INTRODUCTION (this page)

When we seek the purely natural way and find it, the heavens part therein.  Nature is the great medium through which the divine courses.  It is the source and destination of all. The divine is that other reality that we should be living, but, which is inevitably out of our grasp, requiring such radical adjustments of our perceptions as to make it almost impossible to access. Our great hope for the new age upon us is that we will be facilitated in this effort.  My path took me to pure nourishment:  living, organic, vegan food in proper combinations, purification of the body by cleansing with clay, herbs, certain fruits and other substances,  de-emphasizing the synthetic, a dedication to yoga, breathwork, and emotional integration.  This will allow a cerain cosmic, or, devine light to come coursing through the body.  It is a miraculous energy that is bound to get one into trouble should the use of it be distorted by the ego and the thinking mind.

The following journal entries are a means of warming up to the meat of the subject, which in a very small nut shell can be described as my personal journey into a new era of humanity, something called the aquarian age.  The reader may not be familiar with astrology, that poo-pooed science that the ancient egyptians introduced to the world, and, which now has been bastardized by the quick tip, love connection hype of useless newspaper columns and internet sites.  If you haven’t been privy to the immense usefulness and acurracy of true astrology, then you will not know that for the last 1000 years we have been in the piscean age, the age in which Christianity has been the dominant influence in the world.  Does that ring a bell?  We are now transitioning to the aquarian age, a transition which is most prominently referred to by indigenous cultures such as the Mayans as the “end of time”.  The aquarian age will be characterized by humanitarianism, brotherly love and technological advancement.  Why is this important?   It signifies that humanity is about to be confronted with a major transition.  The veil cast over our time obsessed existense in this world is about to be lifted.  We must search out our own individual histories for the truth of what is happening. The point approaches in which we survive and live in the full blossom of the universe, or, we continue in even greater calamity.  I can describe this as beingl on the cusp of non-manipulative science, another way of saying that it has been scientifically verified, and, officially suppressed.

DAY ONE

once something more.  here in the doctor’s house where mrs. coglin comes to share the night vision.  it was their house once. one sees from the window as they did:  a clear reflection of calm water like blue glass, sky boats, earthen tree sentinals tumbling over and riotously frozen in barren cold meditation, icy forests, hills asunder with the winter chill.  the village sleeps.  last century’s waterwheels rumble a quiet echo in the clapboard victorians frilled, pillared, fillagreed, window candled, pine framed, and bird watched.  granite street curbs glint in the emphemeral sun.  jenny lind lived here, corporal such and such over there, the wheelers, the endless O’s and Mc’s.  time was a church bell and the rumbling water wheel echoes as so many hands shaped shovels to use earth and continent for railroads.  the village of north easton, massachusetts.

during the time before, energies gathered me into the land of eagles, where lived the sacred peak, along with the eternal snows and the rugged pine.  monastery bells,  gardens dancing mingled with the mountain country’s interminable train whistle.  i, tripping into a relentless purity of sorts, moved with haste toward the strange land of cosmic suggestion, meeting herb gatherers and former druids, garden chanting as a witness to five planets aligning while the earth entered emotional time. what had once been physical time lasting for millions of years, homo sapiens, neandrathols, then becoming mental time with the industrial revolution and much shorter, now was emotional time, very short. vibrational time is on the horizon. now is the seventh day of the cosmic week, the apex of magnetic weakness for gaia.  the ancients know it as the end of time. thirty six billion years over.

Why would we come back:  to learn, to end the ways of time, to grope in darkness and miscalculation.  Driving a long day into the mountains since the former cocacola salesman had agreed to have me there, to assist an herbalist who cleansed people with clay.  Was I sick?  I suppose.  The natural world was my wan and I would wave it, which was contrary to the substance of my home town, a rich man’s enclave in southern California. So I lost paradise, or, that kind one buy’s, or, thrists after and chases, but, never achieves without the monetary stimulus, or, some unusual sustance to imitate vitality.

I left off the chase and sufferance of beauty according to my taurean karma, and, with the first hint of the monk hanging about me, with the wood splitter’s demeanor in the breath of pine, put my ear to the tinsel of chanting symbols and shave headed women telling stories.  When enyouthed I had ignored like so many others the mountains as they fell into the sea though they told me all I needed. While grid lost, the eternal mother sat in silence and the turquoise ocean danced eternally with necklaces of seaweed.  As the ego goes so went I with the rest of the species to continue destroying our own habitat.

DAY TWO

I sit in a room on Thorndike street with four grey haired men playing music.  One bird makes a sound with a crunch of snow underfoot. Dogs. The tap of winter rain.  So it has been many times.  

Back then, yesterday, around the time of the grand alignment, I met the woman of the blue house, and the others. Spring in the Siskyou’s. The ignorant are supposed to gain wisdom from the journey.  I had gone too far by entering the TV energy field.  Do you remeber that a picture on a tube is just light?  One can concentrate and turn the light back the other way, making live TV a two-way medium.  What is there after that? time to leave.

The sea town had been a green dream of confusion, illusion, mannerism, improper etiquette, purely youthful emotion, and the textures of the sprouting plant in its first season of sunshine.  Such a long one.  Ended by the death of the father.  I drove past my memory of grandparents, into the icy climes and interminable peaks, enrolling at the blue house for a spirital education.  I had several years earlier refused to eat anything but organic vegan.  That was the first step.  If you want change, try it.  It is the physical entrance into the present moment, but, make sure your mind soon follows, for if not, the ride will be rough.

Then:  pink bubbles, the vehicles of orbs.  The Tazmanian women talk of them after walking on the mountain.  Icy day and view of a hundred Californias in white peaks that string out from Oregon to Redding.

Now: the woman talks of sending them astrally around the planet to inform the downtrodden of ways to alleviate their circumstances.  They enter the conciousness in sleep and become a dream of salvation, holding the symbolic instructions.

Now:  I paint a little and dream of fleshy comforts.  The cafe boulevard doesn’t do the trick.  I drift in unkown circles and fret of my shiftlessness, a physical escape from the prison of money and time.

We walk, her and I, my friend the golden blossom, who exited me from the red rocks, now taking me to the cliffs of inner presense.  My sagitarian teacher who carries the lashing whip of conciousness.  The forest rings out with dormant life, snow and the bird, our only saviour.  Its easy here in north easton, if you can afford it.  Lots of gingerbread houses, reborn by the 20th century.  The waterwheels and the workers both silent, their legacy everywhere.  The irish. stone, dead leaves and the grand estate where one can still tresspass in 18 century grandeur.

Then:  did I cure my sickness, by ingesting clay and herbs, no, but I set the stage.  Ten years more passed before discovering the missing link in in the food aspect.  Now I know.  Just recently, driving from Seattle to the southern coastal town, I saw her again, Maryland, the mistress of the blue house.  Her line of paramours had started with the ex-cookie magnate turned Shasta beat poet, then went to the ex-wholistic doctor buddhist, and now the creator of the exploratorium, who has built the center of vibration at the foot of the mountain, elevating every concievable common object to its percussive potential.  I witnessed a personal concert there beneath the sacred snowy peak.  I wanted to stay but driven onto Mexico to fix a mouth of bad teeth.  So lost for the moment. And now, this sojourn in North Easton, my karmic depot.  A touch of the old city in trains, dance halls, celtic crosses.