying to
 put it out. So many years of effort lost to mayhem, and, then,
 false accusations that made the press. Fortunately, I was out of
 the main picture at the time so my name never got spread across
 Canada, but, unfortunately, some new axioms in plane geometry,
 worked out in 1976, were lost, the only records I had of these
 axioms in boxes lost in the fire. One of the axioms could reduce
 work using the Law of Cosines through 35 steps, to just 7 steps,
 to solve a complex geometry problem of common kind. I do not to
 this day know how the axioms worked, since everything had been
 detailed to the nth degree and the info dropped from mind, since
 a record existed, whenever needed, but that record lost in the fire
 the authorities said was self set to keep certain secrets secrets,
 the secrets being non-existent except in their strangely perverted
 religious fundamental baptist minds. The fire was in Alberta, circa
 1979, the home province of Bible Bill Eberheart who founded the
 first back to the bible radio broadcasts and whose chief assistent
 became the first Socred Premier of Alberta, whose son is now the
 head of the Reform Party of Canada, a party rooted completely in
 fundamental Baptist tenets which seem to also include stark white
 supremacy notions. This was the climate in which our place burned,
 and guess who got the blame, by guess who, you've got it, baptists
 forming the hard core of the authority structure in that province
 at that time, including chiefs in the RCMP. Talk about licking
 wounds and keeping our mouths shut, at that time. Boy, did we
 stay silent. You didn't know  WHERE  the police were going to
 strike from next. There was no moral or other values involved,
 no crimes or felonies were occurring, none whatsoever. Many
 fundamentalists in their religions, will KILL to maintain
 their beliefs. When individuals stand up saying they know
 NEW inputs from the heavenly realms, inputs that will put
 to the pit most all of the former fundamentalist religious
 beliefs, you have a very serious problem to be faced with no
 thought of escape by those who have been put on Earth in Divine
 Order, in sacred trust, to broadcast the new inputs into the faces
 of the masses. Those most in opposition are those most fundamentalist.
 It stands to reason that they are also heart and parcel of the authority
 stuctures in most countries in the world, including Canada, a Catholic
 regime.

      Regards the fire, part of the loss was laid blame by the police,
 who attended from three different detachments include Calgary, that
 members of a cult had blocked the driveway with their cars so that
 firetrucks couldn't get it. What really happened is that cop cruisers
 blocked the driveway and wouldn't move, keep the firetrucks at bay
 for 20 minutes, until the property was well involved. Two of our
 vehicles in fact had turned up the driveway returning from
 business in the city and saw the smoke, immediately leading
 to calls for help from within the structure since the fire
 was still just starting out in the 5 car garage. Further
 bad luck occurred when the firetrucks finally were
 allowed in by the cops to set up hoses and our
 well ran dry, hoses to two nearby houses
 failed in the finals when the hoses
 froze because the January in
 Calagary was so cold.

      Regards the property on the slope facing the Rocky mountains west
 of Calgary: when first acquired it was a rental property until the owners
 an elderly couple, decided to retire in the Kooteney area in the mountains
 of BC and offered the property at a low price that could not be refused.
 A deal was struck, money changed hands, then presto out of the woodwork
 came the secret hidden papers, a third morgage held by their church the
 Seventh Day Adventists, whose amount boosted the purchase price to full
 top end of current retail value. It was no bargain at all, but we honored
 the deal. The problem was that it was against the law for churches in
 Canada to hold morgages on property which they did not own, and to
 loan money to individual members of the church, neither felonies
 seeming to be of the slightest interest to authorities who were
 all in on their own deals involving churches and religions in
 the province of Alberta, circa the early 70's. So there was
 a lot more at stake to this property than just a mere fire.
 Coverup by official malpractice not the least of its karma.

      But, back to the story, circ., the fall of 1974, up in the
 Laurentians north of Montreal, at the 65 acre ashram of swami Vishnu
 Devananda.

      One late afternoon in the late fall, a tour bus loaded with weekend
 stayers from New York City arrived to be registered and consolidated at
 the desk in the main Lodge, all of this taking place with me being called
 out of my room where I was working on some math, to open the gift shop for
 one of the new guests who wanted to buy something to take back to friends
 in New York City. This was a brassy gal of about 35 who was one of the
 first in America to start teaching sex education to kids in grade school
 and had a strange abrupt manner about her that precluded the normal give
 and take of men and women interchanging and exchanging. At this time the
 gift shop door could only be opened by me, the key had been appointed to
 me for safekeeping since in weeks past odd things had been disappearing
 in stealthy ripoffs from the gift shop. Something happened that caused a
 distraction and we all left the gift shop, me shutting the door. It was
 3/4 of an hour later when the dust had settled regards the distraction
 and I went back to the door of the gift shop to get my keys. The gift
 shop door's key was still in the lock, more than a dozen other keys
 hanging from the chain. The key in the door was bent at exactly a full
 90 degree angle, the bend so flush to the metal of the lock that I had
 to pry and pick to extract the remaining key shaft still in the lock.
 It was the first time that I saw without question metal bend, on its
 own. I figured the negative static being induced into the room by the
 persona and being and acts of that women from New York City had to
 somehow be in the cause. She was no pleasure, and had been making
 everyone, including her friends, very tense, a sharp contrast to
 other women who when present seem to have nothing but good things
 happen around them in their environment. It was negative ionnic static
 in the frequencies of the room that had caused the metal's bending, or
 so I think in simple levels of how can metal bend like that, on its own.
 Perhaps the ionnic static had passed from my fingers when first I opened
 the door, because at that moment things were tense in the room and all
 my inner guards were up. Wiffs of black magic were lurking around like
 real crisps. Ergo the inner shields were up in full operation.

      (Nowadays things are different. When crisps are lurking around,
      I tend to drop the shields entirely and let the radiants in full
      range spectrum on all frequencies move flooding forth, which can
      do some Cosmic good, to try to help by the invisible factor in
      translating the situation for First Cause in Reality. No more
      need to duck and hide, like in the old days now almost forgotten
      when I was much younger and more unaware, back then).

      But, back to the story, now to item two, at the ashram in 1974.

      Another interesting event occurred around the same time period. It
 had happened that the swami had decreed a couple of years earlier that
 since the ashram was on the side of a small mountain it would be ideal
 as a ski resort to earn extra income during the winter. That first year
 a large swatch had been cleared of maple trees down the main slope, and
 a cross country trail hacked through the forests up in the further areas
 of the property's 65 acres. The following fall, when some well wisher had
 donated funds sufficient to go ahead and get the slopes and other things
 ready for installation of ski resort and tow bar ski lift facilities the
 following year, work again resumed to finish off the main slope. Mainly,
 it was in getting rid of the main bumps, reducing them to exciting moguls
 rather than dangerous dips, and so on. One mid afternoon I was coming down
 through a path weaving through real thick golden rod that reached over
 head, and came out into a clearing about half way down the slope. There
 was a crew of seven people who had been recruited by the camp manager
 to get rid of a particularly large boulder sitting right in the middle
 of the main downhill ski path. There were large pieces of lumber lying
 about, helter skelter, long iron bars and pipes, large blocks of wood,
 shovels, a tripod makeshift pully system the whole collection.

      It turns out the crew had been hard at work since right after
 breakfast and no matter what was tried, the giant boulder had not
 budged so much as a centimeter. It was round, taller than a human
 (you couldn't see over the top), it sat in a depression wedged in
 dirt and other rocks that were buried, and couldn't be left there
 since it was more than big enough for skiers to pancake right into
 it full stop. The fellow who was supervising the clearing of this
 boulder was quite frustrated, because even the best levers and pulley
 arrays and the digs they could muster, had not budged the giant boulder
 by so much as an inch. So, me, striding up and feeling momentarily as
 cocky as ever, said let's try something else, and got four eagerly
 willing guys and girls plus myself to lay shoulders against the
 boulder, and said, ok, on the count of three, and, then;  one,
 two, three!  I let loose a mighty intone, an OOM-EEN AUM-EEN
 as loud as I could intone. What do you think happened! The
 giant boulder sailed right up out of the cavity as if
 suddenly weightless, and started to caroom down
 the mountainside, bouncing faster and faster
 down the slope, the whole ground trembling so hard
 we had to plant our feet for balance, huge sounds echoing
 down the ranges. The real problem was, that the giant boulder
 was heading straight for the swimming pool. I started running down
 the slope at top speed yelling No! No!. At the last second the boulder
 hooked a left angle bounce and came to rest about 6 feet off the shallow
 end of the olympic sized swimming pool, and became an immediate new
 decoration, sitting there. The crew of seven were amazed to the
 state of being dumbfounded. I walked away from the mountain
 side wondering deep inside 'I didn't know I could DO
 that !',  the eerie effect of the giant boulder
 suddenly becoming as if weightless foremost
 in mind, and the sudden departure of the
 boulder's path straight to the center
 of the pool also in question, in
 that the ground down there
 heading straight to the
 pool, was perfectly
 flat, covered with
 thick green grass.

      P.S. I almost shoved over a horse. There were two horses at the
 ashram, one a dark young stallion of nice disposition, and the other
 an old gray mare who had become mean due to the increasingly painful
 sway of her old back. Occasionally the young stallion liked to get
 loose and eat the lush thick green grass beside the pool, but the
 young man and woman assigned to caretake the horses thought this
 was not allowed, in that in Hindu land, animals were thought to
 be the opposite products of gods when walking around holy land,
 unallowed, such as the ashrum. So a fuss was always made to get
 the horse back into the stable. One day I came walking down the
 mountain side and there was the horse calmly munching the grass
 rip rip, big mouthfuls at a time. Since no one else was around
 I became possessed of doing the right thing, and started ordering
 the horse off the grass. But it would hear nothing of it, just kept
 head down pulling one rip after another of delicious greenies filling
 its mouth, munching. So to make the point, I got alongside the horse
 and hands planted on its side, started shoving. All of a sudden it
 started to keel over. Had I not quit on the instant it would have toppled
 right into the swimming pool. I didn't know until then that you could shove
 over a horse. But also, I decided that that was going to be the last time
 ever I did some act because of someone else's ideas that were not my own
 as to what constituted the right thing, to wit, the best long green grass
 on the property most suitable for horses not allowed for horses because
 some invisible Hindu god might get upset. That was not my belief at all,
 yet I had acted against the horse at that moment because of someone else's
 views of such pre-concieved beliefs. I left the horse to enjoy its respite,
 and secretly hoped every day after, that it could get free long enough
 to enjoy a good meal in that long rich green lawn grass, before the
 snows came.

      P.S. Again. I noticed one day a porcupine down beside the front
 steps to the dining hall. Since it did not seem in any hurry to escape
 I went inside for a plate of hindu food (meat was not allowed there)
 and offered it to the porcupine. It would not eat from the plate.
 Instead, it took from my palm, standing up like a cat and with
 tiny black fingers comprising the paws, slowly pried apart my
 fingers to get the last food bits. Its quills were strange to
 stroke, you could only stroke them backwards. The procupine
 moved always in slow deliberate ways. Most of the members of
 the ashram kept their distance because after all it was an
 animal and against the beliefs of their religion to show
 kindness, but others were in admiration that the porcupine
 trusted me enough to feed straight from my hand. I was the
 only one to get near it, and fed it twice a day for several
 days. Until suddenly no sign of it. A few days later the sad
 report from up the road, a neighbor had seen a car careening
 at high speed along the gravel road and take straight aim at
 the porcupine killing it in an instant. T'was sad to hear.

      More P.S.

      There was no blue cow there at the ashram. There was a statue
 of a blue Krishna, a blue boy playing the flute and many of the
 ashram members came by every day offering food and flowers to
 this blue ceramic statue of Krishna playing the flute.

      More B.S. er P.S.

      Camp rules required every member of the ashram to be on hand
 for early morning meditation at least once every three days, if you
 missed, you were out. So I took to attending meditation every third
 day. But further, instead of going into a yogi torgue with climped
 fingertips grounded on splayed knees trapped in a pretzel manner,
 anus planted hard against the ground short circuiting everything
 below the Scorpio center, found a comfortable spot at the back wall
 of the meditation hall where my shoulder blades could fit comfortably
 between two supports, and so sat upright, legs straight out in front,
 looking around the whole hour to see what was going on. What I saw
 going on, for the most part, is everone falling asleep, nodding off,
 their heads dropping further and further into their chests then
 suddenly jerking upright, again and again, as the hour progressed,
 the swami himself falling to sleep the fastest, and jerking upright
 the most often. One day I started playing with colors. Knowing that
 thinking PINK can infuse positive spiritual flow and principles of
 universal Christ love into a container, I usually thought pink during
 those meditations, but one day started playing with bright purple light,
 thinking of it, seeing it in mind's eye, having it flow forth, and so on.
 Just quietly doing it. No big deal. However, when the meditation session
 ended, the camp manager who had been sitting right in front of the swami,
 and was also one of the most frequent of sleepy nodders, lept to his feet
 and came racing back to me wild eyed and breathless as I slowly lumbered
 stiffly upright, he exclaiming  'Wow!  it was the most fantastic thing!
 you wouldn't believe it!  wave after wave of intense pure purple light
 flooding over him and filling his every innermost visions, because of
 that,  he KNEW!  that HINDU!  was the  BEST  religion in the world
 because of  THAT  kind of experience!  And he's right in the middle
 of it, SPECIAL!', he finally proclaimed, wild eyed, departing at high
 speed.  And I, staying completely silent about the cause, urgently
 thought oops, oops, a backfire!  I won't try THAT again!  If not the
 right circumstances, such experience can be very misleading to spiritual
 miscreants and spiritual abusers of Cosmic Law, giving them something
 that can be used for the wrong thing when intending to pass on something
 good. The bright purple radiation at that time was supposed to dissolve
 paranoia in all who happened to percieved it in the room!  Not intensify
 their most paranoic religious beliefs. As you can see, short circuits do
 happen.

      P.S. One more story of energies and effects of energies gone awry.
 Every so often the Hindu community of Montreal would throw a festival
 upstairs in a big banquet room on the second floor of the YMCA on
 saturday afternoon. And certain amongst us trusted enough to drive
 ashram vehicles and go along as assists would go to Montreal for
 these festivals. The first one was a major learning curve. Things
 went fine for the first couple of hours, a great feast present of
 very tasty foods, nice people of many races and colors including
 me moving around enjoying the company. Everything was peaceful and
 calm, until the arrival of another eastern sect group of about a
 dozen and a half individuals who suddenly arrived in the room. I
 do not know who they were except within a couple of minutes I was
 in desparate ways, hurrying out the banquet hall looking to the left
 and right up the long corridor for a men's rest room. Couldn't find
 one. Too late, urge came to purge. Helplessly I let loose a mighty hork
 splashing onto the marble stoop of a big brown wooden door. What a mess.
 Looking up, there was the sign to the men's washroom, on the door. I had
 no choice but to go find a janitor and explain that a 'regrettable' had
 occurred. Then made my way back to the banquet. Shortly after, the new
 arrivals left. And soon enough things were back to normal. Once again
 I dived into the food, enjoying every bit of tasty treat that Hindu
 cooking allowed. Suddenly, again, an attack of strange eerie vibes.
 And a moment later back came the mysterious sect sweeping in through
 the door, and there was I, seconds later, racing back up the hall
 toward the men's rest room. Didn't make it. Once again a huge spew
 horked onto the carpet. This time not even enough time to focus
 toward the marble door stoop. This time the mess was much worse,
 a gastly pizza covered the thread bare YMCA corridor carpet from
 wall to wall. So once again, I was back up the hall to the other
 end looking for the janitor to explain once more what had happened.
 This time I used my senses. I went outside, and waited in one of
 the cars, until the others arrived ready to go home back to the
 ashram.

      The reason why this is a story with meaning is that at no
 other time in my life did I ever barf spontaneously like that.
 The fact of that cult, whoever they were, evoking oily vibes
 to such severity spreading around in the ethers that even
 Divine Celestial Reality Being translations could not
 curb the effects, was an event of significant
 illumination for 'a moi'.

      A third thought provoking incident occurred in the late fall just
 before the leaves turned to bright colors. A young new arrival had been
 sent up to the top of the rift being cleared up the slope for the ski
 lift tow bar, to burn a huge pile of slash and cutup trees and logs
 up to about a foot and a half in diameter. In the early afternoon
 I was asked to go up there by the camp manager to check it out,
 in that no smoke had yet been seen. So up I went. When I got
 to the top of the climb up the mountainside I found sitting
 on the ground a young fellow in a deep funk, figuring he
 was a failure because a fire had not started, no matter
 his best efforts with newpapers and a small can of
 kerosene, furthermore, it was starting to rain,
 not a slight drizzle but a very cold downpour.
 Up I came, heard his deparate story, said
 don't worry, where there's a will there's
 a way, and got busy finding a small cavity
 under the thick pile of green underbrush where
 rain was not pouring in, shoved in a few sheets of
 damp scrunched up newspaper, and since the gas can was
 empty, used just paper, reached in with a paper match that
 had caught fire despite being damp, then got a corner of the
 newspaper lit. The young fellow was not impressed at all. Until
 ten minutes later when the fire was roaring 50 feet high in the air.
 All that was left of that soaking wet green underbrush and tangle
 of logs was a depression of grey ash in the ground. Everything,
 every bit of the pile, was consumed in the mighty flames.
 Despite the cold steady downpour of drenching rain.
 I, of course, had occasional pause to stop and
 wonder, for years after, as to how I set a
 soaking wet pile of greens fully aflame.
 What, actually, had occurred, I wasn't
 sure. Except that I had spontaneously
 demonstrated on the spur of the moment
 to a deeply discouraged spiritual seeking
 soul that where there's a will there's a way,
 works!  even if it seems impossible because of
 pre-concieved beliefs that continually go unquestioned.

      Incidentally, at that time, there was a young mexican women up from
 Mexico City, and her older brother. It seems the family, of conciderable
 wealth, had sent both up to the ashram in the Laurentians, with the intent
 of trying to get some sense into the young man's head. She could barely
 speak English, or rather, she spoke English very well but could barely
 speak it without an almost undeciferable Spanish accent. He was a very
 good looking young fellow, a poster bill-board type who could have
 advertised the most elegent of men's clothing, or after shave lotion,
 the problem being that he was so good looking he had, it seems, never
 had to concider his acts, according to his sister, and so had become
 a CAD of despairing proportions to his family and friends. She on the
 other hand was the opposite, a heck of a nice person, also very good
 looking, definately Mexican, who immediately got to work volunteering
 services with whatever was needed the moment she arrrived at the ashram.
 He on the other hand declining all invites to do any work, until finally
 the swami, who was in on the family's deal right from the start, deemed
 that the only purpose to which the young fellow was suited, for his
 spiritual path, was to finish festooning the concrete statue of Genish
 the elephant with bits of broken mirror. This project had been started
 several years before, and only about 2/3 of Ganish had been festooned
 in what most worshippers concidered a very boring task. Well, so did
 the young fellow, he spent most of every day sitting at the base of
 the large concrete elephant occasionally breaking a piece of mirror
 into smaller pieces, every so often gluing a piece or two to the
 statue, and the rest of the time talking a full line of sexual
 come-ons to every girl who walked by. Ergo, enter his sister.
 Day after day, I would happen to be walking by this path
 alongside which sat the elephant, and hear her going at it
 full intensity trying to set him straight. And very secretely
 admired her, for everything she said seemed to be just about
 right on the money when it came to trying to set straight
 someone's smutty sexual attitudes and misconceptions based
 on physical good looks and conceits. The two left after about
 three weeks, and I do from time to time wonder how she made out,
 what kind of a life she has had, hoping it has been fruitful in a
 positive creative and constructive way because she did seem to have
 such penetrating insight into human behavior. I really admired the way
 she hesitated not, in boring right in on her brother's dilemmas. Love one
 another, serve one another, is a Law she seemed to have in heart without
 question. What's more, it didn't seem like she was wasting her time
 or her life doing this favour which her cad brother had not yet
 percieved. The point is, if someone becomes a prodigal son,
 or daughter, you have to let them fall through the cracks
 on their own, until they come again to their senses. If
 time is wasted on the impossible, both loose.

      And finally, it comes to the camp manager, and me, he a former school
 teacher of 26 from the wealthier jewish section of Montreal, who had come
 to the ashram not speaking a word of French and 6 months later was the
 camp manager dealing with French speaking souls all day long in getting
 co-ordinated things like Hydro 550 volts installation, DC 8 giant CAT
 bulldozers up into the backside to cut the service road to be used to
 install the ski tow, negotiating the purchase of a $150,000 dollar snow
 cat, etc. This machine was concidered such an investment, that only the
 camp manager and myself were allowed to drive it. I used to take it out
 and do the downhill run flattening the snow after every snowfall on the
 cross country ski slope, only he trusted to do the steeper downward runs
 on the main ski slope. This machine, from Sweden, was quite the toy to
 drive at times nosing almost straight down, winding amongst trees
 crawling downhill through a narrow trail that jigged and jagged
 amongst the tall Sugar Maples and outcrops of rock, as I
 fought the hissing pissing hydrolics of the steering
 that moved the double pair of crawling tracker
 treads. I never have otherwise driven heavy
 equipment other than a twelve passanger
 van. PS, the skiing never got opened that
 year, lack of money stopped the ski tow's erection.

      But, back to the main story. The camp manager's learning of
 the French language in such a short time (less than six months)
 was very impressive. Some of his spiritual and occult beliefs
 were not. For instance he recruited me to help momentarily in the
 cutting up of some large felled maple trees, not an easy job since
 the trees had been felled earlier by a yahoo with no regard as to
 how to untangle and cut up the trunks. So here we were, planning
 each move, cut here, cut there, he handling the industrial-sized
 chain saw, the same as used by loggers. At one point there was an
 X cross situation that was hard to figure in terms of just what way
 the logs would tumble after their cutting. He said wait, I've got an
 idea, I'm going to do THIS, and leaned in punching the chain saw to
 full rev and inserted the blade in at a sharp angle, me reacting
 in alarm shouting  NO! DON'T!  because he had inserted the blade
 directly under me where I was standing bent over studying the
 situation. Sure enough, the chain saw bucked. At full rev the
 blade shot up and whambed me with such full force right in the
 gut that I went sailing backward head over heels from the blow,
 landing on my back, feet spead-eagled up in the air, thinking
 nothing but doomsday. The full rev of the chain saw still dying,
 I willed myself for a looksee down, and NOTHING!  My white tee shirt
 was sliced open across the middle. I yanked the tee shirt up to my neck
 and looked straight down, eyeballs extending on tubes of a telescope to
 magnifing the vision, and saw only across my stomach above the navel a
 scratch exactly as if I had run my fingernail across the skin, and
 nothing more! I was completely unharmed, even though the chain saw's
 blade at full rev had hit me so hard it had knocked me several feet
 backwards off my feet. The strangest thing of all was that seconds
 before the hit, the last thing spoken by the camp manager was in a
 completely transformed slow voice, a voice that was unmistakable, the
 voice of an individual from Vancouver 3 years before who, only 24, had
 announced that only HE was powerful enough in the world to take over and
 be in control of all of the world's occult and metaphysical societies, a
 power he said he had to do this being so complete that nothing, NOTHING
 would be able to stop him and anyone who got in his way was expendable,
 a young fellow of 24 who otherwise made his living operating a back hoe
 he owned. Such are the dillusions of fantasy and ego. Nonetheless, it
 was HIS voice that spoke seconds before the fully revved chain saw tried
 to slice me in half up there on the mountainside in the Laurentians north
 of Montreal. The most obvious thought provoke of that situation being the
 most obvious:  HOW HAD I SURVIVED ?  The concept of instantaneous force
 fields was still not in my ken at that time. Boy, was I puzzled, left
 deep in thought whenever I thought if it, for months after.

      One last remark regards that 8 month period of time. I received a
 telegram in my post box in Val Morin, asking me to make a phone call at
 3 PM in the afternoon to a phone in Denver Colorado, on a day that was
 soon coming two days hence from the day I got the telegram. So I quietly
 packed everything, took only what was rightfully mine, left everything
 else behind returned to the ashram, neatly organized on the cot and work
 table, and at 2 AM quietly slipped out the front door of the lodge, walked
 the two miles to the main highway and hitchiked into Montreal. At 2:30
 the next afternoon I located a main public lobby of a high rise office
 tower in Montreal to make the call in annonymity in full view of the
 public. There were 12 pay phones in a row along the main lobby wall
 of this huge government building. At the end was a cigaratte machine.
 I was a smoker then, so deciding to pick up an extra pack because the
 machine had my brand, set my current pack which happened to be in my
 hand on top of the machine, bent down, fed coins, got the new pack,
 reached up to get the other pack, and it was gone! In the few seconds
 I had been bent over, someone walked past the machine and ripped off
 my pack sitting on top of it. First interference from the negative.
 Then it came time for the phone call, me emotionally hyped with
 enthusiastic expectations, fed coins into the pay phone at the
 other end of the row of 12, right against the wall, but the party
 I wanted to reach was not in so I was clued up to be back at that
 very same phone an hour later and wait for it to ring. After whiling
 the long hour with a cup of coffee in the nearby restaurant, I went
 back to the phone to wait for the call. What do you think had happened!
 The reciever was sitting on top of the PHONE, its torn-loose metal cable
 dangling in the air with tattered ends sticking out hanging to knee
 level in front of the box. I couldn't  BELIEVE IT !  Of all of the
 times for the negative to strike from the no zone, this was it, one
 of the worst acts of aweful timing I ever saw. It took several hours
 of frantic phone calls to the original number to finally re-connect
 to someone home, and it was decided because of the degree to which
 the negative was able to home in and peer right over our shoulders,
 close tracking, that I should wait, keep myself busy in Montreal
 for another three weeks until conditions were more favorable to
 try connecting again to Denver. So, at this time, being stone
 broke only a few dollars in pocket, I holed up in the men's
 hostle of the Salvation Army overnight and lined up in the
 labor pool the next morning at 5 AM and 2 hours later was
 on my way to a job site for the day. The labor pool payed
 $2.00 dollars an hour, but by the time they deducted what
 they wanted for expenses, I was taking away somewhere in
 the range of $12.00 to $13.00 dollars a day for a full
 day's work, just enough for meals, and an overnight
 stay at a men's hostle. Three weeks passed, I made
 phone connection again to Denver, this time the
 party I was hoping to speak to was on the line,
 the line having a strange deep long distance
 echo effect to it as we talked, I was
 instructed to go to the airport and wait
 until I heard my name called, sleeping overnight
 upright in a chair in the main cavern of the airport,
 the next day heard my name called, went to the counter, and
 a ticket was waiting for a direct flight to Calgary. I was on my
 way again to a new phase of life.

      And so, this concludes a few remarks about a few spiritual
      mysteries, occurring in a brief period of time as one phase
      of my life. Make of the remarks what you want to make. For me,
      each of the events caused a change in beliefs, in acceptance of
      higher Cosmic Law at work effecting all life on this planet.



      - Finis -




      As you now know after perhaps suspecting for awhile, there is
 a purpose to every one of these short stories, and moment by moment
 autobio expressions. They are like parables, each makes a point that
 sets the reader up for an illumination, and then more story and
 autobio details, then another point is made, and more illumination
 occurs. Even if the reader assumes everything written in these
 updates is fiction, it is still unlike any fiction anyone has
 read, assuming they like the writing style. If instead the
 reader takes it to heart that the stories and descriptions
 are REAL, then it is a whole different substance. A reader
 can not go through these updates, particularly the last
 one about a phonecall to Denver, without being changed
 forever in consciousness.

      The reason is that most of the points made are exceedingly
 not verbal and have main communication in the form of analogy and
 metaphor, further, if the points were made just as statements of
 fact or declaration, who would care?, who would understand. Well,
 mostly, no one. For good reason. REALITY cannot be taught through
 books, but only by experience, and inner direct illuminations and
 awarenesses in expanding perceptions. The stories can point the
 way to share similar insights and awarenesses of self in each
 reader. But, as said, the writing itself cannot open the door
 to REALITY like a roadmap that does not change once printed
 on paper. Hence, all of this work, writing, is no easy task,
 particularly when you concider language and the limitations
 of English to describe things that are otherwise understood
 in a 10th of a second flat, in self evident truths, by each
 individual, in their own spiritually correct inner higher
 frequency ways.

      That, above, points to the main fault of the Bible, the old
 testimate records which seem to be historical fact, perhaps not. These
 bible stories were of events that effected kingdoms and nations and most
 of its study has been concentrated on the establishment of facts to
 prove the insights, not the best way to go in this day and age in
 that no two nations can agree on anything for the most part, and
 there are hardly any individuals who can agree on all things
 without conflicts. But mostly, the Biblical accounts are now
 ancient.

      The stories in the above writings called THE UPDATES effect only
 each individual who happens to read them, and do not try to include
 nations as metaphorical facts, in the purposes of the individual
 stories. The reason behind the scenes is that this writing brings
 Higher Cause right home to each individual, where REALITY is found
 within, nearer than your hands and feet.

      It's a starting point. You cannot be a part of a
 vast Inter Galactic Cosmic Family and progressively evolving
 system and purpose if you do not know how to be a part of your
 self, in Divine Order, which is pure and without illusion or deciet.
 Forget the scare shrieks of Alien abductions and alien takeovers. A few
 tin cans and rust buckets creeking their way here from the aftermath of the
 Luciferian Rebellion, do not  REALITY  make. They are like you, marooned
 and stranded at a partially sealed planet hoping for the statics and
 corruptions and the misconstrued thoughts of the rebellion to rub
 off, so these pests too can come back to their senses. Sound
 and sensation that is pure, is a holy grail of everyone
 everywhere. Did you know that every thought you have,
 and emotion, is a sensation. Yes it is a pure and
 simple fact. Lousy sensations are NOT a part of
 First Cause. It is as simple as that. Strong
 sensations ARE, when you become inner
 dimensionally strong enough to
 handle commands and effects
 strong enough to rock your
 whole body like an earthquake,
 except from within. Elements of change
 and clearing. When you become strong enough to
 endure THAT kind of intensity, you also become strong
 enough to help change the planetary frequency to where it
 should be, in preparations for things to come involving
 the new age, which in fact, involves not just
 lakes and continents, but Galaxies.

 I can't say certain things, because Higher Cause is monitoring every
 word. So everything written has to be willfully interpreted into
 English enough not to lead people astray or the writing
 become messianic, leading to followers. No way.

 I can't say anything more to make things
 plainer at the moment, without
 ranting. Lets go in peace.



      - Finis -






  NOT QUILTY  -------------------------------------------------------------


      Oct. 3,  1995, 1:15 PM.  Tuesday afternoon.


      I have just sat and watched the fury er jury's reactions, er,
 results in the O.J.Simpson trial, and when hearing not quilty across
 the board was moved to slight tears, so intense the relief. Not huge
 wracking sobs, just relief from the building stress coming out in a
 slight flush of bad amino acids in the brain flushing out through
 the tear ducks, and I did not mind at all, tears trickled down
 my cheeks and I was  VERY  relieved.

      It started when the white bronco was being pursued along Los
 Angeles freeways, gunboat helicopters swooping in and around in the
 air, urgent shouts of 'get in for a clear shot' and other commands
 seeming to be the intent, with O.J. in the backseat and a desparate
 friend driving, his life also completely on the line in an instant
 doing this heroic act to help, a voice almost undescribable in
 despair speaking through the car phone, describing that O.J. was
 in the back, a gun to his head, O.J. annunciating only a single
 clear thought, that if he could make it back to his estate he might
 be safe. The unmistakable urgent intuitive thought suddenly struck
 me with unquestioned import, the question was:  What if O.J was
 INNOCENT. From that moment on I saw innocent only, and for me it was
 very easy to see conciet and manipulation take place in the court room
 as one sample of blood after another was paraded into view, analyzed
 to the nth degree by experts, the presence of O.J. blood in the DNA's
 without doubt, O.J's blood seeming to spread creeping across about 1/3
 of America before the last samples were called in as evidence, the
 entire question being how did the O.J blood get there?  Every step
 of the way it was easy to see malpractice as to how the blood samples
 got there, without preconcieved beliefs, for instance samples from the
 passanger side of the Bronco clearly O.J's and one of the victims and
 not a trace of the other victim, whereas samples smeared on the front
 of the Bronco clearly O.J's and the other victim, but not a trace
 of the 1st victim in it, these are conditions that are impossible
 but everyone instead including the media making a big issue of
 the fact that O.J's blood existed in the samples proving he did
 it. Not to me. Not at all. I noted the cracks in the holes about
 the integrety of the blood, rather than that it was his blood in
 evidence, which so many American's seem to be taking for granted without
 question, due to their intense ego-locked pre-concieved beliefs which
 have nothing to do whatever with REALITY. I had not the slightest doubt
 that the justice system was capable of doing what it wanted to, to, or
 for, anyone it wanted, there in the states, the final question being
 could a jury also take the bait and do what the negatives most wanted.
 Luckily, it seems not, in that instance. Let's hope it stays that way,
 and that further change toward positive points of view prevail, so that
 someday, soon, the mass consciousness really begings to understand that
 REALITY exists above and beyond all other perceptions, including beyond
 all and any pre-concieved beliefs.



      - Finis -






  RAMBLING CONFESSIONS  --------------------------------------------------


      Oct. 3,  1995, 2:30 PM.  Tuesday afternoon.


      The reference to wracking sobs, or lack thereof, is also
      in reference to the day John Lennon was shot. For two days
      I spontaneously broke into wracking sobs lasting a moment
      or two, many times, for two days, so deeply did I feel
      that he did not deserve it.

      The main fact is that I was secretely rooting for Lennon, with all
 of my hopes. His first new song, 'Imagine there's no Heaven', was close
 enough to certain points that it was just a few steps away from being
 able to declare through statements in song, and a more beautiful music,
 the existence of REALITY.

      There has been some karma between Lennon and myself. In 1969 at the
 so-called Peace Festival at Varsity Stadium in Toronto in the fall of
 1969, now later called 'The Rock and Roll Revival', amongst other names,
 I had been called from Vancouver to be the between-acts stage filler,
 something akin to Satchananda the Sivindanda Yogi graduate come to the
 West who had done between-acts stage-fill at the original Woodstock peace
 festival effecting 500,000 attendies. Incidentally Sivinanda went straight
 to nowhere for several thousand more years, when kicking the bucket, if
 certain Cosmic sources are listened too - Sivinanda had nothing to offer
 pointing to the existence of Cosmic Law, so don't bother with him. At
 Varsity Stadium in Toronto on this bright sunny day in the fall of 1969,
 I had been called onstage to recite some creative writings and thoughts
 as the filler between acts. Earlier I had already been called out, in
 the name of Greydon Moore, and had just got going when a next band was
 ready to go, and so left the stage. Things kept going from bad to worse,
 as the so-called Peace Festival progressed, getting more and more
 sabaritic and diabollic, until a point was reached when I actually
 left the stadium in discouragement, was out front on Bloor Street
 talking to some friends when I heard my name announced over the
 gigantic P.A. system. Back in I went. When I got back on stage, two
 things, the stage was utterly bare, not a speaker, not a microphone
 cord, was present, the entire stage cleared to get ready for John Lennon
 and Eric Clampton. Secondly, the entire place out there in the audience
 was complete bedlam. It had happened that Alice B. Cooper had just
 finished, doing such lesser non-niceties as throwing live chickens
 from the stage, which would arrive back on stage from vacinity of
 the near front audience completely plucked bare of every last feather,
 and still alive in agony, the audience screaming in sheer pleasure of
 the worst kind. And so on, I could not stay for more, and had left,
 getting only so far as the front on Bloor street when hearing my name
 called. So out I came onto the bare naked stage, walked to the front edge,
 sat down with a portable mike, feet dangling over the edge, 35mm movie
 cameras being carried into place with men and technicians running, and
 with a portable mike in hand began to read some poetry. Like I say the
 audience was in complete bedlam. I read what I wanted to say, got up,
 and left the stage. The audience was in complete silence!  There was
 not a single sound to be heard anywhere. I was struck by this, so deep
 that it moved back and forth through me for years after as to whether
 this was a good thing or bad thing, in that a stadium audience had
 been struck totally silent in a living stone by something said by
 me, whether it was just me, or by higher help. Now I believe it was
 a good thing. But back then, was so caught by suprise I really did
 not know with certainty one way or the other. Lennon and Clampton
 were down below in the dressing room frantically rehearsing a few
 cords, in that Clampton's plane had arrived late to Toronto. It was
 said that it was down there in the dressing room that Lennon was turned
 on to heroin by Clampton, which led to a Lennon saga of degeneration,
 disintegration, and decay, for Lennon, until one day he stood up from
 a street curb in New York City and announced he had had enough, and
 immediately started to work on new music and a fresh vision, the first
 out being 'Imagine there's no Heaven'. Like I say I was really secretely
 rooting for him, for the best there could be.

      P.S. I never got paid. The crash of the festival in Toronto was
 so complete after OKO came out and started wailing mindlessly and
 shrieking into the microphone, none stop, so completely, that within
 a half hour most of the stadium was empty and the producers of the
 show, myself, and the PR staff were sitting in a morose row half way
 up in one of the rows toward the back of the stadium, all sitting
 quietly staring at our feet. The woman who had run the whole of the
 publicity one of the most silent. Another fellow who I knew well had
 been back up in the recording booth during most of the afternoon with
 the Capital Records recording team and reported, when it became obvious
 that no new Capitol release of Lennon and Clampton was going to be
 possible, that he (my friend) saw, for the first time in his life,
 a man actually tearing hair out by the handfull, the Capitol Records
 recording engeerer literally began tearing hair out by the roots by
 the handfull so complete was his disbelief when ONO had started
 wailing like a demon.

      It did however, happen later, that I heard, via the grapevine,
 that Marshall McLuhan wanted to see me in his world famous Coach House
 Institute attached to the University of Toronto. At first I didn't
 believe the reports, until a 3rd report came in via the daughter of
 Pierre Berton the two of us just happening to be going upstairs in an
 elevator at Rochdale College and she mentioned it too. The next day
 I wandered forth at 10 AM, followed many paths through the heart
 of University of Toronto's downtown campus area, came up the
 wide cinder driveway leading to McLuhan's coach house, and
 entered to a secretary at the main floor. I then gave my
 name, she phoned upstairs, and told me go right on up,
 Marshall's waiting for you. He sure was. Publishings,
 and a 33 RPM recording of poetry I had done (with
 music accompany), were spread scattered on his
 desk. He had been looking at this before
 I arrived. Some of the stuff surprise
 to be seen due to limited circulation or
 printing in small quantities. He said he wanted
 to get straight to the point, would I concider attending
 some of his seminars with the point of view of giving a few
 of them for him. I was very suprised, said I would give it thought,
 left but knew that what I really wanted to do was get back to Vancouver
 where a box load of poetry notes stored in a house was occupying all of
 my private time and thought, and shortly after left for Vancouver in
 a car load of hippies and since the depart was in the middle of
 the night never had the courtesy to call and say goodby to
 Mr. Mcluhan.

 Incidentally, I had for the first time in my life a co-called psychic
 vision that was complete and real. Sitting up in the dismal digs where
 I was temporarily having to crash at Rochale Colledge, due to being
 completely stone broke after the Varsity Stadium fiasco, I suddenly
 had the thought that I had never seen in my life (age 30) a major
 fire in a large building. I sat there thinking of what such a fire
 could be like, seeing a solid red brick warehouse-like building of
 about 5 stories going up in a blaze, flames arching out through open
 wide windows along the side, the roof going up in towers of pitch back
 smoke, and so on. The flames I imagined were coming out one main side
 of the second and third floor. A short while later I heard many fire
 sirens in the distance, but nearby enough that I got curious and went
 out following the vapor trail of sirens. Soon enough I came out onto
 narrow streets in which a five story garment manufacturer's premises
 were going up in smoke, a major three alarm fire. Shortly after I got
 there flames started pouring out the windows alongside of the 2nd and
 3rd stories. It was not just like, it WAS, the images I had seen in my
 private thoughts a half hour earlier in Rochdale College. I noted this,
 as being the first official occurrence of a legitimate vision in advance
 of an actual fact. I don't have too many 'visions' even now, but when I
 do, they are correct.

                But, back to the circumstances after
                the Varsity Stadium Peace Festival.

 The real problem had been that I had not recieved a cent for appearing
 at the Peace Festival at Varsity Stadium and was stranded in Toronto for
 a couple of months stone broke until arranging a ride with a car load of
 hippies heading west, us three guys taking turns driving, the three gals
 taking time to enjoy the ride. The journey stopped in Calagary where the
 carload decided to stay. I continued on foot hitchkiking, got a ride with
 an old transport truck from the 50's hauling three tandems fully loaded
 with cattle, the whole thing so rickety each time a cow kicked a side
 of the wooden slats the driver's rig bucked and jolted in the air, a
 very rough ride, the old rig outfitted with 11 gears the transmission
 so worn the driver propped one knee on the steering wheel, the other
 on the dash for force to depress the clutch, and used two hands, arms
 swinging in wide sweeps in the air again and again, just to shift
 the thing between two gears, grinding the whole time. What a trip.
 The one thing I remember about the driver is he was very friendly
 and nice and also the closest I ever met to someone just like Slim
 Pickins the hollywood movie actor featured in the hydrogen bomb
 warning movie called Dr. Strangelove. The driver had the same kind
 of voice and 'hayseed' natural style as did Pickens in all of the
 movies by Pickens. Such go stories when one becomes autobiographical.
 These things just reported happened. I was 30 years old. To finish off
 the story of this saga, within two days of arriving in town I had got
 to work on a new project which came to be known as the 'Proton People'.
 In hindsight it is a very difficult, unappropriate piece of writing.
 I had a look at a copy of it, photostated from an original in the
 National Archives Library on Wellington Street, the day Governor
 General Bill Schreyer came over hand extended and introduced himself
 to me, one day in the early 80's, in the lobby of the National Archives
 in downtown Ottawa on Wellington St., up the street from the parliament
 buildings. This winter, 1995, I finally got around to reading the
 photostats, and can see nothing in that long poem called the
 'Proton People' that can be salvaged. It is illusionary
 history not worth recalling. Not only that, some of
 it is badly written, certain insights intended
 long forgotten, not the way to remember
 it from 25 years ago.

      Let's leap back to original intents regards the O.J. Simpson
 not quilty verdict, my tearfully relieved response, and the wracking
 sobs of deep felt sorrow that followed the assasination of John Lennon.

      The second fact of karma involving myself and John Lennon
 was that a small radio station network in Eastern Canada and the US,
 anounced that it was going to go modern, future, and toward world peace,
 starting with an FM station in Montreal boosted to 200 watts and going
 on the air at midnight, linking in with the Lennon and Oko peace bed
 be-in in Montreal. I did not hear the broadcast, of course, being in
 Vancouver on the West Coast, but was told by many that my recording
 of a poem called the 'Planet Man', went out over the air to a
 massive audience in the east starting at midnight, it went
 on as the opening message at the moment the first of
 these 5 new boosted stations went on the air, the
 main act then broadcast live from the John
 Lennon bedroom in a hotel in Montreal,
 fostering notions and concepts for
 world peace.

      It was these two facets of karma involving John Lennon: the
 Toronto Varsity Stadium Peace Festival, and the new 200,000 watt
 FM station broadcasts later involving Lennon, with again my poetry
 (with music) called 'The Planet Man': that set me to sorrow for two
 days in emotions when Lennon was subsequently shot just when it seemed
 he was ready to get going with a brand new vision that could help a lot
 of people come toward their senses.

      One of the most close tracked occurrences of unique events so
 un-coincidental as to be seriously concidered supernatural, occurred
 in the summer of 1959. It had happened that I had gone back to high
 school that year to finish grade twelve ready for university entrance,
 having dropped out of high school two years earlier a few weeks before
 final exams to pursue a career and interest in modern drumming as a
 would be musician. (Liked some of the music but didn't like the life
 style so abandoned that one and only career after four years). But,
 back to the summer of 1959. I had worked part time during that year
 as a driver and assistent for a small dry cleaner in Kerrisdale
 district where I was living at home, 'interesting' things about
 the dry cleaner being a Hungarian husband and wife who ran the
 place, who mentioned that their only son, a piano player, had
 become a famous musician named Freddy Martin, of the Freddy
 Martin Trio, and it was true, Freddy Martin's recording of
 'The Flight Of The Bumble Bee' still gets played on the
 air. Back to the summer of '59, I had frittered away
 parts of that school year due to lack of interest so
 needed a couple of summer suplimentals to get passed
 to the level of university entrance. I could not get it
 on, not a book was opened, and after a few weeks into the
 summer decided to make some quick cash and hitchhiked into
 the interior of BC behind Kamloops to the area called Merrit
 where a big forest fire had broken out. I spent three weeks up
 on the lines with a spade, and carrying a back pack of water with
 a handpump in crews putting out spot fires after the big blazes had
 passed through. But the advent of summer supplimental exams was creeping
 up to where I had no choice but depart. The forestry handed me a check
 of astonishing amount, I got paid for 24 hours a day due to reasons
 of where we had to go each day to fight the fire, etc., so with
 the large-dollar check in pocket but not so much as a dime in
 cash, hitchhiked out from Merrit to the main Fraser Canyon
 highway heading south, and got stranded. All the rest of
 the day, and into sunset, I stood at the side of the
 road in increasing despair. Just as the last run
 of sunlight was fading a grey van passing at
 high speed suddenly hit the breaks with a
 high pitched squeel and smoking tires,
 skidding to a halt sideways, the van
 backing up to me and in I hopped,
 the driver explaining that he
 NEVER, repeat NEVER picked
 up hitchhikers but when
 he hurtled by and saw
 me standing there,
 reponded with a
 oops and came
 to a stop.
 Yes, he
 was in
 fact
 heading
 to Vancouver
 hallelulia my big
 problems were solved.
 In the middle of the night
 we reached the outskirts of town
 and suddenly realized it was time to
 determine just where we were going, me
 in particular, what part of town was I going
 to so he could get to the most favorable spot to
 drop me off. I said I was going to the interesection
 of 43rd and McDonald in Kerrisdale. There was a long silence.
 Then he said in a mystified voice, but, I'm going to the intersection
 of 45th and McDonald. Sure enough, I was heading for one house off the
 intersection, he was heading for the corner house facing 45th, on the
 intersection. So here were the two of us, deep in thought, driving
 through Vancouver in the middle of the night, he having driven
 non-stop from Prince George, except for the moment it took
 to pick me up stranded all day on the side of the road
 up there on the highway at Spencer's Bridge, a 3 week
 beard growth, and face and clothes grimy and black
 from soot and no baths fighting the fire. It was
 a most unusual co-incidence. Some cross talk
 had occurred upstairs in certain telephone
 lines in order for him to have hit the
 breaks spontaneously in a completely
 uncharacteristic way to pick up a
 hitch hiker who was heading into
 the big city to a home address
 only two blocks away from his
 own home address. Neato. It
 is nice when REALITY can
 connect on the physical
 plane as precisely as
 that. No questions
 asked. Nor any
 problems.
 That
 was
 in
 1959.


      - finis -





      Interesting that one of the mightiest hurricane (named OPAL)
 ever to hit the American mainland, is now moving in on Lousianna and
 the Florida panhandle, one day after the O.J. Simpson trial abruptly
 ended. Planetary observers such as myself tend to watch for such
 co-incidences. It is not hard to link up Cause equals Effect in
 even such things as the circulation of weather patterns due to
 massive movements and changes in the positive and negative
 frequencies of the planetary mass consciousness. I have
 twice seen clouds form low overhead, in totally clear
 skies and produce thunder lightening and rain then
 evaporate just as fast as they formed, the clouds
 ovular in shape, always with white frosty edges
 fingering out around the edges of the central
 circular body, in tiny straight filements
 almost like frost. Most interesting was
 that clear sky could be seen around
 the edges of the cloud's shape,
 the cloud sitting stationary
 the whole time.

      This summer, two interesting things happened here in Orleans with
 sudden unexpected weather. I was inside, and suddenly had the idea to
 go out to check how some flowers planted from seeds were doing, ie,
 did they need water. It was mid afternoon on a weekend. As I stepped
 out the door, a sudden wind sprang up. By the time I got to the end
 of the sidewalk and stepped out past the two car garage, bits of
 sand and stone were peltering my face. A huge vortext of dust and
 candy wrapper papers was building up in the middle of the T style
 interesection directly in front of the house. Quasar the little
 brown dog looked urgently in one direction, then another, and
 dived for cover under the car in the driveway. And a neighbor
 walking by suddenly bolted for her front door. I raced inside
 shouting to my brother catching a cat nap upstairs that: Wake
 UP!  Wake UP! I think a tornado is happening. Down he came at
 once. By the time the two of us got back outside the wind had
 stopped, and bits of paper and such were settling out of the
 air back onto the street. What was this, I don't know, it was
 so unusual. And, there were no reports whatsoever of any unusual
 weather or winds in the Ottawa valley that day.

      On another day this summer, the forecast had called for calm,
 balmy, clear skies, nothing at all incoming, when suddenly out of
 nowhere a local disturbance started up in the Ottawa River valley
 at Pemberton, heading straight East. By the time it reached Ottawa
 travelling at 80 klicks per hour gusts of 90 miles an hour were being
 reported. It passed right over head, lasting less than 5 minutes, but
 by that time realtor and plaza signs were blown helter skelter, stop
 signs were bent right over, the local Petro Can Service Station which
 had a large wrack of soda pop outside the front door, saw the wrack
 picked up and blown away shattering most of the pop when the wind
 rolled by. What had caused it?  The weather offices had no idea.

      Three years ago, when our small software business had suddenly been
 hit by malevolent attacks from an American competitor and one unpleasant
 emotional jolt after another was flooding our peace of mind, after a
 particular bad jolt of unexpected news regards the American competitor,
 a weather cell over Gatineau across the Ottawa River started to build
 up moving this way dropping hail. It came across the Ottawa River and
 swept straight up the hillsides and over this house then dissipated
 and vanished. A quarter mile wide swath of hail the size of marbles
 was dropped along an extremely narrow strip over Orleans, including
 here, taking out all of the greens in my backyard. No other such
 narrow swath of hail has been reported for the area in the three
 full years I have lived here. The swath reported by the weather
 watch was reported as being no more than 1/4 of a mile wide.
 There has been occasional hail, but effecting a wide
 general area, and nothing dense enough to
 trash yards.

      So, the mighty hurrican named OPAL moving in this very moment on
 America I see as not of random cause due just to greenhouse heating. I
 percieve it to be caused to grow out of control, by thought of teeming
 millions via the mass consciousness in the planetary frequencies.

      Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. A planetary
 translator or a group who happen to be working together, can, effect,
 change, to dissolve or dissipate a threat, if done right, at the right
 moment, in actions in their higher consciousness. Sometimes it works,
 sometimes not. In 1975 in Halifax Nova Scotia a hurricane of deadly
 force was being tracked moving in off the East coast straight toward
 Halifax and forcasts of the worst potentials including fatalities
 were being blared non-stop over radio stations and TV. A planetary
 translator who happened to be there at the time (not me), suddenly
 announced it was not right, it should not happen, and said they had
 done something in consciousness that might help. We waited. Sure
 enough within 15 minutes changes in the status of the storm began
 to be reported. By the time it hit the mainland a couple of hours
 later it had pettered right out, winds maximum to 75 miles an
 hour blew over Halifax but that was all that was left of that
 storm. It happened just two days after this planetary translator
 arrived in town, a storm out in the Atlantic suddenly gaining
 fury, then heading straight for the source, in an inter dimensional
 tussle in the frequencies caused by the planetary translator's
 sudden arrival in Halifax, at least, if you believe that Heaven
 is on Earth and Heavenly beings are walking around doing the work
 of god even while doing daily actions of normal kind in the flesh,
 then concider this story of the planetary Translator who arrived
 in town in Halifax, and dissolved a hurrican threatening to
 strike mayhem, the planetary translator doing the best to
 dissolve the threat being caused by the translator's arrival
 into a teeming mess constituting the city's mass consciousness
 at that time, circ. the summer of 1975.  Oops. Have I said too
 much?  No I have not. One story about a planetary translator
 is peanuts. Planetary Translators have been on Earth since
 before the dawn of recorded history, working all the time,
 to steer this planet towards First Cause, and Reality.
 Concider Moses. What must Moses know now, if incarnated,
 after 3500 years from a time period first recorded for
 that being in the histories of the Earth. Moses is not
 that Planetary Translator reported above, but, the being
 who was once called Moses, and that Planetary Translator
 reported above, do indeed know each other and work together
 from time to time trying to set things straight on the planet
 at the present time. Hint hint. You in fact may be involved,
 in your higher frequencies and being. Do not be surprised, if
 in fact you are intrinsically involved.

      Forget the guru who has convinced his followers that all that is
 needed is for 7 thousand meditationalists to yogi hop simultaneously
 through the air, landing on their anuses with such a jolt that it will
 create sufficient power to raise their leader back up into the heavens
 to resume his place as the ruler of the universe. What kind of a ruler
 of the universe needs that kind of power to resume rule of the universe.
 Ouch, my ass hurt. Mine too. Do you think it was enough? is our leader
 still sitting present with us? cackling and babbling?



      Finis -




      .... I am watching the hurricane reports on CNN. When first I
 reported comments about it, it was aiming toward the Gulf Coast, winds
 sustained at 150 miles and hour, with gusts to 175 miles per hour, moving
 at a pace of 23 miles an hour toward land, and building in power as the
 minutes passed. It must have been around 1:30 PM when I remembered the
 hurrican situation in Halifax contended by a Planetary Translator and
 so wrote about it, realizing that there must be something I could do
 through the higher consciousness to help. Easier said than done, I
 have no idea what the Planetary Translator had done to dissipate
 the Halifax hurricane in 1975. Nevertheless there are things I
 tried and did through my own consciousness, assuming that other
 planetary translators and observers are also at work trying to help,
 a devasting hurricane, potentially the mightiest ever known, is not in
 the best interests or wishes for First Cause. At 2:45 PM I have just heard
 the latest, from CNN News on channel 33. The storm is fading. The west
 side has collapsed. The sustained winds have diminished to 135 miles
 per hour. The hurricane is still moving landward at 23 miles per
 hour, and unfortumately tornadoes are already being spawned
 inland. Lets see what happens next.

     Why potentially the mightiest storm in American History. At 2:30
 the Pope landed on American soil and blessed the ground. The arrival
 of this mighty black master at this powder keg moment of transition
 in time in that country has to have impact in the inner frequencies.

      And in the midst of this, Planetary Translators, and Observers
 and members of the Messiah Task Force in the Higher Dimensions, work
 on.

      .... At 3:25 PM, hurricane OPAL has dropped to a catagory 3 storm,
 with winds sustained at 125 miles an hour, and is starting to slow in
 speed toward landfall.

      And now its women advertising Preparation H for painful hemorrhoids
 on TV. It used to be men with strange twisted grins explaining how the
 stuff helped them cure their strange twisted grins. And now women, with
 strange sing song bird-like voices, are telling you that only Preparation
 H can do the trick, a sudden change in consciousness, not being mentioned,
 as the best cure of all.

             Such cures are free for the asking
             from the Supreme Creators Alpha and Omega.

      ....  At a quarter to seven PM the eye of OPAL has hit shore
 and the machine has revved up back to winds of 145 miles per hour.

      Very bad, but better than before, better than if it had kept
 building pep for three hours nonstop before landfall. On satellite
 you could see a sudden poof where much of the storm swirling to the
 west clockwise suddenly vanished, and a short while later new clouds
 began to form swirling anti-clockwise to the South West. That is how
 such storms can be diminished, or even dissolved, by intervention
 from sources beyond the known laws of orthodox physics.



      Finis -




      ....  Well, another secret just revealed. The pope has Parkenson's
 desease. He is reading from a prepared manuscript, addressing the nation,
 on TV, and his left hand is trembling in the rythmic palsy characteristic
 of the desease, at an advancing stage. It is not recent, he has been
 afflicted for some time, and not a peep has been said about  THIS  from
 the Vatican. Until the moment of this live broadcast. Now we see. Hmmm.

      .... In a close up camera view front on, we see three deep
 lines of furrow etched deep in his forhead, and a flare of large
 viens sweeping out to the left, just the one side of his forehead
 covered with thick lines of viens splaying out, demonstrating a
 horrific degree of off balanced inner deception, er, decreption.
 The stress that can cause such explode of viens only known by the
 withins of the pope, himself. Nice guy. Or if you want to believe,
 the closest to Christ you can ever get on the planet. But, don't
 forget, that belief in closeness is entirely  SELF PROCLAIMED!
 Hint.   Hint.  Even David Maynes of Toronto's One Hundred Huntley
 Street proclaims the same thing. In fact, Maynes proclaims that if
 you give him money, he will personally mention your name to Jesus.
 I do not know what kind of jesus Maynes gives tips to, but I do
 know it is not the Chief Commander of Cosmic Affairs for the Planet
 Earth, once known as Jesus of 2000 years ago, and in a different
 form before as King David, who walked and drove main streets of
 Canada and the US for over 30 years trying to line up a handfull
 who could get it on directly with First Cause. Money was scarce
 at the start. A 1961 green Pontiac was used for 10 years, the
 speedometer going three times completely around the clock, until
 the day the Pontiac was pancaked in the side by a Catholic coming
 through a side street intersection ignoring the stop sign at 80
 miles an hour, sending the passanger to hospital for a patch up,
 in the fall of 1971 in Vancouver.

      Exactly one year later, to the same day, one week later,
 at exactly the same intersection, another Catholic came roaring
 up the sidestreet and pancaked the side of the Chief Commander's
 car a second time at 80 miles an hour, this time sending a
 passanger to hospital for a couple of days. In both assassination
 attempts, the Chief Commander was unharmed, because of a force
 field. In both hits, both cars were completely totalled. These
 are the only two accidents the Chief Commander (he is not me)
 had on Earth driving a car, in those days of a 22 year period
 in which 1971 and 1972 are key turning points.



      Finis -





  DOGBEAT  ----------------------------------------------------------------


      Oct. 9, 1995, 5:07 PM.  Monday afternoon (thanksgiving day).


      And there he is, the little brown dog named Quasar, standing in
 the living room, wagging his tail in 4/4 beat in perfect synch to the
 3/4 beat of the 'Star Trek - Next Generation' theme music, a symphony.

      He did it entirely on his own, caught my attention, and wagged
 twice as hard when he saw me watching. You really have to admire a
 dog who tries so hard.

      I'll fill you in on some more detail as to exactly what happened.
 Sitting in a chair watching the opening of a Star Trek episode, suddenly,
 as the theme music started, around the corner into the living room came
 the dog, straight up to me, tail wagging, the dog looking at me intently.
 I noticed his tail was in complete synch with the tempo of the music, so
 said, 'wag wag' whereupon the tail started to beat with twice the swing,
 or rather, confidence, the whole time in perfect tempo. It was, as already
 said, a 4/4 beat, with the tempo of the 3/4 beat of the theme music's
 symphonics. No twitch twitch pause twitch twitch pause in THIS beating.
 This is new, that the dog snatched a tempo and handled 3/4 time, using
 a 4/4 beat. Yesssss verrry interrrresting little dog.

      The other evening an after dinner dog party started up out back
 shortly after 7 PM. It happened that across the narrow stretch of park
 out behind, both of the neighbor's two big dogs (one a sandy Laborador
 the other a Collie), were out in the yard at the gate barking loudly.
 Next door to us, the new neighbor's two large dogs (a male Laborador
 and female sandy Border Collie, were also both out in the yard and all
 four dogs were barking in a cacaphony. Straight to the patio door goes
 the little brown dog named Quasar. I threw open the patio door and at
 once Quasar starts to bark too. What is so noticable at this moment is
 that across the way, both big dogs are going woof roof in deep strong
 barks, next door the two big dogs are also going woof roof in deep toned
 barks, and at our patio door our little brown dog is also going woof roof
 in deep strong barks, a full two octaves below the range Quasar usually
 uses to speak dogtalk. All told it was quite a racket, soon quelled when
 laughing neighbors next door calling across the way to the other neighbors
 also calling jokes and me too in the midst, at the patio door also cracking
 one liners, as all of the dogs were quickly rounded up and ushered inside.
 I still remember the loud deep barks of Quasar standing at the patio door
 being one of the boys with real big, real deep, resounding echoing dog
 barks with the same tonals as the four big dogs. Until then I didn't
 know a dog can fake its barks.



      Finis -





  ASSASSINATION ATTEMPTS  -------------------------------------------------


      Oct. 10, 1995, 1:35 PM.  Tuesday afternoon.


      I have lost a large piece of writing. The problem is that I do not
 have a photographic memory, (and do not regret for one instant the absence),
 and yet have distinct de 'javu's about something written sometime last
 spring or early summer, I can remember snatches and quick precise images
 about what was written, but cannot find hide nor hair anywhere about the
 information recorded anywhere in a file or in a directory, or on any
 backup disk or random stash disk.

      The possibility is that what is missing was written under the name
 of 'notes', my usual manner, stashed in a directory, my usual means, and
 then soon after overwritten by another file named 'notes' filed in that
 same directory, overwriting the original. The original 'notes' that now
 haunt me were written on the spur of the moment then immediately forgotten
 the notes now out of the way. Somewhere along the way those particular
 'notes' got lost, or overwritten, and it is the only time in my computer
 corner where I have searched every directory, and every backup disk,
 looking for the missing matter. No luck. As of this morning, three hours
 spent in one last major spree, no luck. The particular 'notes' are gone.

      I have no doubt the missing 'notes' were written in wavy line
 form, ie, with the length of text lines waving in and out sculpted
 in artistic fashion down the page, the format I often use for
 matters autobiographical.

      The subject matter, specifically, was about assassination attempts.
 I figure now 16 attempts at assassination have occurred over the years
 of my lifetime. A few of the more spectacular, self evidence, attempts,
 were chronicled one day or night by me in a file which is now completely
 missing.

      It has been haunting me for several weeks, because I know the matterial
 was written but I can find no sign of it. So, now, I am writing about the
 loss. If I get inspired in a certain way, when my thinking speed just about
 exactly matches my typing speed, I will write again about the assassination
 attempts against myself, but will also know that in no way imaginable will
 the new writing be the same as the old. I have often, usually, typically,
 found that to try a second time attempt, writing something for the second
 time, the result is nowhere as close to punch and kapow as was the original.
 This is mainly in lieu of writing computer program manual and documentation
 literature, for which on occasion originals were lost. However, it has
 also happened that the second, the aftermath writing, has had more
 impact than did the first, the original, when an original later
 turned up after something new was written when an original
 temporarility went missing and time was short pushing
 timelines.

      So, someday soon, I am going to write another 'confession' regards
 assassination attempts, not otherwise chronicled in my writing. Hope
 here that the new will exceed the old.




      - Finis -







  ATTEMPT DETAILS  -------------------------------------------------


      Oct. 11, 1995, 1:50 PM.  Wednesday afternoon.


      I count, over the years, 16 assassination attempts so far. Each
      was characterised by a near miss, or mistep involving others, or
      a direct intervention in the nick of time by another, but each
      was potentially or imminently lethal if not for a fraction of a
      second, or a fraction's miss, or a willfull interrupt between
      an event already underway that suddenly ended in wellbeing.

      One attempt of a specific nature has already been described
 further above associates with a chain saw at full rev, which took
 place in a Yogi's Ashram where I was hiding for 8 months in the
 middle of the 70's. I was on the lam from occulties, these being
 international leaders of spiritualistic and metaphysical societies
 who were homing in trying to engage encounters with me, trying to
 pick my brains, in general spreading around certain kinds of vibes
 that could not be used, were not wanted, and definately not needed.
 Such societies included leaders of Scientology, Meditation Society,
 Lobsang Rampa's bunch, the strange brew holed up at 100 Mile House
 in the Fraser Canyon of BC, the Mormon's Melchizedek branch, the so
 called Boy Guru of Denver, leaders of the  I Am  Society, and so on.

      The pick-my-brains attacks I was getting were nothing compared
 to the flat out 'put you right out of business' some of my closest
 associates were getting from such similar sources during that time
 period. I was concidered easy pickings by most, even though I was not.
 At times I was careless and flapped my gums about information otherwise
 in the realms of sacred trust, and would get into trouble or unwaringly
 be a source of troublesome spinoff from a mouth that flapped one sentence
 too many. It came time to duck out of sight for awhile until the air
 cleared. Ergo the Swami's retreat, who would think of looking for me
 there via interdimensional TV amidst such a mad clamour of conflicting
 and confusing vibes that saturated the Ashram.

      And now a few chronicles.

      Picture a five year old kid on a swing, auntie gleefully doing the
 thing, kid screaming no! no! it's too high, a strange zeal momentarily
 afflicting auntie as she pushes harder and harder, suddenly kiddie goes
 sailing off through the air, landing in underbrush, a snapped stick
 puncturing through the skin beside the left eye and running alongside
 under the skin outside the skull. An 8th of an inch to the right and
 kiddie would have had to have been picked off the bushes and carted to
 the morgue in a body bag. The small round scar is still there after 51
 years. It gets a little more noticable as age increases the thickness
 of skin around my scar.

      In the summer of 1955 in Winnipeg it was time for the annual Red
 River Exhibition and this year the fair was featured by a brand new
 ferris wheel, it had TWO giant ferris wheels, which cycled end over
 end sweeping the air in toto as each turned, swinging in giant arcs
 high up into the air to be the largest ferris wheel on the move from
 city to city in North America. I scraped together peso's and decided
 to give it a try. All was well until at the apex of high, me by myself
 in a chair built for three, slowly swinging back and forth in the gusts
 of wind so high I could see around the whole of Winnipeg, the wheel
 momentarily stopped to board new riders. It started to move, my chair
 rapidly accelarating as the wheel completed its double motion by the
 whole wheel itself swinging through the top arc of its double motion
 and the wheel which had me also on the move forward. Over the top of
 the arc I sailed, and sailed right out into space! The safety bar had
 swung loose. It was not that it suddenly gave way, the latch was not
 attached by the attendent when I got on!  I was hanging suspended in
 space out in the air clinging only to the safety bar opened out at an
 angle, me clinging to it in a parylized grip the bar about a foot out
 from my diaphram, something like doing chinups on a bar except the bar
 was down by the midrift, with elbows outward bent and arms held out the
 same way as doing chinups. I just was barely in statis. You can see how
 picarious my position was. I could not move. I could not dare to breath
 so delicate deemed the balance. I was hanging in the open out in mid
 air, high in air, nothing but space beneath me all the way to the
 ground, I started to hop the bar back, ie, minimum jerks in the air,
 which caused the bar to progressively inch back, until my screaming,
 scintillating, buns, made contact with the seat. There I attached at
 the very edge of the seat, unable to do anything to want to move even
 a fraction of a second, as the wheel stopped, started again, then stopped,
 then started, each time stopping my carriage swinging to and fro in the
 air, gravity, no gravity, gravity, no gravity, on each swing a point
 being gained where stippled forward I could feel nothing except my
 single minded cling to the safety bar, intensified each time I
 became completely weightless, in thin air, a straight drop
 under me, hunched on each rock cycle. So the time passed,
 as the wheel made its continuing slow descent, still
 in swing, to come to a stop on the platform with
 me stepping forward saying,  'the bar wasn't
 closed'. 'Oh', said the grimy attendent,
 chewing gum, and turned away. It was
 the last time for me on a ferris
 wheel or big ride at a fair.
 Why risk it for these
 kinds of thrills
 and excitements,
 thought I, every
 time looking at a fancy
 new contraption at a fair since.
 It is called a survivor's instinct not
 to risk risks and for 4 decades I have firmly
 believed in it when it comes to such physical devices.
 That little episode was hard to write about. What was so
 particularly hard was trying to describe the eerie trandescence
 of clinging to nothing but a moving bar high out in space. The bar
 was still out about half a foot from the clasp when the scareship landed.
 It was easily the most desparate situtation I remember over the years, in
 particular because the peril lasted for so many long minutes. I could
 not fully breath in fear that any breath (its slightest motion)
 would dislodge the bar. I was locked in a state of paralysis.

      Three years earlier, twenty miles upstream from Winnipeg along the
 Red River, at a place called Lockport (which has locks across the river
 with a two foot water drop), three old rides were permenent fixtures
 and ran on the weekends so a family outing one Sunday landed us there
 with me in hand enough cash to go for a ride on the Airplanes. These
 were standard metal airplanes hanging from wires and rode higher and
 higher swinging in a circle through the air, and then would come down
 again. I hopped on, was the only rider, the young guy fired the gun,
 er engine, to maximum speed, the planes quickly rose to hard out at
 right angles from the center post, me pressed hard into the seat not
 much movement possible from centrifugals. He walked away. Three quarters
 of an later when he turned it off, (oops he'd gone for lunch and forgot)
 the last dregs of spew long since over the side, all I was able to do
 was fall to the ground then totter away reeling. The spin lasted hours.
 The operator had gone for lunch and forgot. Family looking for me could
 not hear my desparate hollers for help so loud was the wreckage called
 the gas motor that was driving the rig. By the next day, I was starting
 to feel normal again.

      I was once on an elevator that suddenly banged, lurched, slipped,
 dropped in weightlessness, stopped, dropped a bit more, and came to a
 stop halfway between floors, the main doors opening, me climbing up
 and out into safety, half way up the high rise tower housing the Math
 Department at Carlton University. No real plummet, just a taste of what
 the real thing would be like, but the taste was enough, no thank you.
 Think nothing of it, the mathmaticians remarked when finally I climbed
 the rest of the stairs to enter their offices. You get used to it, the
 elevator has been acting up for quite some time and one of these days
 a service man is going to get by to fix it, they more or less said off
 handedly. Whoa you're kidding, thought I, keeping my mouth shut and
 trying to keep my thoughts to myself, since thoughts leak.

      But, that is only to report that, like many, I have
      experienced   F R E E   F A L L   in an elevator.

      In 1965 in Vancouver, while working as publicity assistant for
 the Vancouver Playhouse Theatre Company, I was hurring up Georgia
 Street to drop some publicity data off at the CBC offices. Standing
 at the intersection to cross Burrard, I stepped off the curb and
 BANG I didn't know what was happening I was skidding sideways on
 one foot the front of a parked car hurtling toward me. At the
 last instant I was able to shift balance and lift onto the hood
 of the parked car, flying backwards sprawling onto it coming to
 a stop against the windshield, gripping a wiper. Within seconds
 people had me, lifting me up, lifting me off the hood, lifting
 me on my feet, 'Are you ok, are you ok', the only words I could
 understand. As a matter of fact I was OK, not in the slightest
 hurt, but very puzzled as to how it could happen. What had
 happened is that a Canadian Postal van had come to a stop
 around the corner, the driver had banged the gears into
 reverse, and come screaming around the corner backwards
 under full accelaration, at the exact same instant I
 chose to step off the curb. That was a very close
 call, a gymnast's balance helping to prevent
 getting run over, and a last second act
 of something like levitation saving
 the day from getting crushed by
 the back of the Canada Post
 delivery van and the car
 parked in front of a
 post box, a car
 which the van
 driver had
 not seen,
 and hit.

 In the
 summer of
 1958 in Vancouver
 hurrying to a dance gig
 as a drummer, something happened,
 in fact the first occurrence that ever
 caused me to pause and to try to speculate
 as to just what had happened, with no answer
 forthcoming. I had borrowed my dad's 54 Ford station
 wagon and since time was short was hurrying up 41st
 avenue at maximum speed. At the intersection of Main
 the light turned green as I approached not slowing, so
 into the intersection went I, and oh my god no! one of the
 cars coming from the right had not stopped, it was heading
 straight into the intersection at full speed. I hit the brakes
 hard time, the station wagon's tires shrieked, there was a horrendous
 BANG, and the station wagon came to an aprupt halt. There was dust
 everywhere, as were my scrambled brains. I managed to turn the
 engine off and stepped out to look at the worst, the front
 end of my dad's car. But WAIT a MINUTE!  there's nothing
 there, the bumper is there, the grill, the headlights,
 everything was in perfect place, there was not so
 much as a scratch, even though I had seen the
 front of my dad's car bury itself into the
 side of another car!  By the time I got
 ready to call quits to the inspection
 other people had arrived into the
 middle of the intersection.
 Several cars had pulled
 over and now the drivers
 were running toward me. Are
 you ok? the obvious first questions.
 Better pull over if you can drive, was a
 statement by another fellow, so in I got to the
 station wagon, fired it up, got it in gear, fought
 for control and finally was able to subdue the massive
 pumping up and down of my leg, to ease the clutch, and crept
 through the intersection to the side of the road, thoughts still
 in a spin due to the fact that there was not a scratch on the front
 end of my dad's car, even though I had seen the front end bury itself
 into the side of another car!  At this moment a car came wheeling around
 the corner from up ahead, came angling across the street to the wrong side,
 and pulled right up. It was a driver reporting that he had seen the car I
 had struck, so thoroughly punched out that it went crawling sidways slowly
 up the street, and around the nearest corner, the driver I had hit was
 doing a 'hit and run'. So this other driver had taken off in pursuit
 but by the time he got around into the next street and poked his
 nose up several tiny sidestreets and alleys there was no sign
 whatsoever of the 'hit and run'. So I was on my way again,
 heading up 41st Avenue, the only sign that anything had
 actually happened was that the snare drum, on the
 front seat, had ended up hanging from the gear
 shift column after the bang, its head split in
 half by the knob of the gear shift, so I ended up
 using the snare side for the gig and got away with still
 good enough music to satisfy the paid quests and the bandleader.

      In Whitehorse, Yukon Territorities in the summer of 1978, I pulled
 my Buick station wagon to the curb alongside a small hotel at a main
 intersection downtown and after a quick coffee with a friend in the
 coffee shop left and climbed back into the Buick. I looked out the
 window behind, and saw only one car a long ways back up the street,
 the driver suddenly hunching behind the wheel as I looked but paid
 no attention. I'd left something in the restuarant. Throwing open
 the door there was an explosive BANG, tire shrieks, dust flying,
 and through the intersection a whole clatter of car parts, chrome,
 headlights, metal, junk, still on the move at high speed through
 the intersection as the other car throwing clouds of smoke went
 on up the street and around a corner and vanished. A plain clothes
 RCMP took off in pursuit but no luck. Meantime. I am sitting in
 my Buick station wagon, thinking of just what a close call THAT
 had been, because the other car had run straight edge-on into
 my open door, with me leaning out, but, all that had happened
 to my car was a couple of tiny pieces of paint flecked off the
 door edge, meantime, several people still out in the intersection
 cleaning up the mess of crumpled pieces of chrome, grill, fender,
 orniments, shattered headlights, parts, etc., leaving the strew
 of dust and mud behind in the intersection. By this time I was
 aware of the existence of instanteous force fields, circ. 1978,
 and figured how lucky I was such fields exist, it was, clearly
 not my time. The many reports were that the other driver had
 suddenly hit the gas and accelerated at maximum warp, had
 crossed from the outer to inner lane, then taken staight
 aim at my door. Witnesses figure he was doing at least
 80 miles an hour when BANG, the whole of the impact
 transfered back to his car, leaving me, body and
 flesh, completely innocent, except for just two
 tiny flecks of paint dinged from the edge of
 the door to barely mar a brand new paint
 job that was only a day old.

      A couple of weeks later, at the same intersection, this time me
 waiting for the traffic lights, deep in thought about some mathematics
 I was doing, when on came the green light, I stepped off, and in a
 fraction of time had enough reponse time to jerk back my knees and
 stand hooped over the curb barely in balance, but long enough for a
 car to hurtle past doing over 70 miles per hour, clipping my pant
 cuffs with its bumper as it passed, another half an inch and that
 would have been me sailing over the yellow lines. It was an intuitive
 punch that made me jerk back in the nick of time, because I never
 saw the car coming until the very last second when I became aware
 of the oncoming roar. People running urgently toward me to assist
 were exclaiming 'did you see that!  he accelerated from out of
 nowhere', god was that ever a close call', and so on, including
 witnesses who knew me by name, all relieved that I was ok. Me
 too. It was after that event, that, yes, attennas did go up,
 after that I became super aware of my environment at all times.
 You have to be aware, in this day and age, you simply do not
 know where a strike from the negative zones can bridge the
 gap to the outer world and try and get you. Attempts happens
 all too frequently, and I am not alone in being so aware,
 in fact a need for such awareness was instilled in me by
 another, over another assassination attempt in the fall
 of 1971 in Vancouver. A group of us in a car had had a
 meeting out in the East side of town and were heading
 to the West side of town, in a Ford Galaxy, a 3 year
 old car whose engine quit just as we'd cruised through
 an interestion. The driver couldn't get the car started
 for love or money. Finally several people got out of the
 car intending to flag down help, while I, in the back seat,
 suddenly feeling very drowsy, (an overwhelming static sleepy
 sensation moving in), lay down on the back seat and decided to
 go to sleep. I could hear negotiations outside to the fact that a
 car had stopped and being determined was how to try and push start
 the Galaxy, the final plan proposed by the other car was to push the
 Galaxy in reverse to high speed, a plan put into action until the Galaxy
 was going faster and faster. The speed freaks in the other car had decided
 to have a jolly and their car was floored. There was nothing for our driver
 to do but his very best, ok, until the other car gave a sudden wrench and
 turn and took off, sending us into a spin that went around and around
 until CRUNCH!, slowly rolling backward up the street to a standstill,
 having wrapped itself rear first into a telephone pole. I was upside
 down in the front seat, head on the floor, feet in the air over the
 back of the seat. In the back, where my head had been, the car had
 been crunched all the way in through the trunk and rear seat to a
 fold that stopped exactly where my glasses were lying on the
 seat. The car had been totalled, written off. The impact
 had reached my head, except I bounced forward, instead
 of backwards the way physics dictates. Later, when
 sheepish confessors had explained how they had
 allowed two strangers in the late evening
 night talk them into trying to start
 the Galaxy by shoving it backwards,
 and I was called forth for a few
 sentences of hot breath to the
 effect 'Are you CRAZY!. Do
 you WANT to commit SUICIDE!',
 as the reponse to my sheepish simple
 remark that I had fallen asleep, suddenly.

      Accordingly, I should have been wide awake with both feet on the
 ground and outside with enough sense in the intuitional factors not to
 have let the crazy idea occur amongst the others. There are many ways
 to learn spiritual law, and facets of Reality, and the battles for
 control of the hell states to clean them out. That is one lesson I
 learned very well.

      And now it comes to the story of the lawn mower and the missing toes.
 This is not an assassination attempt, just a stupid attempt to clear the
 clogged port around the skirt of a power mover going through thick wet
 lawn grass. It happened in Vancouver in the summer of 1963, whilst a
 student at UBC I did my share around the house by mowing the lawn. I
 had a pair of Italian loafers with thin rubber soles, and was using
 the toe of the left loafer to knock loose thick wet grass that kept
 clogging the exit port as I shoved and puffed through the back yard.
 This time the mower really got clogged. A flick of the toe didn't
 loosen it, a second quick flick no either, so I tilted the mower
 and reached in for a good flick when WHAPPPPPPP! the blade struck.
 I couldn't believe I had been so stupid. I shut off the mover and
 hobbling on one foot sat down on the ground, looking with dismay
 at what was left of my foot. My father had heard the  WHAP  and
 had come running out the back door. The two of us in the middle
 of the back yard studied the problem. Finally it was decided the
 best thing to do was to remove the tattered remains of the shoe
 first, then try to get the sock off, to see what was left. My
 dad carefully removed the shoe. The sock was intact, except for
 a hole at the big toe with a bit of blood oozing through. HuH?
 we both said. Then carefully, he removed the sock. All this time
 my foot was paralyzed from the shock of the mighty WHAP so I just
 sat there, waiting for the worst. Off came the sock. My dad lurched
 forward in disbelief, staring. So did I. Where were the TOES? They
 were all on my foot. The only sign of injury was a slight bruise
 in the toenail of the big toe, with a couple of drops of dark
 blood oozing out. But, this doesn't make Sense!, my father kept
 saying, holding the tattered remains of the loafer in the air,
 it moving up and down in the air like an accordian due to the
 open comb spring action of the many total slicings pretty well
 across the whole sole, all the way up the shoe to the bridge
 of the foot. I thought of keeping the shoe as proof of an amazing
 event, but figured no one would believe it. Even members of the
 family, when my Dad or myself told of it, tended to smirk. But,
 I know what happened to the missing toes, and now, so do you.
 You now know that the same can happen to you when your heart
 is in the right place.

      So, bounce ahead to September of 1994, here in the two
      story, three bedroom, modern rented house in Orleans just
      east of Ottawa, and the saga involving natural gas.

      It had happened that Consumer Gas Corp., had recieved a rate
 increase pro-active over a period of several months back. So they
 implimented it in an unkind way. All customers on monthly billing
 (not spread out over a year), got the pro-rata increase in one jolt
 on their bill, and those whose bills were not completely up to date
 had their gas shut off without notice until the bill was paid in full.
 In our case, it was more than $500 extra plus roughly $350 in past due,
 current, and penalty charges, all to be forked in a single immediate
 payment, an impossible amount for us at that time. So, at the end
 of April, the gas was cut off without notice, the reason why was
 my call coming in amongst thousands of others that same morning,
 all in the same plight, Consumer's Gas had gone for the juggler
 viens of poor people. Not one of us knew in advance of the rate
 increase. Crews had gone out skulking before sunup throughout the
 greater Ottawa area cutting off gas while people were still asleep.

      Woke up in the morning and there was no gas, that is how fast
      they worked to collect cash cow from those who most didn't have
      it.

      Our gas stayed off until the end of September when enough money was
 coaxed out of software sales of Virus ALERT to re-install the gas. I
 supervised from home. A gas man showed up with a white Consumer Gas
 van parked outside, and right away noticed that there was soot on
 the artificial logs in the fireplace. So what. Last year I had
 adjusted the logs to where heat could be felt coming out of
 the artificial fireplace into the living room. No way,
 said the young gas man, this is an ornimental gas
 fireplace and if you want heat you have to pay
 $1700 for alterations, otherwise if you feel
 any heat at all, the fireplace is not
 working properly, and after a half
 hour of fussing and fuming with
 pipes under the logs with
 several different
 sizes of big
 wrenches,
 declared the
 shutoff done and departed.

         Chapter two begins at once. Within minutes I began to smell odors,
 assuming it to be accumulated fumes from heat ducts getting flushed out now
 that the heat was working again (as was the gas hot water heater after
 five months of shutdown with no hot water). Gradually, the heat
 duct fumes got more and more noticable. Here in the dining
 room I was at this computer working on software, and
 went to light a cigarette. About half an hour had
 passed. Suddenly it struck me;  that was not
 duct fumes, that was GAS!. The cigarette
 lighter was actually in hand and up
 at face level poised in front
 of the cigarette when the
 truth struck. The
 unexpected
 had
 fooled
 the senses
 but now suddenly
 I was totally convinced
 I smelled GAS! and sure enough
 going into the living room found that
 it REEKED of gas. In a panic I called Consumer Gas.
 They instructed me to open as many doors and windows as possible,
 which I'd already done, then leave the house at once. I stood in the driveway, sat
 on the steps, stood in the driveway, sat on the steps, thinking at
 any instant I would hear the boom and 16 years of research and
 notes would go up in the air and come slowly cycling down,
 scattered around the neighborhood. Then I would realize
 I was sitting on the steps, and hurredly leave for
 the driveway again, all the time keenly listening
 for the fire sirens but none were heard. After more
 than half an hour, the same white Consumer's Gas van came
 casually around the corner and slowly pulled up to the front of
 the house, and out stepped the same guy. Urgently I pressed him in
 through the open door. Hmmm, said he, pulling a hand held electronnic
 device from a black bag and reading around the room, it is GAS allright.
 By this time I was wondering what the hell is it with this guy, is he
 allright, in fact he didn't seem so, earlier and now, he seemed
 to be vaguely detached, long pauses between one phrase and
 the next in a sentence, and kept doing the same thing
 over and over, first one thing, then another,
 finally he got to inspecting the pipes
 under the logs in the fireplace.
 Oh yes, was the diagnostic,
 when closing a valve
 he had accidentally
 knocked loose another,
 ergo the gas, and went out
 to the van for yet another kind
 of pipe wrench, did another half hour's
 work under the logs in the fireplace, then left.
 This time I made sure. Nose like a weavil's, I bent
 down sniffing but could smell no more gas. After an hour
 I was re-assurred that the threat to instant anhilation had passed,
 thinking what a close call THAT had been, all I would have had to do is
 strike the cigarette lighter and Kaboom, there was more than enough gas in
 the air at that moment. An hour later, I found a thick pair of magnifying
 lense eyeglasses lying on the living room floor near the TV set. They
 were the guy's. So another call to Consumer's Gas resulted in the
 same white van arriving back 3/4 of an hour later. By this time
 it was mid afternoon, and by this time the guy had really
 deteriorated. The main problem was that he had run over
 a nail and a front tire was hissing air, but he was
 sure that he could make it back to the Gas Corp.
 compound instead of driving across the street
 to the Esso service station for more air.
 I wished him the best as he drove away,
 but was sure he would not make it.
 We could both hear air hissing
 loudly out of the tire but
 he figured it was not
 loosing much air.

      And, so, that ends the story of how yet another kind of astral
 psychic encroachment can lead to assassination, in this case effecting
 the consciousness of a service man whose deeds are life and death in
 consequence.

      Well, that's it for now. I figure a total of 16 assassination
 attempts have occurred over the years. The ones chronicled above
 are more easily described, so now you have them on record.



      - Finis -







  ESP, UNMISTAKABLE  ---------------------------------------------------


      Oct. 11, 1995, 12:30 PM.  Thursday afternoon.


      How come I keep alluding to more than the norm, to beyond the 5
 physical senses. The turning point came in a single event in the fall
 of 1968, in Vancouver. A psychedelic band called Mother Tuckers Yellow
 Duck, were acquaintances, and during a quiet week had picked up a gig
 for a dance of several thousand students at UBC.

      I decided to attend, having nothing better to do. All of the band's
 gear was packed into their van which departed the 'Duck House' in Shaunessy
 Heights, Vancouver's el swanko and mansion district, and the van started
 to proceed toward UBC late in the afternoon. There were several problems.
 The van was so packed it was hard to steer, even with power steering.
 But further, there were five of us in the Van, three in the front seat
 me bodied on top of the engine compartment between the two seats. In a
 1 1/2 foot cavity behind the seats was crouched the lead guitar player,
 and in a tiny alcove at the rear was a girl who I did not know. She
 had been installed in that alcove by a hard two-man close of the rear
 doors. Hippies in those days endured such things. The fellow next to
 me in the passanger seat was also an unknown, I had never seen this
 hippy before. The driver was the band's bass player, a former bass
 player with the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra. We were proceeding
 along toward UBC but all was not well. For instance, where I was
 perched, I had to hunch right down to see out the front window.
 I kept wondering how the lead guitar player squirrelled in a
 1 1/2 foot space behind the seats and the girl at the back,
 were making out, knowing that there was no way in the
 known universe would I ever ride no way in those
 conditions. As we proceeded along Fourth Ave.,
 toward the Burrard Street intersection, an
 apprehension in me continued to develope.
 I kept getting bad thoughts of what
 would happen if there was an
 accident. I was pinned in
 the middle, with tons
 of cargo ready to
 shift forward
 the moment
 the van
 struck an
 object. The
 thoughts kept
 intensifying. We
 came to a stop at the
 Burrard Street intersection,
 the light changed, the van slowly
 accelerated into the intersection, and
 I could not see clearly left or right because
 my head was almost touching the ceiling so high
 was I parked on the motor. Suddenly it happened. A
 tremendous bad flash, a complete closing in, a mighty
 narrow tunnel farrowing right in on the solar plexes, and
 I panicked, a kind of blind escape wish, suddenly I was only
 single mindedly aware of wanting to get out of that van, and a
 moment later enough thought formulated for me to want to suggest
 to the driver that he pull over and let me out. But, before I could
 speak, someone else did. The fellow sitting in the passanger seat to my
 right said: 'Sorry everybody, I think that was me'. The remark had the
 effect of a crack of lightning inside the van. On the instant everyone
 babbling wow! what a FLASH, holy cow I was ready to claw through the
 doors said the girl in the back, the lead guitar player remarking
 how it was the worst bummer he'd ever experienced in his life,
 everyone clamboring, except me, I was sitting there on the
 motor in stunned silence hooting within:  IT WASN'T ME!
 IT WASN'T ME!!   THE FLASH CAME FROM OUTSIDE !!!
 IT WASN'T ME !!!!

 Needless to say, that was the day, that higher properties of Reality
 began to take hold in a totally uncontestable way. I KNEW that the flash
 of claustrophobia had been transmitted through the ethers, and this
 ended on the instant all thoughts of 'what if', which had been
 building up through the years. Suddenly mysteries that had
 been going back for over a decade back to teenage years,
 had answers!  The mistrust had changed to trust in
 an instant. It was HAPPENING!  It was REAL!
 You cannot EVER go back, from an
 epiphanation like that.

 The answer
 was that I was
 NOT a chance event
 in someone's gene pool,
 brought to life by a fuck, to
 then walk the Earth for X number of
 years, than die, ceasing to exist forever,
 in the images and likeness of Charles Darwin,
 and Freud. The fact that the 'flash' had happened from
 a source that was not within myself as my own stew of randomly
 concocted emotions from only chance gene pool, was enough to make
 me realize that no one on Earth walks around completely locked in as
 a single isolated individual who lives and dies experiencing life
 alone as a concoct of their own thoughts and emotions, within.
 In fact, most of what IS within, comes from other sources
 beyond yourself. Hint hint. The job is to filter the
 good from the bad and thus wish only for the good,
 the better, and best, in Reality. Here comes
 Cosmic Law!

 I had long figured that me the being was pushed and moved in new directions
 by invisible factors which I had kept trying to make real, but it was
 the ongoing non-stop stew of private emotions, feelings, and random
 thoughts, that suddenly came blaring out into the open as part of
 a much wider inner picture, which was such a revelation. The
 emotions, in particular, I had always thought were completely
 private, until that flash, which everyone felt simultaneously
 in that van. And by now, circ. 1995, I know that ALL such
 emotions are nonsense, and have to be brought under
 control, and dissolved, for this planet's future,
 by everyone on the planet.

 Back to the past, to resume from the van in the fall of 1968.

 What mainly ended was the big question that plagues everybody at
 one time or another, including my mother. She and I once ounced a
 bottle of Cutty Sark, sitting at the kitchen table all night long,
 sipping and rapping all night long, a very rare occurrence for
 her and even rarer for me, sipping, and as we sipped we
 discussed esoteric things. I told her about the flash
 in the 'Mother Tuckers' van. Such experiences,
 such questions, had been in her her whole
 life long, and here it was, the first
 time, we two, really good friends, my
 mother and I, were sitting discussing them,
 she deciding at middle age that it was time to
 come out of the closet and start asking around. What
 had in part motivated her was an event that occurred in
 her living room a short time before. A friend (once heavy
 into the Transcendental Meditation), and myself, had come to
 her place to watch an Apollo space launch to the Moon, the
 friend having rounded me up and insisting we go find a
 good TV to watch because something interesting seemed
 to be in the picture about that particular launch.
 So, my mother's big Electrohome color TV was the
 ideal candidate. There we were on the couch,
 my friend and I, my mother comfortable
 in her favorite chair, my friend
 casually mentioned just before
 the launch that he had gotten
 word from inner sources that
 something was not spiritually
 right about the launch and for the
 first time, it might be necessary for
 inter planetary space associates to willfully
 interfere. I was not convinced. Until, as the launch
 started, he mentioned that something was going to go wrong.
 A moment later, the first hmmm, moments later the first buzzes
 of alarm in launch headquarters, and a few moments later the fact
 that oxygen had blown its container and the space ship to the
 Moon was in dire straights. There is no wish for death
 insisted my friend, giving a blow by blow diaglogue
 moments before each next event unfolded. My mother
 sat with one eyebrow invisibly raised, this whole
 time. It was the launch in which the astronauts
 escaped in the landing module and travelled
 around the Moon before returning safely
 to the Earth. The spiritual missdeed
 was that one of the astronauts
 intended to transmit
 certain pictures
 telepathically
 back to the Earth
 and a whole host of negatives
 were tuned right in, ready to use the
 results to prove their own reversed regressed
 laws. My friend, sitting on the couch in my mother's
 house, casually called the shots on this caper moment by
 moment before the events actually occurred in real time on
 the air of TV broadcasts. Interesting morning, to say the least.

 My father was a puzzle. Knowing what I know now, and if being
 able to leap back in time, it seems probable that he would have
 been a gold mine of information, about the inners, about events
 and experiences beyond the physical world ken. The problem was,
 like most several decades ago, he had no main direction, no
 one way to turn, no guaranteed way to sort out what was
 REALLY going on, I mean what is  REALLY  going on, in
 terms of Reality, in terms of Cosmic Law, in terms
 of what is supposed to be happening for the Earth
 and into the future. He (my dad) I am sure, had
 insight, but kept it to himself, had very few
 or no one he could turn to for answers that
 seemed too difficult for him to find out
 for himself, within. I hope, sincerely
 hope, that any young people who may
 be reading this, gets the message
 and realize that the best place
 to get answers is within them
 selves, in the lack of any
 major outer world place
 or source to turn to
 for quidence or
 information
 due to
 the
 extremes
 to which the
 negative has gone
 to wipe or irradicate
 or discredit any possible
 sources that might have blossomed
 on the planet already at the present time
 respecting Cosmic Law, and in fact replacing
 Cosmic with magic el blacko, and worse, satannism,
 and sources that can be gained by social association
 even legally by law, now, in Canada, for instance. Whereas
 the Cosmic Law connections have all being wiped from the public
 screens, here in Canada, at the present time.  I N T E R R E S T I N G
 S I T U A T I O N .



      Finis -






      Oct. 17, 1995, 2:15 PM.  Tuesday afternoon.


      And so, what do I see, looking out the kitchen window to the
 small park behind. A middle aged, fattish bald guy is taking his dog
 for a walk. Wait a minute I just saw the dog jerk up in the air and both
 started walking in the opposite direction. The dog is on a green leash,
 about 4 feet long. Its an ornimental medium sized Brittish dog,
 whitish and light brown, with tufts of fur on its face
 sticking far out, a scottish type dog but not
 small, this is medium sized.

      The guy reverses direction in full walk again, the dog jerking
 high in the air at the end of the leash. The guy is walking along in
 one direction, reversing on the spot and walking the opposite direction
 and the dog coming short on the lease is being jerked right up in the air
 in a choke. Apparently the guy is training his dog. Sure enough I am right,
 the guy has just started running, then in mid run reversed direction and
 the dog so help me this is true swung out in an arc about 3 feet off
 the ground in the air then landed and got dragged until it got to
 its feet and started running again behind master. What kind
 of  INTELLIGENCE  is THIS!  Well, first of all, cruelty
 comes immediately to mind. Then I guess you have to
 call it outrage of a subtle kind. Where do pin
 heads like this get their ideas. That poor
 suffering dog. What it must be like
 living in THAT master's house.

      I suppose if I went out and said something, I could not be
 demonstrating more anti social behavior than this single kind act.
 Suppose that guy was the notorious despute RCMP officer who lives in
 the neighborhood on the next street over and is said by fellow cops to
 be on the planet with a single minded purpose to give the RCMP a bad
 name. That has been said to me, a mere neighbor, by yet another
 neighbor who is a 20 year veteran of the force. Suppose the
 guy with doggy out back is the cop other neighbor's want
 to punch out, including women. What would he do to me
 if I interferred with the training of  HIS  dog.

      Now let's not go unreasonable, the only reason I mentioned the
 cruel master and his dog in the same breath with the disrepute RCMP
 family is to introduce the fact of the disrepute RCMP family and what
 this is doing to others.

      Another neighbor, let's call him 'A', and myself spent one afternoon
 keeping an eye on 'A's wife. She is a head nurse at a major hospital in the
 Ottawa region. I know not what was done by that nasty cop and his wife to
 get her (the nurse) so riled, but hubby, (her husband) and myself had to keep
 a close eye on this head nurse because every time our attention was turned
 she would head out the gate, lips turned down as far as they would go at
 the corners, huffing along the edge of the school play field yard aimed
 straight for that RCMP officer's house to, quote, punch out that women.
 I mean, wow! was this head nurse UPTIGHT, a mother of three, probably
 has never thrown a punch in her entire life, and two of us had to
 keep her restrained so uptight was she over something that RCMP
 officer, rather his wife, had done. I know not what it was. The
 other RCMP man the 20 year veteran, is not of the same type at
 all to make ordinary people in a neighborhood very uptight.
 This other lives on my street and shakes his head about
 the one over on the next street. Neighborhoods, ey?

 Getting back to bonehead and the dog, I have no way of
 knowing if it was the nasty cop giving his new dog
 obedience training. I do know that whoever the
 jerk was, it is clear just from looking out
 the kitchen window that he is either no
 way telepathic enough to experience
 another life's pain, or is so
 telepathic in a wrong way
 that pain is a rush of
 incredible intensity.
 There are, you know,
 people out there,
 who telepathically
 jolly on the pain of
 others. We simply call them
 psychic vampires. And there are many.



      Finis -






  DOING SOMETHING DIFFERENT  --------------------------------------------


      Nov. 8, 1995, 1:25 PM.  Wednesday afternoon.


      An interesting thing about an experiment like
      this is it just don't quit, it keeps going on.


      Has anyone every yearned to do a jaw dropping demo, someone showing
  off a new loudspeaker design, for instance. I did one yesterday. It was
  not intended to be a step into the glory of the spotlight, just a demo
  of an up-to-the-minute work in progress testing some new ideas and a
  fellow arrived at the front door on his own, who was invited in,
  requested to proceed along the hall to the rear of the house,
  with eyes closed, was guided into the living room, was
  asked to form an opinion as to what kind of stereo
  system he was listening to,  since he had been
  raving and marvelling at it since stepping
  in the front door, (the SOUND !), and
  once his neck had gotten tired
  strobbing from left to
  right head up and
  scanning the
  mighty
  stereo image
  was asked to open
  his eyes, and when he
  did he looked straight ahead
  an instant later looked down, and
  hunched and went HUH! in a loud totally
  spontaneous exclaim of astonishment. Yes, his
  jaw dropped. What he had been listening to, it turns
  out, escaped his notice not for a second, it was a Benny
  Goodman pirate factory tape of Goodman music recorded in the
  late 1930's and when SING SING SING came on with Gene Krupa's drums
  rocking the room with rim shots and echos and jungle drum reverberations
  the scene was set, with I, smiling along with the listener, pointing to the
  speaker lead and asking 'how many speaker leads do you see' just to
  make sure he could affirm his own messages. There was only one
  speaker lead. And that summarizes my jaw dropping demo of
  yesterday afternoon.

      And now the short story.

      During the summer, for 80 days, the local supermarket two minutes
  walk from here had gone on strike, seven stores had ratified a new
  contract for employees and the eighth our local supermarket, did
  not. This supermarket last year won the national award as the
  best all around supermarket in Canada, so it was no small
  potatoes though of medium size. To make up the slack I
  used to hop in the car and belt up Orleans Blvd,
  around the corner onto Lees, cruising along
  to the turnoff to Blackburn Hamlet, then
  straight down the highway into the
  heart of town to another super
  market. One day, cruising
  along toward the
  center of town
  at the speed
  limit of
  60 klicks
  I saw a stack
  of loudspeakers and
  hi fi gear sitting on the
  side of the road waiting for
  garbage pickup. The result was
  instantaneous - a U turn. Knocking
  on the door I asked if the stuff was
  being thrown out sure enough there it
  ended up in my car and a half hour
  later in the garage back here
  at home. It was actually
  dismal stuff, beat
  up to hell,
  several small
  wooden enclosures
  from portable units of
  yesteryear and one large
  solid wooden box, a Realistic'
  from Radio Shack, probably 20 years
  old or more, a medium sized studio monitor.
  The record player that came with the stuff was
  pretty beat up so I lost complete interest in it too
  once I got it home. The stuff sat in the garage for three
  months until garage cleanup had me stuffing the car with this
  junk and carting it across the street to behind the mall into the
  garbage containers. I had the big Realistic speaker in my arms and was
  ready to haul it out to the car when my eyeballs glombed onto the fact that
  at the back were reostat knobs for HIGH and LOW, and I thought wait a
  minute here is a chance to do some experiments to see how much
  HIGH and LOW reostating might effect resulting sound in
  my experiments. Four days ago I huffled and puffed
  the big loudspeaker into the living room, it
  weighs close to 50 pounds, and hooked it
  to the left hand leads from the
  Fisher model 8400 getto
  blaster, turned it
  on, and noise
  was the
  result. There
  was lots of sound,
  lots of volume, lots of
  bass, and so on, but not nicely
  fidelic in any way imaginable, for instance
  the bass, as loud as it was, had the whump whump whump
  kind of pound that car discoes have, the kind of mobile rock
  concert you can hear from a mile away as a car with a cocain freak
  clutching the air comes up the main street at 3 AM in the morning. It
  was also, intrinsically, muffled in sonics. So out came the screw
  driver and the first thing was to pull the three mid range
  tweeters, one of which had a bashed in centercone. It
  turns out the tweeters were nested in large cups
  of black plastic inserted into the solid
  wooden case of the Realistic loud
  speaker, which had no screws
  to take it apart, the
  shell was solidly
  glued together.
  So I left
  the 3 tweeters
  with cups separated
  dangling down the front
  of the enclosure. I had tried
  first the loudspeaker in normal
  stand position on the floor, then
  turned upside down, then on its side,
  so that the center of the 10 inch woofer
  was roughly at the miracle height of 15 1/4
  inches to be lined up directly in front of the
  main axis of the raised hexagon star array on the
  living room floor. The loudspeaker, to have the right
  height laying on its side, was set on a small wooden spice
  wrack. Needless to say noise was still the result. There was
  lots of sound, but no real goodstuff. Well, I took a BIG chance,
  I pulled one of the leads clipped into one of the three mid range
  tweeters, and nothing happened, except the fidelity improved a bit.
  Hmmm. A second tweeter was disconnected and more fidelity crept into
  the sound stream, just a bit, mind you. By this time you can probably
  quess what was bound to happen next. I had no choice but to pull loose
  the screws holding the heavy woofer in place and pull the woofer out
  a bit to see what would happen now that ALL of the half waves were
  eliminated. Yes, sonic resonances started to appear in the sound
  stream. At first, when the woofer was pulled loose to hang
  angled out at roughly 15 degrees most all of the bass
  vanished but a bit of coaxing with discrete adjusts
  of the position of the heavy enclosure, placement
  of dangling wires and speaker leads, etc, led
  to a return of usable bass, this time very
  thin, open, roomy, and resonant, rather
  than loud, hard, low toned, muffled.
  At the beginning when the speaker
  was first plugged in its sound
  was entirely in half waves
  since all of the back
  waves were totally
  impacted back in
  the sealed box
  but now, out
  came the
  stuffing,
  then off came
  the 3 tweeters and
  the large black gourd
  shaped cups removed, then
  one tweeter left dangling by
  its leads down the front of the
  enclosure, and by this time I was
  starting to get back into sonics and
  Airframe except it was still distorted
  particularly in the high end where rattle
  and piss and clips were obvious and not very
  much gain in the mid range of this system. On
  day two an idea arrived to try a cheap car stereo
  speaker of oval 8 inch kind and a single small center
  cone in storage upstairs, so, gingerly, the last of the
  three mid range tweeters was unclipped from the Realistic
  box and the cheap car stereo speaker gingerly clipped in, and
  it WORKED! a whole bunch of missing mid range suddenly appeared,
  most of the piss and crackle in the high end vanished, and a second
  kind of distortion entered the sound stream. Now there was real shrill
  in the high end. Some room tuning, some deft coaxing and different tries
  at placement of the oval speaker led to modest gains away from shrill, with
  the oval speaker lying on the floor facing upright, about 16 inches out
  in front of the enclosure box toward the sound image. Yesterday, day
  three, began with a trip up the street to the Sally Ann store; it
  is the local Salvation Army outlet; looking for a cheap easy
  chair to replace the piece of junk that is causing my legs
  to ache, resulted in arrival back home with two new sea
  shells for 10 cents each (a large and small scallop
  shell exactly of the kind Shell Oil company uses
  for its logo), and these both worked! set in
  key hot spots on the stairs long distance
  at the front of the house. Also in hand
  was an 8 inch oval speaker, pillaged
  from the trunk of the 9 year old
  Buick Skyhawk which I had just
  parked back in the driverway
  outside. Yes the moment it
  was clipped instead of
  the other similar
  sized oval
  speaker
  from the
  room upstairs
  the shrills vanished!
  It turned out that this new
  speaker could be held in hand and
  moved around, rotated, etc., and in these
  moves sounds would come and go, either none at
  all or strong distorted high frequency input or in
  certain positions, calm. A position on the floor about
  14 inches out, facing up, and propped at a certain angle
  by a plumber's hexagon brass six sided nut under its magnet
  suddenly brought final real peace into the sound stream.  By
  this time, the enclosure itself was propped on a small tomato
  shipping box of thick cardboard, which itself was on a book of
  coffee table class, large, with glossy cover, featuring photos
  of rural Canada, and won a couple of years ago as a prize in
  a raffle, it made a surface against the carpet to which the
  whole heavy loudspeaker could be easily slid around into
  discrete finely focused hot spots facing the hexagon
  star array of raised slinkies on the living room
  floor. Further, by this time the heavy wooden
  enclosure itself was sitting tilted up at
  about a 15 degree angle, propped on two
  six sided glass vinegar jars set on
  the cardboard box under the heavy
  enclosure. At this point there
  was lots of the goodstuff my
  yearns have always sought
  these days, but true
  fidelity was a
  hit and miss
  affair, a
  bit of
  better,
  then worse
  very unstable.
  I started playing
  with the array of hand
  made hand filed snowflakes
  and starflakes on the table in
  the corner and found that V E R R Y
  V E R R Y  discrete adjustements for each
  device, moved into different places and focused
  at angles rather than all edge-on into the sound stream
  began to result after an hour or so, in more and more noticable
  improvements, until all of a sudden a new plateau gelled and there
  was the Glen Miller Orchestra playing away in the living room with me
  dancing and jiving around in the kitchen just 'letting loose' to the best
  music I had ever heard in a sonic experiment. After Glen Miller, on
  went the Benny Goodman tape. Problems. The basics of the Benny
  Goodman tape is that it was recorded at a very high pitched
  tone level at the pirate factory so suddenly I had too
  much high end distortion in the system again. A half
  hour later I had none. The problem was solved by
  going around the arrays of room tunable star
  flakes on the table, and finally, moving
  the 'Bird Cage' across the room onto
  the corner of the mantle of the
  fireplace, nearest the TV.
  So, walking around just
  listening, I decided
  to eat a banana,
  and when the
  banana was
  done, I
  decided to
  take the peel
  out to the side of
  the house to the compost
  box, was wearing bare feet and
  summer shorts and Tee shirt and it was
  snowing so to prove that humans are not victims
  of winter went outside dressed thus, in bare feet,
  pitched the banana peel into the compost box, turned
  around, and here is a white haired man walking quickly up
  the driveway. Hello, hello, I hailed, you are just in time to
  hear an experiment. Keenly he agreed. In we went. And this is the
  finish of the stort story which began with a description of how his
  jaw dropped when he opened his eyes and saw what was producing that
  mighty open stage of fidelic stereophonic sound he had been
  listening to for all those minutes with eyes closed,
  and a second later, with eyes wide open.

      It further turns out that, lucky me, I have
      a very credible witness.  It happens thus:

      For the previous two days, Canada's national news has been dominated
  by an attempt on Prime Minister Chretian's life, a man had entered the
  Prime Minister's residence in the middle of the night by breaking a
  window of a side door, and had been discovered outside the bedroom
  by the Prime Minister's wife who had heard sounds, a panicked call
  to security had resulted in the RCMP arriving some ten minutes later,
  and many questions raised as to what the heck was constituting Prime
  Minister protection and security these days, in view of the fact that
  the intruder had a jackknife and was intent indeed on finding the
  Prime Minister for an intense conversation that had no words.

      So here is this man in my livingroom, a robust laughing fellow in
  his 60's, so well preserved that if he darkened his white fringe with
  Grecian Formula hair color for men, he could easily pass for a guy in
  his 40's. (I am using the Grecian Formula in liquid version which goes
  on like a hair tonic, and have been told just the change in hair color
  from light grey to dark sandy shades makes me look 15 years younger,
  except for the pure white eyebrows, a giveaway of my real age).

      The fellow was a Virus ALERT customer, and had arrived with the
  disks of two former versions, wondering if there was a new update.
  There was: our brand new version released just recently in October
  known as Virus ALERT 4.10. The fellow had last been by a year ago,
  at a time when I had had the dining room, which houses this computer
  and the whole of my work station, festooned and ornimented with sonic
  tuning devices and disrupters, playing with an old stereo outfit my
  interested neighboor had delivered in the hands of his son as a gift,
  having heard of my sound experiments. As described near the end of
  UPDATE.3, I had put this gift to immediate use experimenting with
  flow tubes, and the like. It was at the height of these experiments
  from a year ago that the fellow had last been to this house, and the
  experiments he had not forgotten, in particular since his son, a
  university student, is a stereo and sound system 'buff' quote, who
  currently has five loudspeakers and some rather expensive hardware
  filling his dad's house not to far from here in Orleans. The problem
  was that I did not know who this fellow was when I first recognized
  him walking eagerly up the driveway as I stood outside nearly naked
  in the wet snow after depositing the banana peel in the composter at
  the side of the house. Another fellow of similar age and appearance
  is a high ranking member of a unique department at the University
  of Ottawa that teaches new judges how to be judges, and at first I
  thought it was him, but raised a question not until after doing the
  demo when his jaw dropped in the living room. Then, delicately, I
  got around to asking him, do you work at the University of Ottawa.
  No was his immediate reply, I am a retired RCMP officer. Oh HO said
  I, boy oh boy the RCMP is sure getting some black eyes, these days.
  Oh oh oh, says he, covering his head with both arms, ducking and
  laughing, but then, he goes on to say, that upon retiring he
  was in command of the entire Prime Minister's security detail
  and in those days when he was in charge the advent of a stranger
  stalking the Prime Minister in his own home in the middle of the
  night simply could not have happened. How things have changed,
  in just a few short years. This elbow to elbow rub and shove
  with jokes and wisecracks in my living room took place yesterday
  afternoon right in the middle of my living room, right in the middle
  of a Canadian wide  what?  what?  what?  about the assasination attempt
  on the country's current Prime Minister. Me, joking and rib rubbing
  with the very fellow formerly in charge of the whole security detail.
  Following two days after the abrupt demise of Isreal's world famous
  Prime Minister.

      On the other hand, I DO HAVE A CREDIBLE witness to my sound
  experiments, that can now generate fully fidelic, fully stereophonic
  sound, from a 100% MONO sound source. To finish off the demo yesterday,
  I put on a tape named 'GOLDEN WESTERN MOVIE THEMES' a pirate factory tape
  of original sound tracks including 'A Fist Full Of Dollars' and 'The
  Magnificent 7', listening to the mighty tympanis' kabloom and kablam
  and echo mightily though my house, one speaker lead coming from the
  Fisher Getto Blaster model 8400 consul, cranked at full volume, to
  a large Realistic studio monitor enclosure, stripped bare of
  fiber glass stuffing, its 10 inch woofer hanging out propped
  at a 15 degree angle by a long thin nail, a pair of leads
  coming out of one of the three empty portholes where the
  3 midrange tweeters used to be, the leads clipped to
  a pair of allegator leads clipped to an 8 inch oval
  speaker pulled from the trunk of the car outside,
  the oval speaker on the floor facing upright
  and tilted at a 30 degree angle by a large
  plumber's hexagon nut propped under its
  electromagnet, the loudspeaker shell
  itself titled at an upward angle
  propped on two hexagon shaped
  glass vinegar jars, the
  quarter of the
  living room
  covered
  with
  an
  array
  of slinkies
  stretched along
  6 foot wooden rods
  held up in the air by
  metal tripods, the 'clothes
  line' flow tube consisting of
  five paper geometric cutouts hung
  in a row and tucked into the slinky
  array, hand make plastic sonic devices
  set seeming at random on a table in the
  back corner of the living room, a pendulum
  festooned with two geometric cutouts swinging
  in the doorway to the kitchen, 8 foot rods with
  hexagon slinkies stretched their length top to bottom
  standing up snugged against walls in key locations, no
  wonder the fellow's jaw dropped and he barked in astonishement
  when he opened his eyes, in the living room. Yes, like I say, I
  have a credible witness, who better than the former national chief
  cop in charge of the entire security for the Prime Minister of Canada.
  Credible indeed. He suggested the obvious, that I contact audio specialists
  at a university or somewhere at once and announce the news but recognized
  at once that if I tried, the word 'psychotic' would surely be flashed
  in my face before I ever got such a specialist out to Orleans in
  my home to hear a demo. Getting a specialist out here will
  have to come from someone else, someone enthusiastic
  enough to withstand flack and discreditation to
  convince a specialist to come out.

      The problem is exactly the same as if someone saw a UFO. Who is
      going to believe hearsay, expecially if professional expertise
      and ability is in question. The dogma that stereo needs two
      speakers to reproduce stereo is nonsence. But, can you
      convince a university professor otherwise? Expecially
      if the professor chooses to discredit and slander in
      nasty ways refusing to even listen. Self proclaimed
      specialists who run stereo stores selling very
      expensive stuff, even worse.


      I will wait. I have all the patience in the world.


      Note ... in rereading the above writing I noticed an oversight:
      that being, that the original intent of this experiment in the
      first place had been to test the  two  reostat knobs for HIGH
      and  BASS  on the back of the loudspeaker, and yes, they had
      slight effect, the BASS is at full, and the HIGH is turned
      off at about 20 percent from maximum. At this gain, two
      different sounds subtely converged and a much greater
      authentic sonic fidelic and stereo resonance entered
      the sound stream. All of the toggles on the Getto
      Blaster consul are at maximum, except for the
      LEFT-RIGHT toggle, it is at hard LEFT but
      made no difference and all of the bells
      and whistles of the consul are also
      on, including bass enhancement,
      surround sound, etc. But, do
      not forget, not for an
      instance, that the
      entire resulting
      output from
      the consul
      streams to the
      loudspeaker by a single
      thin speaker lead, ripped from
      one of the junk small speaker boxes
      turfed from the garage and dumped in
      garbage containers at the mall.
      These leads are the tiniest
      thinest grade of speaker
      leads used in the
      industry. No
      faking it
      with
      gold coated
      cables, in this
      experiment. The cheapest
      thinnest speaker leads in common
      use are attaching the speaker, (sound
      generating source), to the consul, the energy
      Source.

      Alas.

      And then, last evening, my brother happened to lean against the
      loudspeaker enclosure and WHAM it toppled backwards to the floor
      the 8 inch oval speaker on the floor leaping through the air
      landing randomly with its allegator clips pulled loose. Then
      an hour later, his knee happened to bump against the end of
      one of the Hexagon slinky rods forming the star array raised
      above the living room floor and SPANG the end of the stretched
      plastic hexagon sprang free, snuffing up along the rod, He
      reached forth to try and fix it and the metal wire tripod
      holding the rod almost toppled, if it had, it would have
      taken out at least one if not two of the rods in the rest
      of the array. At that instant, he became aware, for the
      first time, of just how fragile, just how close to chaos,
      this entire experiment is. The little brown dog named
      Quasar then accidently clipped a pulsed clock tripod
      sitting on the floor at the end of the main rod of
      raised hexagon array sending it scattering off its
      folded and glued six sided art paper support stand.
      I set the pulsed tripod back upright on the floor and
      left it be, ignoring its support stand. An hour later the
      little brown dog named Quasar, after coming to me in the hard
      to sit in office easy chair then over to the pulsed tripod, without
      success, without me getting the message, finally walked over to the
      pulsed tripod, gave it a quick swipe with a paw, the tripod moved
      several inches and landed upright, and instantly the sound from
      the TV improved. And the little brown dog named Quasar walked
      away to lay down. You have to admire a dog who does it right.



                                              From -  UPDATE.4 in
                                                      NEWSOUND.ZIP.



      - Finis -







  OOPS A POSTSCRIPT  ----------------------------------------------------------------


      Nov. 12, 1995, 6:50 PM.  Saturday afternoon.


      I forgot to mention something in the above description
      involving the credible witness. How it happened that the
      8 by 5 inch oval woofer got into the experment had a step
      along the way that was very revealing.

      It happened that I was at the point where only one of the mid
  range tweeters was still dangling from its thin leads out its open
  port of the Realitic studio monitor, now thoroughly pillaged in
  terms of all of its stuffing taken out, the 10 inch woofer now
  hanging out with only two of its 4 screws back in the top two
  holes, screwed in just enough to hold the woofer and not bound
  down one turn more.

      Time wasted trying to tune out shrill, fracturing, crackling,
  and piss in the high end had led to nothing except a small marginal
  improvement made when carefully splaying apart the two leads for the
  tweeter as far apart as they would go, snaking over the lip of the
  tweeter's opening into the wooden box. This tweeter had the longest
  leads of the three original mid rangers, long enough to let the
  tweeter dangle below the bottom of the enclosure.

      At this point the tweeter dangled below the enclosure, with its
  upper rim just in contact with the bottom of the enclosure, but even
  so, tests twist turning the tweeter one way or another dangling in
  the air led to nothing.

       So up the stairs it was, to arrive back with the 8 by 5 inch
  chincy oval woofer in hand. When kneeling down in front of the
  enclosure, and moving the oval woofer toward the dangling tweeter
  intending to transfer the speaker lead clips from tweeter to oval,
  the magnet of the tweeter sucked the rim of the oval straight to
  it in a kiss of metal. Instantly! the whole sound stream improved!

      Ahah, thought I.  Soooooooo.  This is something  N E W  !

      Back to magnetic kiss between speakers, are we.

      But no, that wasn't the answer.

      Surely I had to try the oval woofer on its own, and the moment
  I did it was self evident that the oval woofer on its own was
  transponding into the winds of the sound stream far more
  fidelically than was the magnetically kissing pair.
  In fact, the oval woofer arrived over a foot
  out on the floor, laying face up, in
  hardly any time at all, after
  the magnetic kiss was
  dissolved.
  The
  magnetic
  kiss had only
  worked when the original
  mid range tweeter was still in the
  system, but, even so, did not work hardly at
  all, compared to the open air resonances when the original
  heavy small mid range tweeter was taken out of the system altogether.


      End of postscript.


      Nov. 15, 1995,  1:50 PM, Wednesday afteroon.


      P.s.   The fellow had started raving about my 'new stereo system'
             the moment he stepped in the front door, and continued to
             'rave' all the way down the hall into the living room. He
             was being motivated by the rebounding echoing sounds that
             filled the air pure and clear at nice loud volume. We had
             to raise our voices to speak, even at the front door.

             I forgot to mention that in this demo of Nov. 7th, the guy had
  done everything right, had stepped on up the hall, eyes tightly closed,
  me guiding him past the trays of semi-sorted computer disks laying
  in file cabinate card drawers along the wall of the hall, then I
  carefully stepped him around the corner into the living room,
  eyes still tightly closed, and came to a stop at a spot I
  suggested, and there he stood for several minutes head
  up craned into the sound stream of the mighty stereo
  image sweeping to the left, right, left, literally
  looking around the air, and when I finally said: 'ok,
  open your eyes': whereupon he did, looked ahead, an instant
  later looked down, and hunched saying "HUH" like a shock wave
  had struck from within, and his jaw dropped to comprise the jaw
  dropping demo. What was most in effect is that both his feet
  stood not more than a foot away from the wood loudspeaker
  of mahogany laid on its side on the floor and propped
  up, at a 15 degree angle on a small tomato carton
  below, the fact of the loudspeaker being quite
  literally underfoot, and not in a tower of
  power of speakers far back by the wall,
  hit his brain pan with a smash of
  intense impact. There were no
  other loudspeakers, just
  the one! The fact
  of just one
  box was
  totally
  unsuspected,
  plus the array of stretched
  slinkies raised 15 1/4
  inches in a layer
  above the
  living
  room
  floor,
  this was
  the second
  thing his eyes
  glombed onto instants
  later. The fellow gave the
  demo a thorough lookover, at one
  point leaned right over the loudspeaker
  peering in through the former midrange tweeter
  ports to totally scour the inners of the loudspeaker
  box to confirm indeed that not a single piece of stuffing
  remained: the shell was empty, and that the only electronics
  came from the original stuff used to cross circuit
  between the 10 inch woofer and former mid
  range tweeters, all of the leads
  attached to the two HIGH
  and LOW reostats at
  the back of the
  wooden box.
  Nothing
  inside
  had
  been
  tampered
  by me. No other
  circuits existed. In
  other words, it could only
  be a 100% true Mono sound source,
  in which the 'entire' embodiment was
  almost entirely pure open air resonances.
  This, he accepted without question. In putting
  the ear close to any one of the two speaker cones,
  hardly a thing could be heard except weak high pitched
  poks and faint pissing noises coming from the cone. Like I
  say, THIS demo was a true success. The moment you stepped back,
  ZOOM, there in the air was a mighty sound radiating out and back and
  gelling into a real fidelic display of live sound, which pulsated, hung,
  breathed in the air, ALL of the echoes, high and low, lasting until
  the very end of their time. By the time the  DEMO  was finished
  however, chance disturbances in the environment as we moved
  around and touched things, was causing some of the high
  end fidelity to deteriorate. Distortions had started
  creeping around the sound stream, particularly
  after the fellow had leaned over onto the
  loudspeaker box, to study its insides
  thoroughly for a couple of minutes,
  moving it slightly out of its
  extreme hot spot resonance
  vibrations supported on
  top of the tomato
  carton by two
  six sided
  ornate
  jars.
  Point
  source
  instruments
  were everywhere,
  stereophonically wide
  spread left to right, and
  deep into the depths of the
  music image even after
  the deterioration
  of the high end
  fidelity had
  started to
  spoil the
  purest
  tones
  the
  problem
  easily cured
  in just a few minutes
  of special room tuning by me
  to coax the sound stream back to its
  mighties after the fellow called it quits and departed.

  One other feature of the sound not yet mentioned, is that the Glen
  Miller pirate factory tape had some cuts which were lifted from 78
  RPM recordings. In 'normal' circumstances, the pops, crackles, and
  hiss from the needle noise in the playing of the 78 RPM recordings
  polluting the sound of each such recording.  In the experimental
  DEMO which took place above, these  78 RMP  recording 'noises'
  were barely audible. They were still there but now are lost
  almost, in the midst of a gigantic stereophonic balloon.
  Out of the mighty stereo could be heard very faint
  pops and crackles, if you listened very closely
  for them. In effect, the fact of the 78 RPM
  record source was no longer self evident.
  The experiment had successfully over
  come flaws picked up along the
  way in the information
  that constituted
  the record's
  reproduced
  sound,
  the
  result
  sound in the
  experiment almost
  completely overcame the
  flaws of the steel needle, via
  rejuvination of original frequencies
  to such an extent that original frequencies
  rose to become all dominant again in the sound stream.

  One
  last
  remark
  is that
  pistons of
  both speakers
  did not move in
  the state of impact
  vibrations. When sound
  was at its best, not so much
  as a blurr or tiniest of vibrations
  could be seen effecting either cones, even
  though both cones were proven to be moving powerfully
  when touched with a finger tip and a loud whapp plus tingle
  shock in the fingertip occurred the instant a cone was touched.
  The 8 inch oval woofer's cone could be seen to have piston
  action when the speaker was moved slowly around in the
  air when held in the hand, but the moment the best
  sound was found in the way it was set on the
  plumber's hexagon nut used as a support
  base, all piston throw, and vibes,
  vanished from view. The large
  and heavy 10 inch woofer
  sitting stuck out at
  roughly 30 degrees
  from the vertical
  was as still as
  if it was not
  working, as
  there were
  no tell
  tale
  vibes
  at all
  effecting
  its big cone.


                                              From -  UPDATE.4 in
                                                      NEWSOUND.ZIP.




       - Finis -