“For man also knoweth not his time: as the fishes that are taken in an evil net, and as the birds that are caught in the snare; so are the sons of men snared in an evil time, when it falleth suddenly upon them.” (Ecclesiastes 9:12 KJV)
I thought I had my life together. My car was almost paid off, my job was going pretty well, I completed my first novel, and I had a plan for the future. I was optimistic and excited about life again, and then this thing happened. My blog (much like Jonah’s whale) opened its mouth, swallowed me whole, and spit me out naked. I was born again of corruptible seed, born into a new world of which I had no understanding. Not long after my baptism of fire, a massive 30-40 ft. whale beached itself off Galveston’s western shore which was a pretty rare occurrence for the Texas coastline. The following day, on December 23, 2015, Aleister Crowley’s old house (known as the Boleskine House) mysteriously erupted into flames. I saw these two seemingly random and unrelated events as signs. Whatever was happening to me, I knew it was evil, and I was looking to God for some sort of nod, or wink, or indication that He was aware and in control of the situation. I was in the belly of the whale, the belly of hell, where the floods compassed me about and the waves passed over me. The weeds wrapped around my head and the bars of earth enveloped me. I was Jonah, and after the big fish vomited me out, I needed a reason, an explanation, direction. I needed a teacher to show me the way.
One of the defining features of Buddhist Tantra is the importance of having a teacher. I look back now and cringe at the thought of who that could have been. After reading through all my blog comments and knowing what I know now, I shudder at the thought of who I might have become and what could have been my fate. This thing, after it spits you out, everything that follows is so foreign to the average individual it’s detrimental to have some sort of instruction manual. I rejected the wisdom of my online “friends” like Midnight or Tantra, who were obviously well-versed in the occult. Tantra is the person who left the comment, stating, “That sounds terrifying. I’m so sorry to hear that. You’re a rational person by nature. I know that. If you feel you’re going through something mentally amplified, maybe look into what might be causing a slight imbalance of chemistry not only in the first brain, but in the second, in the gut.” I assure you, she knew exactly what I was experiencing, but her truth was veiled and her explanation deceiving. I’ll discuss the truth behind this comment in a later chapter, but for now, the time stamp of when she left the comment, 6:13pm, my birthdate (6/13/77), is the main focus.
After being born again, the initiate is molded and shaped like a lump of clay. Just as parents rear up their children to be a certain way, distilling in them certain morals and beliefs, the initiate is dressed and given a new wardrobe, a new face if you will, which is where the term “monarch programming” comes into play. Before this thing took hold of my life, I had done extensive research into this topic. And before I became a victim myself, I believed most of what I read by the so-called experts. The majority of books and websites on the topic will tell you that monarch programming is believed to create an alter ego within a desired subject. The victim is often referred to as “the slave” while those responsible for the programming are known as “the handlers.” It is believed that once the victim is fully programmed, these monarch slaves are used by the powers that be to carry out rituals, performances, and/or deliver certain messages that are in-line with a desired outcome. In other words, victims are transformed into puppets on a string programmed with alter egos of whom they have no control. Alters are said to be anything from sex kittens to programmed assassins.
Author and speaker, Cathy O’Brien, claims to be a victim of this mind control program, which she says is a subsection of the declassified CIA programs known as Project MK Ultra and Project ARTICHOKE. In her 1995 book, Trance Formation of America, O’Brien claims that she suffered sexual abuse by her father as a child as well as by a network of child pornographers. She then goes on to claim that she was forced by the CIA to participate in Project Monarch which (according to O’Brien) is a conspiracy designed to run sex slave rings and commit child abuse. Years later while under hypnosis, O’Brien says she was able to recall memories of sexual abuse by international pedophile rings, drug barons, and Satanists who used a form of “trauma-based mind control programming” to make her a sex slave. O’Brien also claims that Project Monarch caused her to develop multiple personality disorder. Perhaps this explains why she says that George H. W. Bush transformed like a chameleon right before her eyes into a lizard-like alien. Perhaps one of her alters actually did see something from behind the veil.
Although religious and political scholars have criticized O’Brien’s claims for their lack of supporting evidence, there’s something here. There is truth to her outlandish claims, namely, the lizard-like alien of George Bush. With all the research I’ve conducted looking into this stuff, the same topics keep popping up: sexual abuse, Satanism, multiple personality disorder, and some sort of experience with an otherworldly being, maybe not George H. W. Bush, but some type of sighting/abduction/close encounter claim. In fact, I would argue that her claim about Bush is no more outlandish than my claim about River Phoenix and the golden gods.
It was New Year’s Eve as I stood in the door frame of my garage smoking a cigarette and finishing off my third full glass of wine. Fireworks spread across the night sky, one right after another, as my neighbors blared Tejano music and rang in the New Year fiesta style. I was going to be okay, despite the ongoing physical sensations – the skin rash on my hands and feet, the body tremors, the excessive saliva – everything was going to be okay. From the corner of my eye I saw something fall and felt its point of impact, and upon glancing at my shoulder, I beheld a large brown wolf spider about the size of my hand. Curse words flew out of my mouth as I ripped off my jacket and performed a sort of African ritual tribal dance, stamping my feet, shaking my head, and turning in circles until I was sure I was rid of the eight-legged fiend. I then stumbled inside and asked my roommate to give me a good once over. After refilling my glass of wine, I retreated back to my room and continued my search for enlightenment. It was as if I’d discovered the meaning of life, well, in the entertainment industry anyway. Every music video I watched was centered around the same thing, this thing that had taken over my life, this unexplainable event that I couldn’t seem to shake, it had happened to them too. I was one of them. I started with Nirvana and then worked my way through Alice in Chains, Soundgarden, Stone Temple Pilots – all my favorite 90’s bands – every song, lyric, and video, they all came into focus from a different point of view, and I understood them completely. It was like taking acid and discovering the meaning of life, like finding God, but which god had I found?
I was in tears by the end of the night. I knew why Kurt Cobain shot himself in the head. I understood what smelled like teen spirit. I understood why Layne Staley was the man in a box. I understood why Chris Cornell wanted to break his rusty cage and run. I knew whose heart-shaped box Cobain was locked inside. I understood the meaning behind his suicide letter, the one addressed to his imaginary friend, Boddah, I knew who that was too. I knew what he meant when he wrote, “I’ll be at your altar,” and I now know that Cobain himself had become Boddah. This thing, it’ll turn you into something you’re not.
The month of December was spent in a state of fear, confusion, and denial. I shut down my blog shortly after the lion’s paw surfaced on my arm, but the strange physical sensations prevented me from putting this thing to bed. After that terrifying night of begging God to save me from eternal darkness, body tremors would occur out of nowhere. I’d be at my desk at work and would suddenly start trembling from the inside out. It happened at home while watching television, in bed while trying to sleep, in a restaurant trying to eat my dinner. I’d read my Bible (Psalms, of course) and just tremble and shake all over. And then there was the skin rash. For about a week or two, my ankles, feet and wrists itched to no end, and they were splotchy and red like wine, but the itching never seized. I became raw from scratching and had gone through two tubes of topical cream in a week’s time, but the eye twitch really played on my nerves. I carried eye drops with me everywhere I went to combat my chronically dry eyes, but my right one in particular was tender to the touch and hurt as if slightly bruised. It would then twitch uncontrollably and fill with water. The excessive saliva, however, was perhaps the most irritating. I couldn’t swallow fast enough before my mouth refilled itself with another round of frothy spittle. At one point I kept a large spit cup by my bed and filled it almost halfway in a period of about five hours. And then there was the numb face. It tingled with pins and needles before growing tight and then somewhat numb, but sometimes it was just a spot on my cheek, here a little, there a little, right cheek, left cheek, and sometimes cold chills coursed throughout my entire body. I knew it all stemmed from that horrible night, some sort of physical attack from the spirit world, some sort of black magic voodoo curse, but my cottage cheese brain also took a hit. Indeed, I remember the moment clearly.
A voice inside my head kept nagging at me, asking a question I didn’t want to answer, fielding a topic I didn’t want to explore but it wouldn’t leave me alone; it demanded my attention. What does this say about your God? How do you explain all of this? How do you feel about Jesus now? Is he really the Son of God? I literally felt my brain collapse. I mean, I could feel it flip, almost like it deflated and then puffed itself up again. I ignored the sensation almost as quickly as I ignored the spiritual crisis in which I found myself. Whatever this is, I thought, I refuse to question my religion, but the synchronicities, combined with the voice of a different tongue, threatened to replace God altogether. The pinnacle came when my thoughts suddenly fell into synch with the world around me. Whatever I thought seemed to manifest itself right before my eyes. I thought about the lady in the blue cloak from my childhood and a woman appeared from around the corner dressed all in blue. I thought about Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love, and a couple appeared walking down the street, the man with blonde scraggly hair and ripped up clothing, the woman with bleached blonde hair and a tight black skirt. They were little insignificant things but extraordinarily powerful at the same time. I even tested it once. I was in my room one night with my iTunes set to random and thought, if someone or something is in my head, play Pearl Jam next. I smiled despite myself when the heavy guitars from their song, Evolution, sounded from my computer. I smiled out of pure shock and mounting terror as those familiar lyrics continuously mocked me, “It’s evolution, baby!” And I was. Born of corruptible seed, I was a baby being molded and shaped like a lump of clay, reared up to believe, think, and see the world in a new way, evolving into something I knew not. I was the initiate being groomed and prepped for a new wardrobe.
By the end of December, all I wanted for Christmas was a tinfoil hat. The tremors attacked my body on almost a daily basis, and I had the thought that maybe the powers that be (you know, the shadow government) were targeting me through radio waves via HAARP (High Frequency Active Auroral Research Program). Funded by the U.S. Navy, the U.S. Air Force, and DARPA, the program’s most prominent instrument is a high-power radio frequency transmitter. It is the subject of numerous conspiracy theories, most notably, the instrument’s suspected ability to control weather by manipulating the earth’s ionosphere. Everything from hurricanes, to floods, droughts, tornadoes and even earthquakes have been attributed to HAARP. Crazy, I know, but it’s really not as outlandish as it sounds. Even former Governor of Minnesota, Jesse Ventura, questioned whether the government was using this site to manipulate weather patterns, or, crazier still, to bombard people with mind-controlled radio waves. That’s it, I thought. That’s what this is, but why? If it was Big Brother, why not just kill me and be done with it? No, something else was going on. Besides, what could explain the incessant taps at my bedroom window? They kept me up at night (still do, sometimes), but at one point it was one right after another, night after night, tap… tap tap… tap tap tap… tap… tap tap… tap… tap… tap… I buried my head under my pillow to the point of suffocation and then scrummaged through the medicine cabinet for earplugs. And they knew where I was. If I was on the right side of the room, that’s where they would tap on the window. If I was on the left, there too, the taps would appear like pebbles hitting the glass. The worst part was during my nightly prayers. My bed is positioned directly under the large window that spans across my bedroom wall, and each night, as I burrowed under the covers and prayed silently in my head, the taps seemed to occur at just the right time. Dear Heavenly Father, please help. It feels as though someone is in my head…tap… I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m scared, and confused, and I need help…tap… what is that at the window…tap…When I attempted to say aloud, “In the name of Jesus Christ, I rebuke you,” my lips quivered as I stuttered through His name. “In the name of Je… Je… Jes… In the name of JJJ…Jesus CCC…Christ, I rebuke you!” …tap.
Back in the 1950’s and 1960’s, the CIA’s mind control program, MK Ultra, used a technique called psychic driving in which the patient was subjected to repetitive sounds played on a loop in order to condition them or alter their behavior. It was a form of psychological manipulation that was also used by the scientists in conjunction with electroconvulsive therapy. This is, essentially, the concept behind what was happening to me. The taps at my window, the body tremors, the feeling that someone or something could read and manipulate my thoughts – this was MK Ultra, this was psychic driving, this was Project Monarch, and the golden gods, they were the scientists. They are the shadow government. They are, in a sense, the HAARP players. Like ghosts in the machine, they are the music conductors directing the physical world in a never-ending symphony. It’s this music that drives victims to the point of insanity, and it’s absolutely everywhere. Once this thing gets inside the head, victims become like dogs themselves responding to random sound cues. Car horns, a passing train, dings from cell phones, lawn mowers, weed-whackers – the world around me seemed to fall into synch with my very thoughts. It started with taps on the window and evolved into something I still don’t fully understand.
“Then an herald cried aloud, To you it is commanded, O people, nations, and languages, That at what time ye hear the sound of the cornet, flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of musick, ye fall down and worship the golden image that Nebuchadnezzar the king hath set up: And whoso falleth not down and worshippeth shall the same hour be cast into the midst of a burning fiery furnace.” (Daniel 3:4-6 KJV)
Although I survived the fiery furnace, the music of the golden image projected itself all around me. Like sounds heard throughout a settling house or the ghost hunter listening for thumps on the walls, footsteps in the attic and things that go bump in the night, I found myself plagued by poltergeist activity (poltergeist being a German word that literally means rumbling ghost). It’s as if the pipes and electrical wiring running through the walls of any given establishment suddenly came to life. Like a dog responding to an unheard whistle, I became keenly aware of the snap, crackle and pops heard, well, everywhere. Golden like lightning, like fire, like electricity, the king’s golden image took over the psychic wheel and chimed in synch with my very being. That Green Day song, Basket Case, kept playing through my head: “Sometimes I give myself the creeps, sometimes my mind plays tricks on me. It all keeps adding up, I think I’m cracking up,” and I was. At one point I found myself leaning outside of my bathroom window laughing and mouthing the lyrics, “Who is this great burdensome slavering dog-thing that mediocres my every thought?” It’s from a song called We Call Upon the Author by Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds, kind of an underground band. It’s off their album titled, Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!, a biblical reference to the story of Lazarus being raised from the dead by Jesus. Do you see where this is going? Well, wait, I’ll get to it.
So, I was leaning out of my bathroom window mouthing the lyrics toward the green house, you know, the one where I once thought River lived, and although, at the time, I still thought that someone involved occupied the house, I began to doubt that it was River. I had the thought that maybe he had faked his own death and was now living in some underground bunker somewhere. I began to speculate that maybe he became some sort of computer whiz or techie guy since it was his only connection to the outside world. In a way, I was right. I didn’t understand it at the time, and although I knew that what ailed me was evil by nature, I also had the sense that River was still, somehow, somewhere, involved. I thought that, somehow, he was the slavering dog-thing that mediocered my every thought.
The more research I conducted, and the more writing I did on the subject, the more instruments were added to the inescapable symphony. Someone coughed, cleared their throat or sneezed – they were like cues telling me yah or nah in whatever task I was performing. It’s like a form of animal conditioning that quickly binds the writer’s hands, and before long, the golden dogs threatened to take my bone completely. Before long, even the wind was confirming the questions streaming through my mind.
Journal Entry (January 2016)
Without getting into too much detail, my life for the past three months has been nothing short of a nightmare – a mesmerizing nightmare that turned my brain into a waded-up piece of paper. Had I not taken notes in my diary, my memories would strain to follow any sort of linear fashion and my five senses would continue to deceive me. They still do on a daily basis. It’s impossible to explain and I won’t try to convince anyone of the synchronicities plaguing my life, from the preacher’s sermon, to songs on the radio, to programs on television, to nature herself speaking directly and only to me. I truly have witnessed many amazing signs and wonders, none of which I can successfully describe to you at this moment. At first, I thought it was God; it’s not. I’m the last person to preach to anyone about the Bible. I’ve never read it. Bits and pieces here and there, sure, I know the basics. I know that God is truth, but what is truth? How do we know if God is really speaking to us or if we’re actually being deceived?
It’s unfathomable to think that I could have been under such a severe form of mind control. When I look back at the past three months of my life, I stand in detestable awe of all that I did and believed. Even now, as I try to make sense out of what exactly happened to me and how the deceit was successfully accomplished, I can feel the invisible monster breathing down my neck. It’s almost impossible to explain. I suppose I should start at the beginning but I’m afraid to confront, let alone reveal the absurd nature of the beast that raped my mind and hung me out to dry. It still has its claws in me, and like the unseen detached head of a fat tick imbedded somewhere in my skin, I’m still searching for the genesis of my disease. Unfortunately, the more research I conduct the more confused I become. So, while I continue researching mountains of material in an attempt to make sense out of what ails me, I think it’s safe to assume that the Illuminati (for lack of better words) is a very real and very dangerous organization that is playing God, mocking Christ and stealing souls through unimaginable deception… As I wait for a faint tap on my window or a muffled pop from the pipes in my walls, I know that my road to recovery will be a long one. Drown out the siren’s cry; I’ll write what I damned well please.
The month of January brought with it the spider’s web, prophesized as it were, by the large brown wolf spider that fell to my shoulder on New Year’s Eve. The concept is difficult to explain but can be thought of as an octopus that stretches out its tentacles and lays claim to every spiritually sacred or religious experience I had ever encountered. It’s a form of highway robbery where all those signs and connections that lead a person toward their destiny are stolen by an unseen driver. All those impossible coincidences that I took as signs from God or answers to my prayers were caught up in the butterfly net. Remember the comment from Midnight who told me to, “Stay strong. Go outside and just walk in the woods, relax. Unplug for a while.” This is what they were referencing. I was lost in the woods of my own mind and of my own life. I thought about the reoccurring dream I used to have in my early twenties. I think I even wrote about it in one of my journals. There was a forest, mysterious and foreboding, and I remembered a feeling of dread as I stood just on the outskirts. A strong inner voice, a sixth sense, told me to stay away. It was always the same dream. The haunted woods, forbidden, as I stood just on the outskirts peering in, wondering. Almost twenty years later, the dream became a reality as I stumbled blindly through that dark forest.
I thought about the lady in the blue cloak that my brother had seen numerous times throughout our childhood. I knew that, she too, was somehow connected. The blue cloak, the covering cherub, Lucifer, Saul’s familiar spirit, Samuel coming up from the ground draped in a cloak, all of this I see now and understand, but at the time… at the time I was clueless. Surrounded by clues and the dark light of the golden gods, I was utterly clueless. I thought about the scorpion I held in my tiny cupped hand as a toddler without getting stung. I thought that maybe, just maybe, that was a sign from God. I thought that maybe it was my destiny, my calling, to expose this thing, but the evil net choked out that seed as the weeds grew higher and higher.
Journal Entry (January 2016)
It goes all the way back to your childhood if you let it. It stops you in your tracks and has you thinking, my God, It must be God. I assure you, It is not God. Like the Faith No More song, Epic, “It’s It! What is it?” It’s probably the reason why the band is named Faith No More. It’s Stephen King’s “It”. It’s indifferent. It’s neither here nor there. It’s the thing that cannot be named. It forms a huge tent over your life and rules absolutely everything. From the birds to the bees to the flowers and the trees, It is everywhere! You’re a passenger being taken for a ride and you don’t even know it. It’s like living in a fishbowl. And I’m still left wondering, “Who Are You? Who, who, who, who?”
It was River Phoenix. It wasn’t River Phoenix. It was alive but dead. It is a virus that could potentially sweep through the minds of the masses. I could see it. I couldn’t see it. Like Goliath’s spear whose staff was like a weaver’s beam, like a roll on the back of a loom where the thread is gathered for weaving, I was in the web of the giants, cursed by their gods, harassed and mocked by their dogs, like the giant wolf spider on my shoulder, I carried the weight of their World. They took me up with their angle to catch me in their net, the freemasons, the illuminati, all the mystery religions and the followers of these gods, they sacrifice unto their nets. They all serve the same head, all supporting and working for the same god, the covering cherub, weaved together like a loom, like a daisy chain, like an electronic wiring scheme wired together in a sequence, in a ring, worshipping and obeying the snap, crackle and pops heard from their golden gods, the music from their golden idol – a worldwide symphony, a worldwide web. Electricity. Fire. Light. Lucifer. I could see the potential. I could see the future, if only but a blurred vision, I could see the makings of a New World Order. It could be the pre-cursor to It, a worldwide flood with fire for water, and out of the flames, mankind will emerge like the phoenix, reborn and bound to the wings of a butterfly, a symbol of transformation and rebirth. Project Monarch.
In recent years, butterfly symbolism has been on the rise in the world of pop culture. Celebrities are often photographed with butterflies strategically placed somewhere on their person or lingering in the background of a set design or photo shoot. The presence of these winged creatures is believed by many in the conspiracy community to symbolize monarch programming, and they would be correct. When we hear celebrities admit to selling their souls to the devil for fame and fortune, this is what they’re talking about. I get it now. Victims of monarch programming lose their souls through trickery, manipulation and unimaginable deception. Like a plastic version of God, the golden dogs masquerade themselves as Casper the Friendly Ghost while leading their victims into a dark forest without end. The spiritual deception at play is a cloak-and-dagger thief, a virus of the heart, mind and soul. From Charles Manson to The Beatles to our elected officials in the White House, every one of them is a victim of monarch programming – a tall statement to make but an accurate one nonetheless. No one makes it to the top without experiencing the hidden hand of the programmer. From the political realm to the entertainment realm and even to the criminal realm, the movers and shakers of this world are very much aware of this conspiracy.
On a larger scale, we’re all victims. Through the many avenues of pop culture, whether it be books, movies, music, advertising, or social media, we have all been indoctrinated into this thing. The evil net is all around us, but most people aren’t aware of it yet. I often wonder what it would be like if the whole world knew what I knew, or saw what I saw, or heard what I heard. What if the whole world understood the true meaning behind all their favorite songs, or books, or movies? What if the whole world was a part of this thing? Would they hate it as much as I do, or would they embrace it? I think of celebrities like Madonna or Beyoncé who seem to readily embrace this thing, celebrities who readily embrace Kabbalah, which is what It is. Jewish mysticism, the Kabbalistic Tree of Life with ten spheres and twenty-two lines all connecting and leading to different paths and deities. After passing through the fire, victims/initiates find themselves lost in the woods, lost in the Kabbalistic Tree of Good and Evil, snared in the evil beam of the giants, but there are those who hate it. Kurt Cobain hated it. River Phoenix hated it. I hate it. Many others hate it as well.
Monarch programming, MK Ultra, psychic driving – these are the tools, the blueprints, being used to manipulate and deceive mankind into believing a lie. High priests, witches, wizards, kings and queens, spiritual monarchies, principalities and wickedness in high places – these are the rulers of the darkness of this world. They call evil good and good evil. They put darkness for light and light for darkness, bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter, the Tree of Good and Evil for the Tree of Life. They shall usher in the New Age, the Age of Aquarius, the age of enlightenment. It is The Singularity spoken of by Ray Kurzwell where mankind merges with machine, and that’s exactly what it’s like. It’s like being connected to a machine, like Pink Floyd’s song, Welcome to the Machine: “Welcome my son, welcome to the machine. What did you dream? It’s alright we told you what to dream.” Everything will be connected to the beast, everyone’s neurons firing at the same time, everyone on the same wave, connected and in synch. Everyone will be of one mind and of one body. Its evolution, baby.
I cut the cord after the Pearl Jam fiasco. If the powers that be were attacking me and reading my mind by way of radio waves, I figured turning off my Wi-Fi was my best defense. Actually, it was my brother’s idea. Through it all, Kirk was the only person who could even remotely grasp what was happening to me. Neither of us fully understood it, but at least he was knowledgeable when it came to conspiracy stuff. Kirk and I used to talk for hours about the New World Order, the freemasons, and what was really going on behind the curtain. I knew that I had stumbled onto something big, something that explained everything, but at the time I could explain nothing. I’d like to say that turning off the Wi-Fi helped, and I guess it did in a way. It saved me from being tempted to reboot my blog or reactivate my Facebook account. It saved me from my social media hell and the news headlines that seemed to mock and predict my every move, but it went beyond the internet. The web evolved and manifested itself into real time and into real life as if Google’s prediction service was more than just a web browser based on algorithms. It was as if Google was inside my head predicting my every move.
I began reading my Bible more. Whatever this was, whoever was involved, I knew it was spiritual at its very core. I took it with me to the garage where I chain-smoked night after night. One such night, while reading from Psalms (save me, O my God), a pack of coyotes howled in the distance adding to the dark ambiance of my situation. Their high-pitched yips and barks intensified as I clutched my Bible tighter and stood in the door frame expecting to see them run right past my house. Instead, three black dogs appeared from around the corner. They sniffed at my shoes and then ran off down the street as I closed my eyes and prayed. I don’t remember what I prayed for, exactly, but upon opening my eyes, the outdoor trashcan moved from against the wall. It’s just the wind, I thought, but as I continued reading my Bible, something rattled and hissed to the left of me. It appeared to move unseen through the air until the sound trailed off into the distance. I knew it was spiritual at its core, but my experience in spiritual warfare was non-existent at best.
I awoke the next morning to find blackbirds perched all along my fence line. It was like a scene from Hitchcock, and although I knew that we always saw an increase of blackbirds during the winter months, even so, it seemed like an omen. It seemed (in my mind) to be connected to this thing that had taken over my life, like everything that happened from here on out wasn’t just mere coincidence or chance. As I perceived it, logic and common sense no longer existed, and everything was connected. Everything was a sign. Everyone was a prophet speaking in parables. Everyone and everything spoke in an unknown tongue, and it was everywhere. On the way to work that morning, the Rolling Stones’ song Sympathy for the Devil played through the speakers as if talking directly to me: “Pleased to meet you, hope you guessed my name!” I had actually, and by the time I arrived at work ten minutes later, as if to confirm Mick Jagger’s message, the outside air reeked of sulfur. This, too, was part of the unknown tongue. Phantom smells, much like the overwhelming scent of carnations that filled the air at the start of this whole thing, came and went as quickly as the three black dogs. I began reading my Bible while on break at work. I also quit listening to the radio. Every station I listened to (whether talk radio or the top forty), every song, commercial or random conversation seemed to be directed entirely at me. I cut the cord as much as I could, but this thing was inescapable. If it wasn’t the internet or the radio then it was conversations with coworkers, friends, family members, television shows, or strangers on the street. Everyone was unknowingly speaking in code. Everything was a parable explaining, relating, or mocking my befuddled mind.
After a month or so without seeing him, the young black guy with the green Nike sneakers returned and asked me for money again. The sun had just set as I sat in my car and watched him jog across the parking lot towards me. My heart raced as I prayed for God to help me through whatever was about to happen. In my mind, it seemed like he was the starting point to all of this, a messenger of Satan himself. He smiled as if he knew his very presence rattled me, and then asked for money to buy some new clothes. I looked him over from head to toe, from his brand-name shirt to his green Nike sneakers, and commented, “Your clothes look fine to me.” He grinned from ear to ear and said he had a few holes in his shirt, and besides, his parents had recently kicked him out and he needed some cash. He then asked if we could go to the ATM. “Uh, I don’t think so,” I answered, and handed him three bucks before quickly going inside. I didn’t know (and still don’t) who the young man was, if he was part of something bigger, like an actor or something, or maybe even an angelic being (you never know) but encounters like that tightened the yoke of my bondage. In a world where nothing made sense, everything and everyone became a sign.
I also had a reoccurring encounter with a short white guy in a white truck. He often circled the building at about the same time every day waiting for me to go on break. I knew it was only because he wanted to date me, but as was the case with everything, there was a deeper and more symbolic meaning behind it. The man told me that he used to drive a school bus for a living but had recently switched jobs and was now working as a machinist. A machinist, by definition, is a person who machines using hand tools and machine tools to create or modify a part that is made of metal, plastics, or wood. Remember the guy I met at the bar Halloween night who drove a blue Mustang? He was also a machinist. In computer architecture, a bus is a communication system that transfers data between components inside a computer or between computers. So, here’s the symbolism: the machinist represents a computer programmer, a wardrobe technician, so to speak, or the handler who uses tools such as monarch programming, MK Ultra, and psychic driving to manipulate and deceive victims/initiates. The bus driver represents The World, the golden gods, the aliens (if you will), or the spirit spouse who takes over the wheel (who takes over the brain) after the sacred marriage. Think of the human brain as the central processing unit of a computer, the sub-conscious mind as memory storage, and our five senses as the input/output devices, now, think of what happens when your computer is hijacked by an unknown source. Your files are stolen, your codes rewritten, and your hardware rewired. Just as the potter molds a lump of clay, the machinist programs and modifies the brain – welcome to the machine.
The blue Mustang also holds significance. Cars always symbolize psychic driving, and the fact that it’s a Mustang exemplifies this concept even further. A mustang, after all, is a type of horse, and the horse represents the brain, or the engine, like horsepower. It represents a part of the brain known as the hippocampus, which can be thought of as the heart of the brain. It was named so because of its resemblance to the seahorse, the Greek word “hippo” meaning “horse” and “kampo” meaning “monster.” It can be thought of as an index for the memory since its main function involves human learning, memory, and emotional response. By means of cognitive maps, or mental maps, we navigate by memory, which is the concept behind being lost in the woods, or the butterfly net. The color blue represents prophecy. It is the color of water, which, in the Bible, represents the Word of God:
"Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it; That he might sanctify and cleanse it with the washing of water by the word,” (Ephesians 5:25-26 KJV)
It is also the color of the sky, symbolic of the spirit realm, or what some would call, the fourth dimension. In terms of light, the color blue has a high-energy, short wavelength ranging from 400-450nm – so here we have the fourth dimension, or, The World of the golden gods. Light is made up of electromagnetic particles that travel in waves through space, and blue light, in particular, has been shown to impact the circadian rhythm in humans by suppressing melatonin levels. As mentioned before, our sleep/wake cycles are controlled by the release of melatonin by the pineal gland which is the key to the body’s internal clock. These biological rhythms are entrainable and can be reset by exposure to external stimuli like light, like blue light, like a fourth dimensional god, the Zeitgeber, the time-giver, the machinist, or the blue mustang. Although the main source of blue light is the sun, technologies including computers, televisions, energy-efficient fluorescent bulbs and LED lights flood today’s environment with blue light.
Here’s the connection: outside of the Denver International Airport, reared up with glowing red eyes and protruding black veins, a sculpture named Blue Mustang stands at 32 feet tall. Known to locals by the nickname, Blucifer, it is a monstrous-looking thing that was first commissioned for the airport back in 1993, the same year River Phoenix died. The Texas-born artist responsible for creating the sculpture, Luis Jimenez, died on June 13, 2006 when Blucifer’s head fell on top of him. June 13, my birthday. Prophecy. Connections. Light. Lucifer. The Blue Mustang is the embodiment of this great conspiracy, and where better to display this thing than at an airport of all places, where planes carrying hundreds of people take to the sky like mechanical birds, like spirits, like gods. The airport itself looks like one giant tent, or dozens of smaller tents all joined together to form one building under the same covering cherub. And while the color blue symbolizes prophecy, the sculpture’s glowing red eyes symbolize prophecy in the blood, or more to the point, DNA. On the opposite end of the visible light spectrum, red light has the longest wavelength (700-635nm) at a frequency interval of about 430-480THz, with these T-waves (tremendously high frequency) matching the wavelength of the blue light spectrum. In other words, time equals length; time equals distance. It symbolizes the fulfillment of prophecy, the fulfillment of the word (Lo, I come, in the volume of the book it is written of me), the word made flesh, the lion’s paw.
The fact that the sculpture is constructed of fiberglass also holds significance. Like glass or a transparent surface that catches white light and separates it into a rainbow of colors, the human brain acts as a prism for the light of the golden gods. This is the concept behind The Wizard of Oz and Pleasantville, both movies depicted in black and white until a bump on the head or a sexual encounter opens up a whole new world of color. Dorothy is carried up in a whirlwind, and the bored housewife is transformed in a bathtub, but both scenarios symbolize the same event – the holy marriage. By means of electrical impulses in the brain, namely, pyramidal neurons, firing in synch with the psychic driver (the golden god, the machinist, or the spirit spouse), the realm of visible light takes on new illumination. The victim/initiate is literally in tune and on the same frequency as these HAARP players.
Radio waves, light waves, and electrons in our brains – this is the apple and the birdcage. The apple is the brain and the birdcage is the electromagnetic spectrum where an ocean of waves skip around the earth looking for a receiver. Think of that line from The Eagles song, Hotel California, where the singer states, “We are programmed to receive.” Indeed, when the brain is set on fire like a bright red apple (or like a molten looking-glass) during sexual stimulation, visible light can pass right through. We become the receivers. Like an open window or a gap in the ionosphere where electromagnetic waves flow through, so is the brain left wide open for the thief. The ionosphere acts as a mirror that reflects radio waves off free electrons, so too, the brain reflects the light of the golden gods. Think of the groundhog that emerges from its burrow and sees its shadow leading to six more weeks of winter. Think of the movie, Groundhog’s Day, where Bill Murray repeats the same day over and over and over again until he wins over the affection of his female news producer. The time loop ends when he wakes up in bed next to her. His life is overshadowed by his shadow until he reconnects with his spirit spouse and the electromagnetic waves flow through. This is the meaning behind the taps at my bedroom window, an angry lover banging on the door demanding to be let in, an intelligent bolt of lightning striking the glass, a radio wave with consciousness looking for a receiver. And so it continued, the light reflected off the electrons in my brain, the synchronicities, my shadow taller than my soul (to quote Led Zeppelin) as I prophesized out of my own heart and out of my own shadowed brain. The world became my mirror image just like the fiberglass sculpture, Blucifer.
The apple and the birdcage is a taste of the invisible (or the visible that is hidden) where dream meets reality, a surreal experience that is nothing short of a nightmare. Through sins of fornication and drunkenness/drug use, the golden gods are able to infiltrate the victim’s physical body without permission and without the victim realizing until it’s too late. It is a system designed to steal souls and it doesn’t take long for victims to lose faith completely. As my life disintegrated into a confusing collage of absurd coincidences, illogical patterns and illusionary phenomena, it was nearly impossible to see the forest for the trees. Like a rat in a maze, I was lost in a seemingly normal world that (in my mind’s eye) was anything but normal. The HAARP players were like weaving spiders forming a web of deception around my life making it nearly impossible to separate the real from the fake, the good from the bad, or the wheat from the tares.
In Matthew 13:24-30, Jesus tells his disciples the parable of the wheat and the tares. He compares the kingdom of heaven to a man who sows good seed in his field, but while the man slept, his enemy came and sowed tares among the wheat. The man then tells his servants to wait until harvest time to separate the two, lest they root up the wheat with the tares.
“Let both grow together until the harvest: and in the time of harvest I will say to the reapers, Gather ye together first the tares, and bind them in bundles to burn them: but gather the wheat into my barn.” (Matthew 13:30 KJV)
Although this parable is thought to be a reference to judgment day when God shall separate the sheep from the goats, it’s also a good example of how the spiritual deception plays out in the victims’ lives. The wheat is nearly indistinguishable from the weeds just as the workings of the golden gods are almost identical to the workings of God. Another good example is found in the Book of Exodus. Pharaoh’s magicians act as copycats by turning their rods into serpents after Moses and his brother Aaron performed the same act through God’s will:
"Then Pharaoh also called the wise men and the sorcerers: now the magicians of Egypt, they also did in like manner with their enchantments. For they cast down every man his rod, and they became serpents: but Aaron’s rod swallowed up their rods.” (Exodus 7:11-12 KJV)
This mimicry is repeated again with the plague of the frogs and the rivers of blood until Pharaoh’s magicians finally admit defeat and declare, “This is the finger of God.” Unfortunately, most victims do admit defeat and come to the same conclusion as Pharaoh’s magicians. By taking over the wheel and mimicking the workings of God, these golden idols eventually replace God altogether in the lives of victims. This duplication (or mirror image) is performed and carried out in the real world but goes unnoticed by everyone but the programmed victim. As I saw it, every passing car, honking horn, homeless derelict, or freeway billboard was somehow (in some way) a message meant just for me. Everything fell into synch with my inner thoughts. Everything added up in perfect timing, a perfect coincidence. Everything from a co-worker’s cough to the shutting of a neighbor’s door conformed to my circumstance. The material world mirrored my every thought. It was complete and total madness.
By the end of January, just four months into this thing, I began to truly understand the concept of faith. With my right eye darkened, and as a newly born-again Christian, I became wholly dependent on that faith. The spiritual mimicry incurred upon victims is the most powerful deception I’ve ever encountered. All those impossible coincidences throughout my life that I took as signs from God and workings of The Holy Ghost were swallowed up and replaced by the dark presence that had suddenly inserted itself into my world. Welcome to spiritual warfare 101. The problem is, it didn’t start out as a dark presence. It’s a difficult concept to explain to someone who has never experienced this type of deception, but, put simply, it is complete and total sabotage. When you are absolutely convinced that someone (or something) is inside your head and has access to all your inner thoughts, who can hear all your prayers, how do you find God? How do you differentiate between God and that unknown source that seems to calculate and mirror your every move? How do you escape the butterfly net? During the height of my spiritual crisis (my programming), I figured the only way to find God was in church.
Journal Entry (February 2016)
I decided to attend church this morning, a rare occurrence, and was less than surprised to hear that the preacher’s sermon related directly to me and my current, shall we say, disposition. He spoke about Free Will being our God given right and that we were not meant to be puppets on a string. We make choices, we choose our own paths, we are in the driver’s seat and if we’re smart, we’ll follow God’s road map. Easier said than done, right? Life is hard and we all fall short, everyone knows that. No one is perfect in their walk with God, but what happens if you follow the wrong god, and how will you know you’re being deceived?
I attended services with a close family member in a little town called Wigginsville. The church was appropriately named Wigginsville Victory Tabernacle, appropriate indeed, because I was wiggin’. The pastor’s sermon focused on choices and the gift of free will. At one point, he even made the comment, and I quote, “can you imagine being a puppet on a string controlled by some puppet master? Imagine if someone knew your heart and could read every thought inside your head? Scary, right?” Yup. He then went on to preach that Satan can’t read your thoughts, but God knows all, every strand of hair on your head, every thought that enters your brain – God knows your heart. I left services even more distressed and confused than before. They got to the preacher, I thought (whoever they were). They’re messing with me. They control absolutely everything. This is how the programming works. This is how it blinds the eye of the victim. I figured there was no way God could move in my life with such accuracy. I called my aunt later that day freaking out over the phone and complaining that someone was messing with me. The coincidences and reoccurring patterns in my life were too perfect (which they were), too exact, too methodical and synchronized. I told her I thought I was losing my mind.
“Did you ever stop to think that maybe it was God?” my aunt asked. “You were in church after all.” I told her I had, but that she just didn’t understand.
This is how the deception works. God was trying to deliver me out of Egypt, I just couldn’t see it at the time. I couldn’t see the finger of God and gave all the credit to Satan and Pharaoh’s magicians. As a result, I remained trapped in the butterfly net for quite some time. To this day, it threatens to suck me back in; it is a constant struggle. The concept is difficult for me to understand let alone explain but think of it like advertisements on the Internet that parrot whatever recent purchases you’ve made or websites you’ve visited. It’s like a plastic version of God, a veiled copycat, a dark forest without end, a spider web of deceit that leaves you trapped inside the matrix of the beast. It’s like a virus that hijacks your web browser and redirects your brain. It is a cloak-and-dagger thief.
About a week later, I found out that the family member with whom I attended church had prayed the night before asking for the pastor to deliver a message that I needed to hear, one that would help me weather the storm. They got to her too, I remember thinking. Nevertheless, I attended church services nearly every Sunday after that first sermon, and each time I attended, the sermon seemed to be directed entirely at me. I listened intently as he preached against sin and reminded the congregation, “Not to worry about the left or the right, just concentrate on Jesus.” These words struck a chord in me. As I ventured into enemy territory in search of answers to what ailed me, in search of my invisible attacker, I kept my focus squarely on Jesus – my saving grace. In Hosea 4:6, God tells the children of Israel, “My people are destroyed for lack of knowledge,” and while this verse is in reference to His people forgetting the law of God, the same could also be said for not knowing the way of the enemy. After all, Jesus warns us in Matthew 10:16, “Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.”
It was time to get serious about this thing. What was happening to me? What had been done to me that horrible night? I needed answers. I needed to clean house. I needed to come to my senses. My road to a long recovery came with the decision to quit smoking weed. It came late one night while I was in a panic. I’d been contemplating everything that had happened to me and questioning who may or may not have been involved, and figured that if I was being watched, and if my house truly was bugged, I should probably put an end to any and all illegal activity. Don’t give them a reason, I thought. I’d been growing weed in my bathroom for about two years or so at the time and my three medium-sized plants were in bloom with the ripest, dankest, fattest, kindest bud I had grown thus far. I saved as much of the harvest as I could and then cut down the plants and trashed them. A few days later while in church, I sank down in the pew as the pastor preached against drugs and alcohol. His words weighed down upon me and pressed hard against my conscience as reluctant clarity bit at my toes. When I got home that morning, I flushed my prized harvest down the toilet. I’d been a daily pot smoker for about twenty years. It was my medicine and my best friend. It’s what I looked forward to every day of my life. It’s how I got by. Watching my entire supply spiral out of sight is one of the hardest things I have ever done. It’s also one of the smartest. Afterwards, I sat down on my bed and gave this thing to God. To confirm my resolution, I got baptized a few weeks later.
In the days, weeks, months and years following, my time was spent engulfed in research. Aleister Crowley, Helena Blavatsky, Alice Bailey, I looked into all the well-known occult leaders and their doctrines. I researched the New Age religion from top to bottom and concluded that it was the most confusing, most complex and abstract system of beliefs I had ever tried to wrap my head around, but whatever was happening to me, this befuddling theology was derived from it. This was every religion known or created by man rolled up into one mystical and esoteric (which is nothing more than special knowledge reserved for a small group of people) idea. It can be found in Genesis three where the serpent speaks exactly 46 words to Eve in the Garden of Eden. Forty-six – the number of chromosomes in a human cell. DNA. Flesh. The forbidden fruit. This was that which was spoken:
“For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.” (Genesis 3:5 KJV)
I felt cursed by Satan himself. I didn’t see the good in any of this, only evil. And these New Age teachers, they all had one thing in common, contact with, what they called, an ascended master. These are believed to be spiritually enlightened beings who were once ordinary humans, but through a series of initiations, underwent a spiritual transformation. According to these teachings, Jesus was also an ascended master. Every ounce of my being rejected this idea. I knew it was a lie, but the more research I did on the topic, and the more I looked into UFO’s and alien encounters (which is where all of this seemed to be heading), the more confused I became. I knew I’d unknowingly been initiated into this thing and I needed an absolute. I needed a perfect, undeniable truth without blemish or error that contained all the answers I sought. I needed an anchor to settle my mind and my heart. Just like they taught in Buddhist Tantra, I needed a teacher to show me the way. I needed a conspiracy theorist who was also a preacher who was also well-versed in the occult. I found him while researching fallen angels and giants.
His YouTube videos centered around the freemasons, occult doctrine, and what the Bible said about it all. Not just the Bible, mind you, the King James Version. His name was Michael Hoggard, Pastor Mike, and his teachings were everything that I needed then and now. I had found my anchor, someone to save me from the mounting confusion and point me in the right direction, and with his twice weekly radio program, his Wednesday and Sunday sermons (streamed live on the Internet), I had little time to stray too far from my earthly shepherd. This thing, people, I’m telling you, it is a simulated world that turns your brain to mush. It leaves you in limbo and in need of direction, someone to take you under their wings, someone whose voice to follow. It leaves you in need of a spiritual guru who is wise enough to tell you what’s happening. People are initiated into this thing and forced into a false religion without their knowledge and without their prior approval. They become like newborn babes thrown into a world of which they know nothing. Where coincidences and synchronicities reigned supreme, Pastor Mike became like my father, my Pope, if you will, and as it turned out, he actually had a daughter named Lindsay. His introduction into my life took something that threatened to steal my soul and turned it into something good, without his even knowing. As this thing progressed, I became more and more dependent on his teachings.
The lights at the neighbor’s house continued to haunt me. The house remained dark most of the time, but as soon as I walked out into the backyard, the place would light up. Sometimes a red light shone through the small window of the otherwise dark house, sometimes that light was gold, and other times it was white. Even if I had the mental capacities to overcome this thing, the green house just beyond my wooden fence line drew me back in. Did I still think it was River living there? Yes and no. Sometimes, sometimes not. My aunt called me in a state of urgency one day to tell me about the dream she’d had the night before. There were two shacks, and between these two shacks was a baby crying in a crib. My aunt said that she saw a man with longish hair standing outside of one of the shacks as a tornado approached. She kept thinking, “Get the baby! Someone help that baby!” but the man only stood and watched. The tornado blew through and the baby was fine. My aunt awoke and shot up from bed, thinking, “Lindsay, I need to call Lindsay.” My eyes glossed over with tears after she told me the dream. I knew what it meant, and I knew who sent it, but the fowls of the air quickly tried to devour it up.
The incessant tapping at my bedroom window continued on a daily and nightly basis, and in synch with this phenomenon, everywhere I looked, woodpeckers seemed to appear out of the woodwork. If they weren’t pecking on some nearby tree, they were perched on my fence and flying back and forth through my yard. The cardinals and blue jays also joined in on the fun. While sitting in my backyard smoking a cigarette one day, a blue jay flew right past my nose and dropped something at my feet. I heard a clinking sound and looked down to find a small piece of jewelry on the ground. With two silver balls attached to a longer mid-section, I easily recognized it to be a tongue ring. I supposed this symbolized the new tongue I was being force-fed. Dinging cell phones, television advertisements, songs on the radio, casual conversations between friends and coworkers – everyone became a prophet and every meme a parable. Everything held significance, just like the bird dropping the tongue ring, everything was a sign. The blue jay symbolized prophecy. Blue, the color of water, the word, the binding ring of the tongue.
A few days later, the cardinals also left me a gift. Once again, as I sat outside smoking a cigarette, two birds flew up right next to me and dropped something at my feet. I looked down to see a heart-shaped piece of dog food. More symbolism, I thought. Like the heart-shaped box in which I found myself, the fouls of the air attempted to sow another seed in my heart, corruptible seed. And so, the craziness continued. Phantom smells materialized out of nowhere – a smoldering campfire, a strong scent of pine, sewage, urine – my sense of smell deceived me as plainly as my eyes and ears. Homeless derelicts appeared around every corner, too many to name or even waste time explaining the encounters, but they all seemed to speak in parables as my mind made connections and placed unjust significance on their babblings. Sometimes though, like separating the wheat from the tares, my encounters with strangers did seem to hold significance. While on break at work one day a black guy in an old truck stopped and asked me if I worked for the Salvation Army. “No,” I told him, “I work for the newspaper.” He stared at me for a minute and then asked, “Are you sure?” “Uh, yeah,” I answered. Smiling, he finally replied, “my mistake,” before driving away. You want salvation, find Jesus, I thought, and hurried back inside.
And then there was the incident with the ice cream man. We were coming home from church one day and turned onto our street just as the ice cream truck was leaving. A strange tune dragged through the speakers as he slowly turned off our street. In my neighborhood, the jingles usually range from the Spanish folk song “La Cucaracha,” to “It’s a Small World,” or that creepy “Hello” song, but this tune had a kind of slow and gloomy sound to it. Although I didn’t recognize it, Gwen commented from the front seat, “Wow, that’s really strange. Why is the ice cream man playing the theme song from Love Story?” Her mom laughed and replied, “That’s where I’ve heard that song! I don’t know, that is weird.” I’d never seen the film but found out later that it’s a tragic love story (go figure) about an ice hockey player who falls in love with a working-class student of classical music. The woman, of course, dies from cancer at the end of the film. Here’s the symbolism: River was the ice hockey player, the ice cream man, or the dying god to whom my brain was in synch. I was the working-class student of classical music who “dies” in the end. The next day at work, a “For Sale” sign literally landed at my feet after a strong gust of wind. Translation? It was time for me to reconnect with my dying god.
And so, the schooling continued: false prophets, signs and wonders, synchronicities, physical abnormalities, and deception from all five senses. After opening up my Bible to Proverbs 23, I found the answer to what ailed me. It was the strange woman, the one in the blue cloak, the great whore that sitteth upon many waters. She was the reason for all my afflictions:
“For a whore is a deep ditch; and a strange woman is a narrow pit. She also lieth in wait as for a prey, and increaseth the transgressors among men. Who hath woe? who hath sorrow? who hath contentions? who hath babbling? who hath wounds without cause? who hath redness of eyes?" (Proverbs 23:27-29 KJV)
The last verse fit me to a tee. Woe? Check. Sorrow? Check. Contentions, babblings, wounds without cause? Check. Check. Check. Redness of eyes? Check. My heart sank the further along I read:
“They that tarry long at the wine; they that go to seek mixed wine. Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth his colour in the cup, when it moveth itself aright. At the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder.” (Proverbs 23:30-32 KJV)
I had fallen into a pit, and although my days of tarrying long at the wine were behind me, this thing was about to move itself aright and give its color in the cup. This thing was about to bite like a serpent. The last verse sent chills up my spine but no matter what happened, even if it meant my own death, I refused to seek this thing again.
“They have stricken me, shalt thou say, and I was not sick; they have beaten me, and I felt it not: when shall I awake? I will seek it yet again.” (Proverbs 23:35 KJV)
Everything held significance as this thing gave its color in the cup. Every color of the rainbow symbolized my progression through whatever it was. Like Homeland Security’s color-coded alert system, so too, was the system of the strange woman. Her light seemed to pollute every dark corner as the visible that is hidden illuminated my surroundings. It began with the color blue. As described in the first few chapters, the color blue plagued my environment. Blue trucks, blue blankets, blue-eyed dogs, blue hats, blue shirts, blue sweat pants, blue fold out mats, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue… It is the color of water, the word, programming, rain, watering the seed, prophecy, the blue mustang.
Sometimes the color red painted my surroundings – the color of wine, blood, flesh, DNA, fire – but other times everything appeared in black and white. Every car or truck that passed by or sat in a parking lot seemed to lack color. Black: the complete absorption of visible light, burned, the color of ink on a page, the black fire. White: the composition of all wavelengths of visible light, the background, the white fire. This concept of black and white fire can actually be found in Jewish teachings. In an article published by The Dayton Jewish Observer, the author explains the meaning and the difference between the two:
“The black fire forms the figures, the letters and words, the information content. The white fire is the empty negative space, the background. Or is it? Perhaps the Torah, too, is like an optical illusion in which the figure and background can switch places. Traditionally, we look for the Bible’s message contained in the written words, the black fire. What if we look at the white fire, the negative spaces where there is no text, where words appear to be missing? What might we learn from what is not there?”
All that I’ve explained thus far, that’s what you’ll learn. It is the visible that is hidden. It is being double-minded or having a double meaning. It is the veiled vs. the unveiled, The Lion of the Tribe of Judah vs. the devouring lion, make us gods vs. make US gods. It is the beguilement of Eve by the serpent in the Garden of Eden when he asks, “yea, hath God said?”
Out of all the colors on which my brain zeroed in, turquoise inspired irrational fear and trembling in me. The changing from blue to green, like sprouts emerging from the dirt after the rain, the color of turquoise literally instigated a panic attack. My heart raced, and my breath became labored and shallow every time the color appeared on my radar. A tee-shirt, a bumper sticker, a piece of plastic in the road, whatever or wherever, my limbs shook, and my heart pounded in my chest. So, if blue represents water and the word of prophecy, and turquoise represents the transition from blue to green, what does the color green represent? Like the man with the green shoes or the green house across the street, green represents the beginning…and the end. It is the DNA of the seed, the expected fruit of whatever was planted, the foretelling of the future revealed in the beginning, “as it was in the days of Noe, so shall it be also in the days of the Son of man.” For me, the seed planted, represented by the color brown, was the woman who approached me in the parking lot and asked if I’d accepted Jesus into my heart. That is the true seed, the moment to which my mind reverts back when everything else weighs too heavy. That is the seed I nurture when the evil net closes in on me. That is the seed I water. The seed of the flesh, however, has a far stranger fruit. It is stranger than fiction, like little green men and their silvery flying saucers – this has to do with that.
The color gray (or silver) also became the center of my focal point. Silver cars, gray shirts, gray hair, whatever, this too plagued my environment. Silver is a metal with a high conductivity, and like waves of electricity penetrating the brain, it represents the transmutation of alkaline minerals in the human body such as magnesium, calcium, potassium, and iron. It represents the alchemical process of taking a base metal (the human body) and transforming it into silver or gold.
“The words of the LORD are pure words: as silver tried in a furnace of earth, purified seven times.” (Psalms 12:6 KJV)
Take that and flip it upside down. The word of god melted down in a furnace of earth, fused together, hardened and transformed into something else, into a dying god. Evolved. Where black fire meets white fire, the middle gray, middle earth, alive but dead, was and is not, and yet is. This alchemical process of the human body is exactly what I experienced that horrible night, and it also explains how these dying gods obtain immortality. Like silver idols or the aliens known as the Grays, it is the transmutation of the word, the flesh, into gold.
“A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver.” (Proverbs 25:11 KJV)
Like a pot of gold found at the end of a rainbow, the fulfillment of prophecy often ends with another victim/initiate being transformed into a golden idol. I suppose you either get gold or you become gold. Like apples of gold in pictures of silver, or an apple in a birdcage.
In a world where every color of the rainbow holds significance, the light from the strange woman was also arrayed in purple and scarlet. A color signifying royalty and riches in the Bible, Jesus was clothed with a purple robe and wearing a crown of thorns when the soldiers mocked him and saluted him as the King of the Jews. They then stripped him of his purple, put on his own clothes, and led him out to be crucified. This is where I now stand. My crown of thorns is this book, and as I cast off the strange woman (the purple) for my own clothes, a prophecy of epic proportions unfolds.
While the appearance of gold-colored cars appear around every corner these days, I am also seeing an abundance of fluorescent lime green vehicles and clothing. Like the limestone statue of the Great Sphinx, or the golden calf in which the children of Israel made to worship, lime represents the alchemical process described above. When limestone is heated down it becomes a white powder called quicklime or burnt lime. When mixed with water, it stiffens and becomes a putty-like substance called slaked lime. After reacting with carbon dioxide, it eventually hardens to form calcium carbonate (limestone) once again, which is a process known as carbonation. This is essentially the physical sensation that I experienced that horrible night. Through the process of carbonation, my body’s minerals were melted down into a gas and then dissolved in water, which is why drinking water seemed to intensify the experience. Like slaked lime reacting to carbon dioxide, my body felt as though it was being drained of all fluids and hardened into a statue. It is by the absence of clay that slaked lime is able to harden, thus, the creation of these dying gods who are like whited-sepulchers as the flesh gives way to calcination. We see an example of this alchemical process described in the Book of Exodus when the children of Israel are forced to drink their god:
“And he took the calf which they had made, and burnt it in the fire, and ground it to powder, and strawed it upon the water, and made the children of Israel drink of it.” (Exodus 32:20 KJV)
Make us gods. The worshipper becomes the idol. So, this is where the prophecy of epic proportions unfolds. What if these calcified idols were melted down? What if these evolved gods were brought down to earth? What if the final transmutation of this alchemical process signaled the beginning of the end? Fire brought down from heaven initiating a great shaking upon the earth. An invasion of these machinists, these HAARP players. The catalyst for a worldwide web. Everyone on the earth, save for a select few, dressed in lime. Everyone of one mind and of one body, melted down and fused together, connected to the machine.
“And the people shall be as the burnings of lime: as thorns cut up shall they be burned in the fire.” (Isaiah 33:12 KJV)
By the time Valentine’s Day arrived, my flesh warred against me in a way I never thought possible. Startled by a tickling, warm sensation down there, I readjusted positions in my chair at work as invisible fingers seemed to, ever so slightly, fondle me. I laughed despite myself, disturbed by the sensation but unable to stop it as an unwanted orgasm threatened to take me over. Although I knew very little of what was happening to me at the time, I knew it all led back to my own fornication. I knew that going down that road, yet again, would open that door that I so desperately wanted to close. The sensation came and went throughout the course of about a week. It kept me up at night, sick to my stomach and pouring sweat, I prayed for deliverance and attempted to rebuke this invisible sexual predator. I pleaded with God to save me from ever experiencing that violation again. From that day forward, something told me I needed to ban alcohol from my system. I didn’t know why at the time, other than the need to be of sober mind, but God had answered my prayer. Just as leaven puffeth up bread, so too, does alcohol ferment the body. Put plainly, it adds fuel to the biological fire. I never experienced the sensation again once it ran its course, but bizarre physical abnormalities continued to invade my body.
The brain-drain, although a strange and frequent occurrence, caused me mild concern. I don’t know how else to explain it except to say it felt like liquid was dripping from my brain on the inside of my head. I assumed it was sinus related but it was a sensation I’d never experienced before. This, along with the double vision that occasionally occurred in both eyes, was nothing compared to the shortness of breath I regularly suffered. It usually happened when I was in a relaxed state, either on the couch watching television, or, more often than not, in bed trying to fall asleep. Sometimes it got so bad it felt like suffocation was inevitable. When this happened, I’d just pray. Sometimes it seemed like an hour would pass before I was finally able to breathe again, but prayer always helped. Even now, from time to time, this affliction still troubles me, but only when I’ve managed to step on the devil’s toes.
My heart also experienced an unusual affliction. I wouldn’t say I experienced chest pains, but it was more like having a stick stuck in my heart, like a splinter I couldn’t remove. As I see it now, I would say that I literally had an idol in my heart. My right hand also tingled and felt somewhat numb for a good month during that time, and my heart would often flutter and skip a beat. I frequently grinded my teeth and flinched at the sound of any sort of tapping, whether it be rain hitting the glass or silverware on a plate, I recoiled from the grating sound. Despite all my physical afflictions, my mind was, perhaps, the most diseased.
It was the summer of 2016, about a year into this thing, when the order of my surroundings really began to wear thin. Everywhere I looked, cars whizzed past me with their hazard lights on, or they sat on the side of the road with those yellow blinking lights mocking me. It was hypnotism, I knew it and my mind knew it, but I couldn’t renounce it. Hypnosis is, after all, an altered state of mind marked by a level of awareness different from the ordinary state of consciousness. It is a condition involving focused attention, reduced peripheral awareness, and an enhanced capacity to respond to suggestion. Yup, that was me, but how to overcome it, I knew not. I’d been bewitched, beguiled, hypnotized by the black and white fire. Hypnotized by my own word, the visible that is hidden vs the handwriting on the wall. What had I been programmed to do, anyway, and what would be my fate? I thought about all those celebrity deaths, the suicides, the countless victims found hanged by their own hand, by their own word – how was I any different from them?
The unrolling of the scroll began with a coworker’s trunk that suddenly popped open. I kept waiting for someone to come outside but no one ever did. It seemed to happen every time I went on break, and I waited for it, watching that white car until the trunk mysteriously popped open by itself. Soon after, everywhere I looked, trunks were popping open. It was symbolism, of course. The open trunk represented the fruit of my word, my baggage, my suitcase bomb, or the junk in my trunk. It symbolized the sharp sword of my own tongue. Not surprisingly, the Denver International Airport features a sculpture of a gargoyle (literally meaning “throat” or “gullet”) sitting in an open suitcase with its tongue hanging out. The grotesque sculpture is, of course, displayed in the baggage claim area. That’s where I was at. The plane had landed, and it was time to retrieving my baggage.
Along with open trunks, I also zeroed in on the open hoods of cars and trucks. The symbolism here, so I’m led to believe, associates working on the engine to working on the brain, making adjustments, and finding the right path through a maze of suggested programming. Vehicles with only one headlight also appeared around every street corner, like being in a constant spotlight where the whole World was watching, the white light of these golden gods was relentless. And with every horse-powered chariot that brought with it some sort of message, a number code was sure to follow – 88, 66, 33 – every license plate I saw displayed one of these number patterns, but that infamous number, 666, appeared on more bumpers than I ever thought possible. Occult numerology. What did I know about it? Very little, but my new teacher, Pastor Hoggard, had released a series of videos and even wrote a book about the meaning of numbers in the King James Bible. His teachings, titled, The King James Bible Code, were exactly what I needed.
By the fall of 2016, I immersed myself in his teachings. I was reading and studying my Bible more than I ever had in my entire life. I thought that maybe, just maybe, this thing was almost over. I felt confident that my affliction was on the way out and that life would get back to normal again. I had found God, this thing didn’t get the best of me, the devil didn’t get to have my soul. I had the feeling that everything would be okay. I was closer to God than ever before and praying more than I ever had in my life, and it worked. I could feel the change, the sense of peace and calmness during the passing storm. It’s almost over, I thought, and then, my brother died.
Two days before Halloween, two days before the 23rd anniversary of River’s death at age 23, my brother died, unofficially, of a drug-related suicide. I felt like it was my fault. I speculated that because I had failed to reconnect with my spirit spouse, because I refused to give myself over to it, It took my brother instead. Right outside of his room where he died hung a picture of me as a toddler dressed in a frilly red dress. Red. The color of blood, DNA, fire. It all came racing back to me. The tarot card reading he took about a week or two ago where he was given the Death Card, his new job position as a sales rep for a funeral home, the lady in the blue cloak, his son’s letter still taped to his door that read, “I miss you already, Daddy.” I had cursed him. I had cursed my entire family with this thing. My brother’s picture glared at me from the refrigerator as I slid down the cabinets and collapsed onto the floor. About thirty minutes later, when the paramedics finally wheeled his body out to the ambulance, we were given a number to call to find out the results of the autopsy. “The medical examiner’s name is Jaren,” we were told. “He’s real good at what he does.”
The smell of lilies will always bring me back to that moment. We approached his open casket for the first time as the cold sterile smell of fresh lilies filled the thick air. Somewhere Out There played through the speakers as Gwen yelled for the funeral director to, “Turn that off! Now!” My mind also, through all the recent trauma, attempted to turn itself off. I regressed back to my old coping mechanism I developed as a child when Jaren’s abuse really took hold. This gets into a whole other realm of personal afflictions, namely, dissociative disorder, something of which I suffered a mild case. I say mild because mine was a partial case. I didn’t suffer from lost time or anything severely out of the ordinary, but I did, through the years, create characters in my mind that I switched to from time to time – they even had names. Not long before my fiery trial began, say, maybe a month or two, I had slowly begun to do away with my imaginary friends. For the first time it felt awkward and unnecessary, a crutch that had become more of a hindrance than a help. The night my brother died, I attempted to pick up where I’d left off. I needed to be someone else. I needed this to be someone else’s life. I needed to hide from the pain, if only temporarily. I’m revealing this information not because I necessarily want to (quite the contrary) but because it pertains to the story at hand. This thing has the same effect on people, being born again with a different face, a different wardrobe, a different fate, literally, reinventing yourself over and over and over again, playing a different part, becoming someone else until you lose yourself completely. It’s like molding a piece of clay, admiring the finished project, and then flattening it out again to create something new. I poured myself into that science fiction novel I wrote, all those different characters I’d created, each one with notable personality traits and quirks, I brought to life in that book, even used the same names. It was my internal world, my beloved characters, my imaginary friends, my many faces, my disorder finally exposed through each carefully crafted line. It was the visible that is hidden. It was me.
For whatever reason, most of my imaginary friends were male. I had my strong charismatic character, Michael, who I often reverted to when faced with challenging situations. I used him a lot. I had my hippie, fun-loving nature boy character, Billy, who was also an intellect. I had my lovelorn artist, Ashley, who was the silent watcher as well as the recluse with a short fuse. And, I had my sexually abused, drug-addicted tragic character, Timothy (later changed to Gabriel), who was my favorite. There were other side characters, but these were the main four. While I’m not entirely certain about this, I think my dissociative disorder helped me to switch frequencies, catch another wave, or change the channel, so to speak, during the height of my physical afflictions. The flood, the ongoing body tremors, the unwanted sexual sensation, the panic attacks – through each of these afflictions I’d draw on my natural ability to disconnect by playing another character. This, along with prayer and reading my Bible, I did often.
In the Book of Ezekiel, we are given a detailed description of the appearance of cherubims. These angels are described as having the likeness of a man, but with four faces and four wings. The creatures are the color of amber and appear like a whirlwind out of the north with burning coals of fire where lightning went forth. Perhaps this has to do with that. Four faces, like multiple-personality disorder, or the seven heads of the beast, like seven spirits, perhaps the description of these angelic beings is a picture of this Satanic system, one in which the victim is programmed with a different face, born again of corruptible seed, sculpted into something they’re not. These angels are the color of amber with four wings, like a monarch butterfly, like monarch programming, like lightning, like waves of electricity penetrating neurons in the brain.
About three months after my brother died, our beloved family dog died unexpectedly, and, within that same week, my grandmother also died. I’ve never experienced such loss in my entire life, and while those were the big blows, it was one thing after another. Job losses, illnesses, friends of friends dying, financial woes, and those were just personal things. Global and national news also seemed to be directly affected, and in some way, related to my fiery trial. The rise of mass shootings and terrorist attacks became everyday news stories. The November 2015 Paris attacks, the 2016 Easter attack in Pakistan, the Orlando shooting, the Vegas shooting, the church shooting here in Texas, the Stoneman Douglas High School shooting in Florida, the Tree of Life shooting in Pittsburgh, the Santa Fe High School shooting here in Texas, the Capital Gazette shooting in Maryland, the Thousand Oaks shooting in California, and the list goes on and on. Whatever was happening, it was bigger than me. Much bigger.
The number of hard-hitting celebrity deaths also racked up points: Scott Weiland, David Bowie, Prince, Carrie Fisher and then her mom, Debbie Reynolds, a day later, George Michael, Tom Petty, Chris Cornell from suicide by hanging… not him too, I thought. Although still in mourning for my own brother, this one hurt. Another one of my 90’s grunge heroes gone before his time – suicides and drug overdoses – but I knew the reasons why. My brother, on the other hand, did not commit suicide. His was an accidental death. He did, however, overdose on pills a couple of months before and was raced to the hospital where he was put in a drug-induced coma for about three days. When he awoke, one of the first things he said, blurting it out to the nurses and anyone who would listen, “I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and that he died on the cross for my sins.” Everyone in the room was taken aback. One of the last conversations I had with him, not long after his release from the hospital, he said he felt different and at peace somehow. “I don’t even feel the need to carry my gun with me anymore,” he said. “All that hate I had, it’s just not there anymore.” I told him that God had put him in a coma so that He could do some work on his heart. We both laughed a little and agreed that I actually might be onto something. Kirk died from complications of that overdose, aspiration pneumonia from being unconscious before he was taken to the hospital. The cause of his death was pulmonary embolism, a blood clot in his lungs that went unnoticed after the incident. The letter from his son, written before he died during their last visit, was mistaken for a suicide letter, and the empty bottle of Xanax on his dresser had been there for a while. The amount of prescription drugs in his system at the time of death were far below a fatal dose. The truth of the situation, although still painful, eased the blow of the absolute worst night of my life. Why the medical examiner’s name had to be Jaren, I guess I’ll never know.
It felt like I had confronted the devil face to face, and while things did seem to die down a little, it was always in the back of my mind. Even now, it’s the same scenario. It slithers away for a bit, no homeless derelicts, no phantom trains, no honking horns, no open trunks, no color coding, no taps at the window, no synchronicities, but then I think, they’re just messing with me. They’ll be back. And they were…or are. The physical abnormalities also came back. The tip of my middle finger (of all fingers) swelled up to the size of a fat grape for no apparent reason. My right eye swelled up to the point of blindness for no apparent reason, and not long after, it developed an extremely painful case of pink eye. Most peculiar though was my reoccurring kaleidoscopic vision. The seven colors of the rainbow twirled around in my eyesight like some psychedelic flashback from years prior. It happened a handful of times, always catching me by surprise and lasting for about fifteen minutes or so until my vision finally corrected itself. Indeed, my vision came into focus after the drug wore off and the future began to unfold.
Preceding events, reoccurring dreams, and early works of art suddenly began to make sense as everything came together forming a bigger picture, or a perfect circle of life. Fate was suddenly brought to light as the events of my life revealed their true intention. The handwriting on the wall was deciphered and destiny appeared through the dissipating fog of the crystal ball. Like stepping through a portal and going back to the beginning, or back to the future (you might say), the impossible suddenly seemed possible, and it all led back to my science fiction novel. Genetic manipulation, time travel, death and resurrection – my life was imitating my art. If that truly was the case, and if my word was truly being used against me, and if I was to fall upon the sword of my own tongue, then River Phoenix would also be returning from the dead.
The Apple and the birdcage 