Jaye Latest

"Virtually everything in the McHajj story comes from a series of prolonged nightmares I have had with little mediation from my conscious mind. Life long exposure to advertising has caused me severe emotional trauma that has yet to be healed, very similar to what child abuse or growing up in an alcoholic family has done to so many others. The transcriptions of my nightmares that has resulted in the McHajj story remains, to this day, the only way I know how to alleviate the pain of what I have had to endure living in a capital intensive environment."

LNN Lone Nutter News: Mid-Summer Edition

Jaye Beldo

www.lonenutternews.blogspot.com

In This Issue:

Hot Summer/Pipe Line Wars/ A Stab in the Light/Bird Bloopers

Green Man/Earth Angel by Tom Cheetham

Word Origins Interview w/ Professor Anatoly Liberman by Jaye Beldo

*****

Greetings Friends,

The blaze of summer persists, even in the northern climes I'm currently occupying-the heat coming not from a relentless sun and ozone-less skies above, but rather the ever escalating profits oil companies are making while they continue to gut the earth unchecked. Such entropic gluttony shows no signs of fading away-rather, it is celebrated in the carnage of the ongoing pipe line wars masquerading as democratic jihads on 'terrorism'. Fortunately, there has been a much needed, cooling refuge in many of the books I've encountered recently such as Word Origins by Anatoly Liberman, who I recently interviewed for Pulse of the Twin Cities, Green Man/Earth Angel by Tom Cheetham and Love's Alchemy by David and Sabrineh Fideler (my review of their excellent translations of Persian poetry will appear in the Fall edition of Rain Taxi Review of Books). Delving into the heart of Islamic philosophy free of Wahhabi and other forms of menacing fanaticism through such works as The Sufi Path of Knowledge: Ibn al-Arabi's Metaphysics of Imagination by William C. Chittick has also proved to be a welcome respite from all the madness originating these days in the Middle East, although a recent encounter with The Approach of Armageddon? An Islamic Perspective by Shaykh Muhammad Hisham Kabbani was rather sobering in an end-time kind of way. Check out what he has to say about the esoteric significance of the coccyx from a Koranic perspective. Phew! This stuff can only be assimilated in minute doses unless you want to fry your Sufic neuro-circuits. Chanting La Illaha Ill Allah thousands of times throughout the day certainly helps prepare one for the intensity of this book. (available from: www.islamicsupremecouncil.org )

A Stab in the Light, my New Age murder mystery/thinly veiled MK autobiography seems to have stirred up the pot as well, even in the beginning phases of my attempts to market the thing in a roll-your-own publicity kind of way. One reader in South Africa sent me a series of dreams that she had while reading the novel, which is intriguing because I encoded many similar kinds of dreams that I was having into A Stab in the Light, dreams I suspect originated from the astral manipulations of negative occult sources, specifically from a debile, fugitive Chaos magician, a Golden Dawn Flunky who should really be acting his bald headed age these days instead of his sperm count considering how impotent his 'magick' really is. She seems to have immediately picked up on the real intent behind my writing of the novel in the first place: to expose the invisible forces at work in New Age ascencionist/Mind Control cults and elsewhere. Another reader claims to have experienced this 'blue electricity' shocking up through her arms when she picked it up for the first time and detected an entity that tried to prevent her from reading it, primarily by infecting her sinuses for about a week. My intuitive guess is that it was indeed an entity associated with the dark forces currently controlling the New Age and which also I tried to expose in the novel through various graphic and entertaining depictions. Another reader gave a copy of Stab to a young fashion model he was (is?) pursuing in hopes that it would prevent her from becoming a lesbian (I'm rather hard on feminist misandrists in the novel, putting it mildly). I haven't heard back from him on the results yet but I am certainly rooting for him as it would be a shame to see such a stunning beauty heading south wards in the sexuality department, at least if you were a guy.

Apparently, I've been deemed a 'Conspiracy Geek' in the August 2006 issue of Paranoia now on the stands, along with others like a crucified Adam Gorightly, Frank Berube, Mark Owen and Andy Lloyd sporting a truly geek looking hooded jacket. I suppose being a Conspiracy Geek is actually an honor considering the company I'm in, but I'm going to be careful of bragging about such a thing for now. This to Kenn Thomas (who also is included in the Geek article): Is that your Cialis saturated banana in the photo? I hope not....for the Civet Cat's sake.

And speaking of animals, please read the article on Animals, The Oversoul and Predicting Castrophes (sp?) in the same issue of Paranoia. It will remind you of just how intelligent critters are when it comes to picking up on disaster vibes and what we humans still need to learn from them at this late phase in the game. I'd like to see more of these kinds of articles in Paranoia, in hopes to reduce the level of fear pervading our world.

And now for a humourous, flighty and light hearted coda to this LNN intro: I recently joined a birders e-list as I've taken great interest in the profusion of avian life where I live-everything from Pheasant families to Ospreys marauding the waves of a nearby kettle lake. People started posting their 'bloopers', i.e. mis-sightings of birds-mistaking everything from plastic bags and snow covered garbage cans for actual birds. After reading about twenty of these bloopers, I grew restless and I posted the following to the list: Nothing can top Dick Cheney mistaking a lawyer for a quail. I actually received some encouraging replies from list members, reminding me that not everyone is a brain dead republican in the state where I live :)!

All the Best,

Jaye Beldo Lone Nutter News www.lonenutternews.blogspot.com

www.stabinthelight.com

Green Man, Earth Angel By Tom Cheetham

It seems to be a rather taboo topic these days to critically scrutinize the works of Carl Jung and their overall shortcomings, especially in regards to his so called 'empirical' approach to the unconscious and what appears, in retrospect, to be an intentional muddying of the dichotomies between soul and spirit. A suspiciously gushing homage such as the kind James Hillman offers in Thoughts of the Heart , a title he pilfered from the Sufis, also has done nothing for the furtherance of critical inquiry considering how he underhandedly attempts to get the reader to equate the French Islamic scholar Henry Corbin with Jung and Freud as somehow being on the same level of spiritual evolvement and sophistication. Considering how Jungian psychologists such as Hillman have virtually colonized the archetypes themselves, clients/patients are prevented from truly individuating on their own and developing any lasting autonomy free of a therapist. Fortunately, in Green Man, Earth Angel the author establishes Corbin as something other than a mere curio of Orientalism as most Jungians still regard him as, rather more as a profoundly important, original and independently viable scholar who has kept Islamic philosophy and archetypal psychology as well, at least in its originally unadulterated form, intact. Cheetham deftly clarifies Corbin's take on angelogy, theophany and other neglected or misunderstood topics in a way that will further one's appreciation of Islamic and Christian mysticism as feasible venues for spiritual and psychological development. The author helps to elucidate some of the more subtle points in Corbin's oeuvre in regards to what is called the 'black light' , a kind of radiant darkness that differs from the darkness of unconsciousness considering that it is a source of illumination, a realm in which one can meditate upon and gain entry into, if they are sufficiently prepared for the experience. Cheetham emphasizes that this light can fully connect us with the consciousness of the universe, a realm which exists in all of us and which has been perhaps deliberately neglected by Jungians and others who want to posit that this realm as something unknown, impossible for westerners to fully understand (which is a perfect prelude to the above mentioned colonization and dogmatic control of the archetypes) since spirit and soul are so hopelessly intertwined and dimmed in this realm. As stated in the excellent forward by Robert Sardello, the black light is something actually transcendent and yet palpable. It is time that occidentals integrate this light and orient themselves away beyond from the limiting definitions found in Jungian psychology and the apocalyptic assumptions found in many western philosophies and religions. Green Man, Earth Angel is highly recommend for anyone who is unfamiliar with not only Corbin's vast corpus but the subtleties of Christian mysticism and the importance of counterbalancing the fundamentalist drive towards endgame annihilation in both its Christian and Islamic forms.

Available from: www.sunypress.edu

Also highly recommended:

The World Turned Inside Out: Henry Corbin and Islamic Mysticism by Tom Cheetham

***** Henceforth, being googled is bootylicious—just ask Professor Anatoly

by Jaye Beldo

Anatoly Liberman, an internationally acclaimed linguistics professor at the University of Minnesota recently had his book “Word Origins... and How We Know Them” published by Oxford University Press as a kind of respite from a more extensive project, a multivolume etymological dictionary of English, which he has been patiently compiling over the last 20 years. “Word Origins” is chock full of intriguing, accessible insights into how our language has evolved, mutated and otherwise morphed over thousands of years. Recently Pulse interviewed the professor on the current status of language in the electronic age.

Pulse: What do you think will happen to language with the invention of the internet—specifically Google, text and instant messaging?

Anatoly: I don’t think language will undergo any radical changes. New words dealing with search processes have appeared and will keep appearing, but people will go on speaking as they have always done. Changes have occurred in some of our habits rather than in language. For example, most young people use only the online versions of great dictionaries, such as the OED and Webster, but thanks to the introduction of Google even such reference tools are no longer necessary: One can type in a word, add DEFINITION, and find out what the word means. The introduction of e-mail has changed somewhat the reliability of the latest written documents for linguists. Private letters tell us something about the latest trends in the informal ways of expression, but most people do not reread what they send their correspondents by e-mail and make countless mistakes that reflect only their careless writing. The unusual forms one encounters in e-mails are thus of little value for a linguist—They are mere typos. On the other hand, computers are equipped with spell checkers, so that the glaring illiteracy of many people is no longer so obvious.

Pulse: I’ve read reports from English teachers saying that their students are handing in essays that are written in chat room shorthand, i.e., C U L8R for See you later, and other forms of abbreviation used in text messaging. Isn’t this a form of mutation that could have dangerous consequences in the future?

Anatoly: Yes, I have seen such sentences too. The sign @ is especially popular (“See you @ dinner,” “We have a beautiful black c@,” and the like). But first of all, this playful nonsense affects only written English: AT and CAT are still pronounced as they have always been! Second, this type of writing seems to be confined to young adolescents who would like to sound funny but cannot think of a good joke. People grow out of such habits as they grow out of adolescent slang, which may sound “cool” @ 12 or even @ 15, but hardly later. Language is a garden. Nature and nurture exercise their influence on it. It grows “wildly,” but the gardener removes the weeds.

What forms should be classified with language weeds and who deserves the title of a gardener is a matter of opinion. Language users fight editors and teachers with great success, but maturity brings the realization of the fact that culture is worth acquiring and that jokes should not be silly. So I would not lose a minute of sleep over the sentences you cite, though I would not accept an essay written in this type of shorthand. Why should I consume wild oats even if others get no indigestion from them?

Pulse: Does it concern you that “google” has made it into the OED [Oxford English Dictionary]? Also “bootylicious,” a word with an etymology not very hard to trace considering it originates from a Hollywood singer that goes by the name of Beyonce.

Anatoly: Not really. This is a perennial problem. Lexicographers always fill dictionaries with obstructive rubbish. For nearly two centuries reviewers have been saying that words occurring only once in a work of some author, coinages whose sole aim is to make people laugh, hopelessly antiquated words, and so forth should not clutter dictionaries. Vulgar words had been avoided as a matter of course until our enlightened age made it clear that if the whole world knows a certain verb beginning with an f, it is silly for dictionary makers to ignore it. I think everything depends on the prospective user. The OED tries to be all-inclusive. Naturally, thousands of words stay out even of this mammoth reference work (countless technical terms and regional words, tons of slang, and the like), but, on the whole, it is a faithful transcript of the history of English vocabulary. Words universally known today may be forgotten in a few decades (one example is the names of the medications that are no longer used). I can well imagine that a new search machine will make the word google as antiquated as castor oil that was used in my childhood to cure indigestion. Future English-speakers will ask one another what is google, and no one will remember, because collective memory is amazingly short. My students do not understand the slang of the ’70s, and their parents do not understand contemporary slang. Anyone who reads “Oliver Twist” is puzzled by the thieves’ language that must have been clear to the Londoners of Dickens’ days. It may be a pity to feature bootylicious words that should not have been born. At one time BRUNCH aroused the wrath of highbrows—you may read about it in my book—but since they are there anyway, let them be recorded. ||

*****

Jaye Beldo writes for Paranoia Magazine, Pulse of the Twin Cities and has appeared on dozens of radio stations around the world such as BBC London, WGN Chicago and the Howard Stern Show. He can be reached at: Lonenutter@Aol.Com To order A Stab in the Light, go to: www.stabinthelightlcom

Lone Nutter News LNN Memorial Day Edition by

Jaye Beldo

Lonenutter@aol.com

In This Issue:

X-Zone: An Intuitive Perspective

The Anatomy of Evil in Our Time by Adam Michaelis

Political Ponerology by Andrew M. Lobaczewski

The Passion Code

Greetings LNN Reader,

While taking a morning jaunt on my bike to kick off the Memorial Day weekend, I could see all of the Iraq war dead floating around in the ethers above America, looking for some honorable means of discharge into higher,war free worlds, only to bounce off the oily cover of chem trails and HAARP generated scalar waves which deliberately prevented their escape. My spiritual guides revealed to me that General Hayden, with his oddly impish grin, plans to use some form of Golem technology now being concocted by his occult buddies at the Pentagon to insert these forlorn souls into the blow molded bodies of young and upcoming soldier mutants who will be promptly shipped off to the Middle East for deployment. Perhaps this is the real reason Hayden is now the director of the CIA since only he knows how to read the encrypted Yiddish incantations required to animate the soldiers into action once they hit the front lines. All of this may be old Yarmulke to some of you, but I do suggest opening your third eyes to take in the gruesome splendor of this hostage crises now playing in an astral plane near you.

And for those of you who just want to escape from family barbeques and garage sales this weekend, I offer you the latest edition of Lone Nutter News to while away your holiday with.

All the Best,

Jaye Beldo

*****

X-Zone: An Intuitive Perspective by

Jaye Beldo

On May 16th I appeared on Rob McConnell's X-Zone broadcast, an internationally syndicated affair that pervades the air waves in Canada, the Caribbean, South America , the U.S. and elsewhere. Since this was my first time doing a late night radio stint, I didn't quite know what to expect, so in order to counteract any possible weirdness, I drew the Eagle out of the Medicine Card deck and concentrated its Sagittarian energies into the broadcast medium during the hour or so that I was on the program.

As I infused the raptor's energy throughout the broadcast ether, the topics discussed ranged from how I dealt with Howard Stern's vampires while on the air with him, my novel A Stab in the Light recently published by Red Pill Press, and how I overcame alcoholism through psychic/intuitive development. All throughout, I found myself having to deal with the host's mechanical delivering of questions and subsequent interruptions which occurred just as I was about to make a point, or get to the crux of an argument. I've experienced this with other talk show hosts in the past and it appears to be an unconscious reaction mechanism to discourage any significant dialogue that can evolve and broaden a listener's perspective on things in a substantial way. What really threw me for a strange loop was when Rob cut me off as I was narrating a story about a trip to Northern India I had taken and where I met this so called spiritual aspirant who announced to the group that he was enlightened and wanted to go to Calcutta where 'they burn egos in big black pits'. Rob warned me to 'watch my language' and that the X-Zone was a 'family oriented program' thus derailing my synapses, preventing me from relaying to the audience the punch line to the Calcutta bound traveler which was: "Do you think you'll be able to find a pit big enough for your ego?" I found myself fast forwarding to when the guy offered to employ me as a writer for his lucrative phone sex business a few years later. Perhaps we should have talked more about the pictures of depleted uranium deformed babies that Rob has splashed all over his website-a form of overtly sadistic pornography IMHO. I guess that would have been more family friendly especially during that hour of the night when most kids are sleeping-at least in the western hemisphere. Many listeners have e-mailed me with comments on this bizarre interruption which really made no sense whatsoever on the level of rationality anyway. Perhaps he thought I said a forbidden word that rhymes with 'pit' although the seven second delay mechanism radio stations use would have bleeped that out. Very strange indeed.

Even stranger, was the intense psychic fallout afterwards, which most likely came from astral goons policing the psychic parabolic dish created by the focused attention of the listeners. It felt like I had been subjected to some sophisticated form of mind control even more sinister than the kind usually found in Clear Channel venues, which targets anyone who threatens to pull listeners out of the kind of dreadful, suspended animation which renders them passive and paranoid while listening to programs such as X-Zone. Now that I've got a better bead on this kind of occult manipulation, I think I'll be able to hold my ground more sufficiently in the future when doing gigs like this. This also applies to listeners of these programs as well-so make sure to pay attention to the manipulations of your subtle body so you can prevent yourself from falling into the collective mindset of morbid fascination, bewilderment when listening to twilight radio shows. If not that, then draw a card out of the medicine deck like the Coyote or Owl or perhaps even the Lynx , beam its energies into the matrix of the broadcast and see what happens.

*****

The Anatomy of Evil in Our Time

Adam Michaelis

It is rare to come across a book which describes the manipulations of the subtle body in a soundly objective way. Yet, in The Anatomy of Evil in Our Time we are offered much useful information in regards to how our aura and chakras can be distorted to cause us to become more susceptible to the whims of whoever/ whatever desires to control us. Remaining ignorant of these underhanded methods causes us to surrender our abilities to think/feel independently as well as to sacrifice our very 'I-nes' to evil. The author, a survivor of a corrupt Tibetan Buddhist cult shows how he aligned himself with the esoteric Christ (via Rudolf Steiner´s Anthroposophy) and managed to heal and break free from a fraudulent guru´s control of his energy body and mind as well. He demonstrates throughout how he did this, primarily by paying close attention to his emotions and warnings from his unconscious mind through a series of quite vivid dreams. More importantly, he writes about himself in the third person which further enables us (and Adam) to view what happened with some degree of disengagement, truly a necessary prerequisite if one wants to liberate themselves from subtle entanglements that are difficult to discern, let alone express.

While I found his exposé to be quite enlightening in regards to the many ways that evil can infiltrate our lives undetected, at times Michealis tends to posit this dichotomy between eastern and western religions, equating the former with evil throughout. Adam does emphasize the differences between various lineages such as Mahayana, Vajrayana, et. al., but perhaps should have stressed that, overall, it was Buddhism as brought to the west through such vectors as Theosophy that contributed to its inevitable corruption and cooptation by dark forces in this reviewer´s opinion. I make this point only because I spent time with Tibetan Buddhists in Northern India and they did not come across as being evil or manipulative at all. In fact they were some of the happiest people I’ve ever met-at least in some of the more remote monasteries I visited in Ladahk and Zanskar. Perhaps, this may have been an exception considering Tibetan Buddhism’s involvement with magic (having evolved out of the Bon-Po religion), fallen Lamas such as Chogyam Rinpoche and the Dalai Lama´s current posing as the Buddhist pope.

At times I thought the author dwelled for too long and in too great of detail on the manipulations of his own subtle body by the cult leader, keeping in mind that this kind of prolonged fixation could be yet another Luciferic/Ahrimanic trapping, i.e., to entice someone to perpetually figure out what is going on and further deplete them of energy since no real resolution can ever be made except at the level of the heart and not the intellect. Yet, I found the author’s insights to be quite refreshing, profound and inspiring as well. Not many people have the gifts that Adam Michaelis possesses in terms of overall awareness of invisible influences and an ability to objectify/analyze them as well as to effectively articulate them. There are many genuinely insightful observations that make this a highly valuable book to read and thoroughly study. In fact, I would call it an essential spiritual survival manual for our times.

Michaelis ends The Anatomy of Evil in Our Time on a strong note with an impressive argument on par with the theologian Paul Tillich, defending the Christian virtues of faith, hope and charity as the best things that we can ally ourselves with, contrasting this with the overall negation of life (and soul) found in Buddhist philosophy. Frankly, I was expecting some kind of pessimistic finale but found myself quite moved by his line of reasoning, indicating the validity and substance of a deep connection to the esoteric Christ and how aligning with this force is perhaps one of the best ways to overcome the encroachments of Lucifer/Ahriman, Sorath and other forms of evil in our time. For anyone interested in how cult control is maintained on the level of the subtle body, whether it be through Tibetan Buddhism, Scientology or the latest doomsday cult, I would most recommend The Anatomy of Evil in Our Time. Reading this work will bring forth latent powers of perception within you that you will most benefit from for a long time to come in a protective and liberating kind of way.

check out Adam's website at: http://www.sitecenter.dk/adam-michaelis/looks/sitemap.nhtml

Political Ponerology: A science on the nature of evil adjusted for political purposes

Andrew M. Lobaczewski

What is ponerology? According to some definitions, it means the study of evil, as it is related to the Greek word poneros or 'one whose mind tends towards evil'. The author, a clinical psychologist who endured years of living in communist Poland makes sure to emphasize throughout Political Ponerology that it is a scientific and not a theological approach to evil that he is developing. He certainly had many opportunities to do his field work in this area, having suffered amidst what he calls 'pathocrats', i.e., those who instinctually subscribe to delusional thinking and occupy positions of prominence in governmental, corporate as well as military theaters. The author himself was subjected to having been arrested and interrogated several times throughout his career and even managed to question the secret police themselves, who admitted that they suffered some form of mental debility which enabled them to follow orders without questioning them. In one incident, Lobaczewski had to burn the only existing draft of Political Ponerology just prior to the secret police busting into his laboratory in search of subversive and potentially incendiary works. Many years later, a revised edition of his book was suppressed by the likes of Zbigniew Brezenski during the b-movie pathocrat Ronald Reagan's presidency.

The author throughout Political Ponerology emphasizes that this pioneering science can be effectively used to perceive evil without succumbing to its powers, even to trace its very etiology. As I read this unusually original work, I kept getting the feeling that evil could actually be perceived on the biological level. I even strongly suspect that there are actual ponerological viruses that would take something like a Royal Rife microscope to recognize, viruses that perhaps emerge through some kind of sub quantum back door and then take over the cellular body of the host undetected. These viruses could very well cause the lesions in the frontal areas of the cerebral cortexes in the brains of such pathocrats as Stalin and Hitler, lesions which enabled these tyrants to kill millions of people with nary a pang of conscience. Whether I was tapping into some vital imaginal realm or not, I found reading Political Ponerology to be most inspiring in terms of developing a protective perspective in regards to the dynamics of evil. While some passages in Political Ponerology are initially hard to grasp, primarily because of their abstract nature, Lobaczewski does provide some tangible examples from his life under communist rule to back up his innovative and heretical ideas. As an example, a pathocrat was introduced as a 'faculty' member in the school that he was attending, one who inevitably infected a considerable percentage of the student body with his rabid ideology. Fortunately, the author charted out the various stages of this mass infection with the critical and objective thinking of a scientist, employing a kind of point of view that enabled him to soundly resist ponreological indoctrination and keep his sanity and humaneness intact. Developing such acumen to perceive the various stages of evil's infiltration and takeover of a host is crucial to our mental health and the author offers us ways in which this can be done with our current pathological leaders such as George W. Bush, Dick Cheney and Alberto Gonzales to name a few. When Political Ponerology is approached with a willingness to further understand evil and a desire to increase ones ability to ward it off, it will become quickly self evident just how important and vanguard this work really is. The science that the author so effectively describes demands to be incorporated into university curriculums (esp. in business, psychology and political science departments ) since it encourages heightening ones perceptions of how evil cloaks its presence, perhaps virally and spreads en masse. Political Ponerology is profoundly inspiring in regards to deepening our understanding the dynamics of evil and how it infects not only our leaders, but the billions of 'true believers' unconsciously following orders as well.

Available from: www.redpillpress.com

Also check out the Signs of the Times blog: http://www.cassiopaea.org/cass/political_ponerology_lobaczewski.htm

The Passion Code: Second Coming to a Theater Near You by

Jaye Beldo

The other night I dreamed that Mel Gibson and Ron Howard aka Opie collaborated on a summer blockbuster called The Passion Code to be released on June 6th, 2006. In it, a crucified bachelor Jesus takes on a Married-with-Children Jesus clone in a 120 minute battle royal on par with the kind of knock down, drag out fights usually found in Godzilla vs. Mothra movies. The crucified Jesus's cross, fastened to a kind of armored vehicle with tank treads and jet wings on it was remote controlled by his disciples who attempted to shoot Mr. and Mrs. Christ and their holy yard apes who attempted to flee to Southern France and establish the Merovingian dynasty. The family man Christ countered the attacks of the crucified one by Kung Fu-ing his obviously immortal enemy into submission somewhere near the friendly confines of Rennes le Chateau. An abundance of Hollywood formula was thrown into the mix: a topless Mary Magdalene drove her hubby all the way to Vatican square in a blood red Hummer convertible, but not before a few sultry back seat sex scenes along the way (Jesus demonstrated to her all the Kama Sutra tricks he learned while sojourning through India during his 'missing years'). All the while, single/dead /risen Jesus teleported above them, venting his sexual frustration doing barrel rolls and other aerial tricks on his cross that would have made air show pilots envious. In a rather grueling second act, Christ Dad leaves his kids with Mary, goes to Mecca and translates the entire Koran into Aramaic in one fell swoop and sends it back into the B.C.E. past and directly into the brittle subtext of the Dead Sea scrolls where it would later be….well….decoded by some Hollywood bound author. Prior to waking up, I did get a glimpse of the film's coda: The winner of this action packed, messianic mêlée would be dressed up like Osama bin Laden, get a seat on the Supreme Court of Israel and would then invite the Bush family to his 'last supper', no doubt to be shown in full in the inevitable sequel to The Passion Code.

Stay tuned for further dream developments.

***** Jaye Beldo writes for Paranoia Magazine, Magical Blend and Pulse of the Twin Cities. He has appeared on BBC and Capitol Radio London, WGN Chicago and The Howard Stern show. He is the author of the New Age Murder mystery A Stab in the Light available at: www.redpillpress.com and can be reached at Lonenutter@aol.com or www.lonenutternews.blogspot.com

Lone Nutter News LNN Spring Equinox Edition

Jaye Beldo Lonenutter@aol.com

In This Issue:

2012: The Return of Quetzacoatl by Daniel Pinchbeck

Secrets of the Holy Lance by Jerry E. Smith and George Piccard

***** Greetings Readers,

Here's the spring time edition of LNN, resonant with the energies of Aries, a much welcome fire sign indeed after such a maudlin and watery travail through maternally lamenting Pisces. And with the arrival of spring, perhaps some actual hope will appear on a horizon far too clouded by the criminal transgressions of the Bush administration who are appearing more and more like toddlers unable to think their way out of their own playpen. Maybe I shouldn't complain about what is happening in America, but rather go out and buy Deepak Chopra's new meditation machine which surely will zap subversive thoughts out of my head, kind of like the device used in the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind to erase all memories of bad relationships. Or perhaps I should become a card carrying member of the Transhumanist movement, first by having myself injected with a Verichip, then shamanically journeying into the depths of its nano-circuitry prior to some altruistic, videotaped immolation outside of Homeland Security headquarters. Neither option is too appealing at the moment sorry to say, so I have transcended the collective apathy/angst pervading our land, proof of which is right here, in another uplifting edition of Lone Nutter News. The next issue will appear on the summer solstice, in my on going attempt to reconnect with the earth and its imperiled cycles.

Best,

Jaye Beldo Lonenutter@Aol.Com

P.S. Check out the article on chem trails I wrote and was published in Pulse of the Twin Cities at: http://pulsetc.com/article.php?sid=2348 Many thanks to Pulse editor Sid Pranke for having the courage to defy the 'no tell' policy of corporate media and run the piece.

***** 2012: The Return of Quetzalcoatl

by Daniel Pinchbeck

Blasting one's brain open with hallucinogens is dangerous business these days. Unlike the sixties when there was less interference as one crossed dimensional boundaries, today's venturer into the psychedelic unknown is faced with a perilous gauntlet ranging from encounters with negative ETs, unsettling insights into the deeper aspects of the Matrix, to more down to earth problems such as the sheer illegality of most mind altering substances. However, Daniel Pinchbeck, armed with the street wisdom of a native New Yorker, faced head on these hazards on many levels and has thrived sufficiently enough to write about them in his appealing entheologue 2012: The Return of Quetzalcoatl. From initiatory Iboga trips in Gabon, Africa, dabblings in DMT and the little known DPT, to participating in rituals found in the syncretic Daime religion in South America, the author pulls off a remarkable feat of interweaving autobiography with the deep and pervading transformations currently underway, collectively speaking. It is as if the author has already acclimatized, with rare foresight and openness, to the shift that 2012 promises, where many claim that time will somehow end and corrupt power structures dissipate, all by the winter solstice of that year. However, Daniel is careful not to buy into the myriads of illusory belief systems he writes about and that is what makes his book attractively novel for halluci-nauts as well as the more pedestrian of seekers amongst us. Most commendable, in this reviewer's opinion, is Pinchbeck's refusal to get enamored by the various personages he interacts with. As an example, he resists the calendrical charisma of Jose Arguelles and provides us with a thoroughly rational appraisal of the shortcomings of his 13 moon agenda which the purveyor of Harmonic Convergence day claims is the only thing that will save our planet. Pinchbeck also makes a sobering assessment of the Burning Man festival, quick to see the darkness and dysfunction within such a 'celebratory' venue, especially by participants who have no interest whatsoever in respecting indigenous spirituality. Anyone who can survive crop circle hopping in England without getting programmed, sit in on conferences where the likes of disinformants like Dolores Cannon, author of The Custodians speak, obviously has a kind of urbane, post modern toughness which is most attractive considering the otherwise wayward and seductive fields the author has chosen to explore. But Pinchbeck isn't an armored coated skeptic at all times. He risks making himself quite vulnerable through his trips, a commendable thing these days, considering how defensive and terminally bunged people are now. He doesn't shy away from telling us how he imperiled his own family, which seems to have suffered from his solo experimentations that required frequent travel to exotic locales filled with alluring and temptingly trans-dimensional players. He articulates deep insights, garnered during his trips, into parental conditioning by sketching his upbringing into the mix: his father was an embittered and alienated artist exiled in a loft in So-Ho in the fifties and sixties, his mother, a beatnik intellectual who once dated Jack Kerouac. Throughout his book, one gets the impression that he is quite sincere in his inner quests and is not packaging some formula to sell us. He aptly quotes the philosopher Jean Geber:

"All work, the genuine work which we must achieve, is that which is most difficult and painful: the work on ourselves. If we do not freely take upon ourselves this pre-acceptance of the pain and torment, they will be visited upon us in an otherwise necessary individual and universal collapse. Anyone disassociated from his origin and his spiritually sensed task acts against origin. Anyone who acts against it has neither a today nor a tomorrow."

2012: The Return of Quetzalcoatl should emerge at the forefront in the world of entheogenic literature, considering its fine balance of trip description, the willing suspension of belief and the reconciling thread of hope the author shares with us not only through his unpremeditated channeling of such eminences as Quetzalcoatl himself who indeed has promised to return, but through his own intimate and at time trying experiences when confronting the numinous. Pinchbeck offers us an anticipation of better things, but does not try to blot out the more dire scenarios forecasted with the sugar frosting of New Age clichés and other forms of verbal uplift.

Check out: www.breakingopenthehead.com

*****

Secrets of the Holy Lance:

The Spear of Destiny in History & Legend by Jerry E. Smith and George Piccard

It is an axiom of magic that anyone attempting a major power grab can tip the odds in their favor if they possess some resonantly archetypal object upon which to concentrate their intent. If enough dread and fascination can be evoked in the enemy through an amulet or talisman, victory, whether in the boardroom, battlefield or campaign trail, becomes inevitable. The lance that was used to pierce Christ as he hung on the cross is one such coveted item. Jesus's blood, which flowed from the wound just below his heart, somehow supercharged the weapon that the Roman centurion Longinus used to pierce him, infusing it with a dreadful, plasmatic numinosity. Afterwards, this reliquary capacitor was employed by the likes of Constantine, Charlemagne, Barbarossa and even Attila the Hun in their quests for supremacy and control.

The spear's obvious potency and the consequences of its possession by some of history's heaviest of hitters are engagingly described in Secrets of the Holy Lance: The Spear of Destiny in History and Legend. The authors Jerry E. Smith and George Picard push the possibility that it indeed has influenced everything from religious conversion, victory in war and even quantum physics which they use to parallel some of the spear's supernatural dynamics. Considering the world wrecking deeds done by the spear's last official beholder, Adolph Hitler, it may very well radiate some kind supernatural nimbus that entranced him and many others into committing unspeakable acts.

Secrets of the Holy Lance sports a nice balance between historical exposition and speculation as to what the talisman really entails. In the opening chapter, an eerie travelogue with great cinematic potential, describes the Hartmann expedition to ‘Station 211’ in Antarctica, the secret Nazi underground base which housed many Third Reich treasures and possibly the lance itself. In a later chapter, we are taken into the realms of pre-history where the authors posit that the spear was originally forged by the blacksmith Tubal-Cain, making intriguing, primordial connections with some of the ‘memory‘ metals that the military has recently developed, metals that are capable of snapping back to their original forms no matter how they are manipulated (and are possibly used in the construction of UFOs). Then we are taken right into the nightmare crux of World War II and the possession of the lance by the SS who then used it to evoke Ahrimanic powers in attempt to realize the Thousand Year Reich. Perhaps the lance was used to open up demonic vortexes that even the Nazis couldn't control, hence their downfall. The authors observe: "Is it but a cruel irony that this relic of the Passion became the scepter of conquerors? We are left to ask how and why the instrument of St. Longinus' compassion became the obsession of men who were devoid of humanity? What cursed object is this Spear?"

While the Heilige Lanze supposedly rests in the Hoffburg Palace in Vienna at present, the authors remind us of the very likely possibility that a mere replica of the spear is currently ogled by thousands of unaware tourists, while the real thing perhaps rests in the sweaty, palpitating hands of a once and future tyrant. Could it be George W. Bush that is currently brandishing the lance? Would he even know what to do with such a potentially malefic amulet? Submitting to its overwhelming power, he would probably get on his hands and knees, begging Jeff Gannon to wear it as a Strap-On during one of their ultra private press conferences. Or perhaps Karl Rove is being instructed on how to point it at the 2012 Stargate about to open up, in attempt to sabotage its universally transformative potentials. Regardless of who or what now has possession of Longinus’s spear, Secrets of the Holy Lance is sure to fire up your apocalyptic imagination sufficiently enough to illuminate your own paths into futures unknown.

Available at: www.adventuresunlimitedpress.com

***** Jaye Beldo writes for Disinfo.Com, the Konformist, Paranoia Magazine and Pulse of the Twin Cities. He has discussed his work on BBC Radio London, WGN Radio Chicago and the Howard Stern show. He can be reached at: Lonenutter@Aol.Com

The Christ Conspiracy

Review by

Jaye Beldo

"I take great glee in telling the truth." Acharya S. author of 'The Christ Conspiracy: The Greatest Story ever Sold' told me. In her controversial tome, she claims that Jesus Christ never existed, that the God Man/Man God was simply a bit of stagecraft caprice, a mere fabrication of the Roman Aristocracy to keep the unwashed masses down as well as out for the count of their long lasting reign. She surely provides an impressive smorgasbord of erudite evidence supporting her claim to the truth. A scan of the book's bibliography which includes such amazing oddities as Anacalypsis by Godfrey Higgins as well as the works of GRS Mead and Sir James Frazer will prove that. But aside from her obviously fecund and thorough scholarship to back up her forensic claim, what exactly is the truth she is so sure of conveying to us?

I suggest, to counter her stake in an ultimate Christ Hoax where the Lamb of God's wool has been pulled over our eyes for the last 2K years, is that if Jesus was indeed a mere fabrication, we should then give profound thanks to the fabricators and not despise them as cavalier perpetrators of a great lie. No, we should not thank them for the institutionalized horrors that 'Christ-Insanity' has generated over the centuries, such as the Catholic Church and its inhumane inquisitions, but rather for the wily hatchers's profoundly brilliant if not deliciously nefarious imaginations. I don't think Acharya realizes what it would take to create such a story in the first place. I doubt that you or I could ever conjure up such a tale, even on our best tall tale day out on the back porch with a pint of whiskey, a two by four and a whittling knife. It would take one hell of a sophisticated imagination to pull the Christ story out of the air of heaven, let alone to disseminate the information in a convincing way and make it seem so dramatically real. If it really was that they indeed pulled off the Jesus con, then Kyrie Kudos to those crooks!

One need only to appreciate the art, music, poetry and literature that the Christ Mythos has generated over the centuries ranging from Bach's 'Jesu: The Joy of Man's Desiring' to El Greco's 'Assumption of the Virgin' to the vibrant Byzantine Mosaics to the breathless grandeur of 12th C. French Cathedrals. One need only to meditate for a few quiet moments on Leonardo's St. Ann and his tormentors or even Holbein's stark cartoon The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb. How about considering the little shop of horrors found in the visions of Colette of Corbie, the 15 C. Fransican reformer, where Christ appeared to her as a dish of 'carved-up flesh like that of a child.' (see this described in the work 'The Female body and Religious Practice in the Later Middle Ages' by Caroline Walker Bynum in ZONE Fragments for a History of the Human body Part One) God, without the Christ, we wouldn't have Frank Zappa's song, St. Alfonso's Pancake Breakfast! Without the Christ cozenage, we would have virtually none of these masterpieces of art,vision and parody. History, as well as our hearts, would be pretty barren places without them.

No mere conspirators bent on world control could inspire artists, poets, troubadours, bards and musicians for so many centuries if there wasn't something so catalytically spiritual in the Christ Mythos itself. Perhaps this is the pearl of irony that has been hidden away for so long and thanks to Acharya's efforts has now come out. I suggest that a little bit of light, something spiritually genuine, purely inspired, came out of these Imperial damage control dispatches Archaya convincingly describes and miraculously insinuated itself into the official storyline like the descent of the Dove into the lord at the Baptism of Jesus himself.

No cabal could compel people aspiring to love and freedom to align themselves to the Christ archetype in so many astonishingly strange and esoteric ways and risk facing persecution by the official church. No Tyrant spin doctors could have created such things as charity, forgiveness, the ability to ward off evil, the desire to help others if the light hadn't escaped through the chink in their propaganda armor to not only expose them but to benignly betray them as being highly vulnerable to their own game. I sense that these apocalyptic engineers will someday resurrect if not liberate themselves if we let them simply by acknowledging the favors they have unintentionally given us. I already see the ascent of the PR thugs at Hill and Knowlton and other lie agencies into the love and light of eternity.

Perhaps Acharya will someday set aside her totalizing polemic against the Christ myth and consider the esoteric dimensions of his mystery. I suggest she experience the works of Rudolph Steiner for a momentary change of perspective. I suggest she meditate on the Christ consciousness grid of the earth as spelled out in Bob Frisell's book, Something in this Book is True as a possible means to ward off the negative NWO matrix. Maybe a consideration of optimist Barbara Marx Hubbard's work 'Revelations' is in store as a part of her future scholarly endeavors. I only suggest these works because I worry that Ms. S will inevitably join the likes of Frederick Crews who has devoted his life to crucifying poor ol' Sigmund Freud or that she'll join the 'School of Resentment' as Harold Bloom names the legions of loveless deconstructionists and revisionist hacks that plague our Politically Correct Universities. I trust that Acharya is more intelligent, more sensitive than that.

Jaye Beldo is a writer and intuitive counselor. He can reached at: Netnous@ol.com

Autumn Book Reviews: Part I

Jaye Beldo Netnous@Aol.Com

In This Issue:

The Nero Prediction by Humphry Knipe

Cities of Dreams by Stan Gooch

Beyond the Bleep: the definitive unauthorized guide to What the Bleep Do We Know!? by Alexandra Bruce

*****

Greetings Readers,

Here are the latest, autumnal reviews of some very worthwhile titles indeed. If matrix malaise is deadening your world more than usual, I suggest countering such miasmic oppression by imbibing in these most fortifying and enlightening reads. As always, please support independent publishers/authors by actually going out or online to buy their books.

Warm Regards,

Jaye Beldo

*****

The Nero Prediction By Humphry Knipe

It is rather rare these days to encounter a historical novel that successfully evokes the spirit of bygone epochs. Not since Marguerite Yourcenar and her novel Memoirs of Hadrian has there been much of anything that actually places the reader, spirit and soul, in the time period written about. One could blame the pervasive firewall that positivist, nineteenth century scholarship set up to prevent access to once living traditions or perhaps to our own senses atrophied by computers and television. However, the cause of our incapacity or unwillingness to fully appreciate and experience things historical, becomes quite moot when one encounters a work of such consistently high caliber as The Nero Prediction. Knipe so fruitfully evokes the dreadful, constellated world of the hubristic, yet musical emperor, making for a most vivifying and engaging read. Nero comes to us through the perspective of Epaphroditus, a slave who was brought to the emperor's mother, who somehow foresaw her son's providence written in the stars. After some skillful, careerist maneuverings that impress the cunning, cut throat Nero afterwards, Epaphroditus quickly becomes a kind of astrological yes man to the emperor, who is constantly scanning the skies, like his mother, for signs of stellar import in regards to his reign and of course, the fate of Rome. The author brings the Italic characters to such astonishing life, primarily through reviving the lost art of writing good dialogue, a capability that few contemporary authors possess these days. The verbal exchanges between the characters are actually more effective at evoking the peculiarities of the time period they lived in, more so than the physical descriptions of personae and locales, although these are quite excellent in themselves. It is obvious that Knipe has a very well developed ear for detail and no doubt could actually extend the range of his hearing beyond the physical and listen to the characters speaking out from an otherwise deeply entombed past. In fact, Humphry so believably conjures up the Romanesque world, that it is most likely that he did this through the extensive study of the actual natal charts of Nero (which are included in the appendix, along with a treatise on Neronian astrology) rather than through the usually arid and one dimensional venues of academic scholarship. Such a unique approach allows the reader, homeopathically, to appreciate how the Romans themselves not only heavily relied on astrology to determine their strategies of gaining ultimate power, but fully let the planets express themselves through them in archonic and frequently catastrophic ways. It is unsettling to realize just how morbidly dependant the ancients were on liver readers, soothsayers and of course astrologers. Such a folly ridden addiction to various forms of divination no doubt was one of the major causes of the downfall of ancient Rome, considering that steering an empire away from disaster by using free will didn't stand much of a natal chance during such malefically aspected times.

Available at: www.processmediainc.com

Publishing Date: December 15th, 2005

*****

Cities of Dreams: When Women Ruled the Earth

Stan Gooch

Who is Stan Gooch? An unjustly ostracized scholar who has written a very compelling and substantial book called Cities of Dreams: When Women Ruled the Earth, some of which posits that the Neanderthals, based on much neglected evidence, were more advanced than the barbaric, hairy man apes that they are usually depicted as, possessed language skills and also a very sophisticated understanding of the cosmos which they oriented their lives by. However, Stan adequately challenges the enforced presumptions of delinquent archaeologists, anthropologists and assorted cardboard academics who currently maintain the bastion of the orthodox/materialist belief system. The supposedly clean separation between Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon species, for starters, is effectively dismissed by Gooch, who perseveres throughout Cities of Dreams by developing and sustaining arguments that are both impressive and actually quite thrilling, primarily because of the unique clarity in which he presents his views and also the evidence that he provides to back up his claims. When an author has such a deep sense of resonance with the subject matter he has chosen to investigate as Gooch obviously does, evoking such things as long forgotten Paleolithic inscapes becomes quite natural and this is what makes Cities of Dreams such a delightful read. The author reminds us of such things as universal burial practices, which are evidenced by the ubiquity of the use of red ochre (hematite) in funerary rites, the amazing similarities of myths around the world concerning the origins of the Pleaides constellation (the seven sisters are always pursued by unsolicited suitors or animals) and the labyrinthine/lunar origins of ritual dance (some which mimic the construction of a spider's web of all things) Gooch rises above the shortsightedness of many a tenured boob and offers us such a refreshing perspective on our ice age forebears that it becomes difficult to dismiss his ideas as many within the matrix police system have tried to do in recent times. After reading this work, one can fully see the shortcomings of those deluded enough to assume that modern humans are at the very pinnacle of evolution and why they are so insistent on preserving this outright lie for future generations. More importantly, we have a perfect opportunity to bypass the matrix via Stan's book and directly access the worlds he has explored, worlds encoded in stone,dance, mazes, song and spiders's webs as well.

Available from: Aulis Books

*****

Beyond the Bleep: The definitive unauthorized guide to What the Bleep Do We Know!?

Alexandra Bruce

Packaging quantum physics for the masses inevitably draws forth many a paradox. In the independent film What the Bleep Do We Know these paradoxes become difficult to dismiss and beg scrutiny by anyone who wants to gain a deeper, unbiased understanding of the science it attempts to explain. Having viewed the film, I found it nearly impossible not to regard Bleep other than as a clever bit of New Age propaganda aimed at aging boomers looking for another optimism fix. The intermittent cameos of noted physicists such as Gomit Aswami, the anesthesiologist Stuart Hameroff and philosopher David Albert, amongst others, spliced in with computer animations reminiscent of toe fungus medication commercials, a pathetic sub-plot involving a deaf woman who carries a cell-phone around with her during her photo assignments only left me addled, angry and hardly inspired at all to delve further into the wondrous realm of cutting edge physics, a physics that could very well assist us in the full realization of free energy and perhaps even world peace.

Yet, one must admire the wild financial success the independent film has enjoyed. The producers obviously had enough promotional savvy to deliver a product that continues to sell well in spite of the utter ire it has evoked from such heavy science hitters as Richard Dawkins and many others. Much of the controversy the film has generated seems to have been deliberately intended as well. Many of the physics luminaries that appeared in Bleep complain of how they were edited into the final product to make it look like they were promoters of the Ramtha cult, a cult which figures prominently in Bleep via JZ Knight who channels the 30,000 year old homophobe entity and has made millions of dollars in the process. Apparently, F.A. Wolf, the esteemed quantum physicist who has written such books as The Spiritual Universe and Taking the Quantum Leap actually endorses the Ramtha School of Enlightenment and often appears there to lecture along with many of the other physicists who appeared in Bleep.

Fortunately, in Alexandra Bruce's much welcome book Beyond the Bleep: The Definitive Unauthorized Guide to What the Bleep Do We Know, the hit film is addressed from a rather middle ground standpoint, enabling the reader to get a much better grasp on the science the film ultimately fails to adequately describe. Quantum physics is given much more in depth elaboration in Beyond the Bleep, enabling the reader to grasp some of the more arcane and difficult aspects of quantum phenomena. Bruce's depiction of John Hagelin, presidential hopeful and member of Transcendental Meditation founder Maharishi Mahesh Yogi's Natural Law party is not quite as neutral however. Hagelin, has actually lobbied the U.S. Government in the past in hopes to funnel money into his patently whacked project of creating a 'Vedic defense shield' in which eight thousand meditators, 'one square root of one percent of the planetary population' would be deployed to create 'world peace'. Apparently, each 'shield meditator' would have to invest in over 100,000 dollars worth of TM products in order to qualify. The TM cult, the author informs, is apparently bent on world domination.

Beyond the Bleep is recommended for anyone left perplexed, dismayed or downright disgusted by the film. Alexandra's unauthorized guide will assist you in gaining a much clearer understanding of everything from Dr. Emoto's water molecules, Candice Pert's discoveries of molecular origin of our emotions as well as the tribulations of scientists like her who have dared to challenge the orthodoxy and the materialist repercussions they have suffered. The book will assist anyone who desires to delve into the convoluted worlds of quantum physics, the 'Create Your Own Reality' paradigm so beloved by New Agers and neurology as well, allowing them to emerge from such a wondrous trip enlightened and more importantly, unscathed by the underhanded indoctrination the film tends to induce in many of its followers .

available from: www.disinfo.com

*****

Jaye Beldo writes for Paranoia Magazine, Disinfo.Com, The Konformist. He can be reached at: Netnous@aol.com

Autumn Book Reviews: Part II by

Jaye Beldo Netnous@Aol.Com

In this Issue:

Beyond 2012 Catastrophe or Ecstasy: A Complete Guide to End-of-Time Predictions by Geoff Stray

UFOs, PSI and Spiritual Evolution by Christopher Humphrey Ph.D.

The Lucid Dreaming Kit by Bradley Thompson

*****

Greetings Friends,

Here is the last of my autumnal offerings in the book review department. I’ll be sending out my Top Ten list for 2005 in a few days. Once again, please support independent publishers and their authors this ‘holiday’ season by buying books-as-gifts for your friends and family.

Warm Regards,

Jaye Beldo *****

Beyond 2012 Catastrophe or Ecstasy: A Complete Guide to End-of-Time Predictions by Geoff Stray

After the let down of countless apocalyptical hopefuls in regards to the fulfillment of prophecies in 2000 A.D., many are now training their predictive crosshairs on a cosmic event only a few years away: December 21, 2012. According to the Mayans, this is a most significant date indeed as we then align with the 'galactic center' and all hell or heaven supposedly will break loose. Time itself may very well collapse, along with corrupt power structures found within governments, media conglomerates, trans-national corporations and monotheistic institutions to boot. The date has certainly captured the imagination of New Agers, astrologers, clairvoyants, entheo-nauts, occultists and even a few cutting edge cosmologists such as John Major Jenkins, author of Mayan Cosmogenesis. Yet, with the dismaying array of catastrophic and retributive possibilities at hand, we are still left with a pervading sense of uncertainty as to what exactly will happen.

In Beyond 2012 Catastrophe or Ecstasy: A complete Guide to End-of-Time Predictions, a rather dizzying smorgasbord of 2012 scenarios that may greet us on the winter solstice of that year is offered. Fortunately, the author doesn't fear monger in his response to the advanced waves coming in from galactic central. He pretty much allows the reader sufficient head space to contemplate the myriads of potential outcomes at hand. Culled mostly from web sites, the writings of well known authors such as Graham Hancock, Andrew Collins and others, Stray has spent over twenty years in compiling the plethora of information on 2012 mythologies found in his copious book. Hopi fifth world prophecies, the supposed Dogon/Sirius connection and other indigenous takes on the coming event are included along with more contemporary inventions such as Terrence McKenna's intriguing and brilliant Time Wave Zero. McKenna speculated that the I-Ching really functioned as a kind of lunar calendar and ran the hexagrams through a series of mathematical processes to come up with 'time waves' to show the cycles involved. I found Stray's description of the procedure McKenna used to develop his unique software program quite lucid and easy to understand. Time Wave Zero is probably the most sophisticated and user friendly approach to the 2012 mystery in this reviewers opinion and I certainly recommend that readers delve further into McKenna‘s divinatory opus via Beyond 2012.

Also within this profuse end time encyclopedia are highly dubious spin artists attempting to veil the true import of 2012 , whether it is a retributive dimensional shift into a kind of detergent ecstasy or all out calamity which conflagrates the planet and humanity as well. One eminent con artist in particular is the pseudo-scholar Zecharia Sitchin whose suspect mis-interpretations of Sumerian cuneiform writings has been justly exposed by one Michael S. Heisner on his website: www.sitchiniswrong.com In this reviewers opinion, Sitchin gets more page space in Beyond 2012 than he really deserves. Yet considering how well his books sell and the obvious need of many people to believe in elliptically scoundrel planets such as Nibiru/Planet X and humans –as- Annunaki- manufactured- slaves, this is certainly quite understandable. I'm also wary of the much hyped crop circle phenomena which many interpret as sublime, extraterrestrial artistry, hinting at the 'positive' transformations to come. According to Brian Desborough, author of They Cast No Shadows and Blueprint for a Better World, most crop circles should be avoided at all costs as many have actually proved to be radioactive, causing people who have been foolish enough to perform rituals in them, sleep in them or even just to visit them on an afternoon outing to develop long term illnesses such as leukemia (see pgs. 361-63 in They Cast No Shadows for more information). I suggest to the reader who may not be aware of the various disinformation agents in prophet's clothing to use their own intuitions and common sense as a form of guidance instead of impulsively subscribing to any of the belief systems offered up in Beyond 2012.

Perhaps 2012, if we survive whatever emergence and/or collapse that is surely to come, will function as a kind of nexus, rather than an omega point, integrating the past, present and future into a much awaited eternal now that somehow resonates with the core essence of the galactic center, either literally, symbolically or both. At this point, it is rather difficult to ascertain however considering the myriads of predictions at hand. Geoff Stray’s Beyond 2012 at least can be used as a kind of useful field guide to orient us in the right direction, if we approach it with an open mind and much discretion as well.

Available at:

www.vitalsignpublishing.co.uk

*****

UFOs, PSI and Spiritual Evolution by Christopher Humphrey Ph.D.

Many enthusiasts of interstellar travel tend to neglect the actual mechanics involved, especially when the distances covered are measured in light years. It would take something like 16,000 years just to get to our 'near by' neighbor of Alpha Centauri at 4.3 light years distance, using present day technology. A neutrino physicist proved, through his extensive calculations, that it would take all of the energy that our sun has ever produced or will produce just to reach the ‘Warp One’ that the Star Trek Enterprise is depicted as accelerating to in the over rated TV series. While faster than light travel is a possibility, it certainly puts into question the use of physical vehicles as a means to achieve it. Author Christopher Humphrey has given a considerable amount of thought to such problems and offers some unique alternatives which may help to bridge the obvious distance gap: space travel via our spiritual bodies. He additionally posits that only 'spiritually advanced' beings would be capable of instantaneous travel over the span of light years.

While I found much of what he says quite engaging, relevant and timely, considering the pervasion of UFO disinformation that we are bombarded with at present, Humphrey tends to habitually drop a chosen subject matter before it is sufficiently developed and goes off on these flighty, pardon the pun, digressions which are interesting nonetheless, but tend to weaken any cohesive argument that would bolster his overall theories of non-physical travel through space. (I'm noticing this tendency quite a bit these days in many other authors as well and may well be indicative of the effects of computers and other electronic mediums on our overall attention spans). As an example, the author posits that de Broglie waves are a probable medium for PSI abilities especially in regards to Uri Geller's spoon bending and clock stopping abilities. But Humphrey then fails to provide any kind of substantial metaphorical analogy enabling a reader not well versed in the physics involved to grasp specifically what he is saying. If Humphrey could provide some kind of imagistic parallel to the de Broglie wave carrier medium phenomena , it would make it much easier for the reader to not only understand but also to intuitively use the waves themselves and actualize any nascent PSI abilities that they may have within them. He also digresses from a compelling description of the work of the historian Arnold Toynbee in a similar way. After a brief summation of Toynbee's work involving pattern recognition within various historical epochs, the author drops the matter altogether and takes a completely unrelated tack, leaving the reader hanging in some never land of indeterminacy. In addition, some of the conclusions the author makes during his frequent diversionary flights are rather embarrassing. Here is one example:

"Incidentally, the main problem with Yoga, Buddhism and Hinduism is that they only want to escape the wheel of reincarnation and make no attempt to raise the level of their civilization. That is why Yogis never went to the stars. In India, they know about reincarnation, but only use that knowledge to justify the Caste system." Pg. 82

Humphrey obviously has not studied any of these spiritual paths in sufficient enough depth or breadth and resorts to gross generalizations such as cited above. Yogis had and have intimate knowledge of the stars, other planets and galaxies which is encoded in such works as the Vedas, indicating some form of superluminal travel to these distant locales. One scholar even showed that the measurements from the earth to the sun described in one ancient sacred text from India were uncannily accurate in comparison with more recent measurements using modern scientific equipment. Humphrey has obviously has not read the works of such luminaries as Nityananda or Meher Baba who totally disdained the caste system and would often work directly with the untouchable caste, providing them with shelter, food , clothes and hospitals as well. Nor has he looked into the social and political gains made by many Buddhist activists along the way. It is also sorely evident that the author has not even considered the possibility of interstellar travel via Vimana craft which are described in detail in such works as the Mahabharata and Ramayana.

I do believe that Humphrey has some truly valuable information and is concerned about such oppressive vectors as CSICOPS, Reductionist/Materialist Science in regards to their deliberately inhibiting the realization of interstellar travel via our spiritual bodies. He cites the works of individuals who are making valuable contributions to enhancing our spiritual awareness such as Ian Stevenson, author of the book 20 Cases Suggestive of Reincarnation and others as well. However, I would have given this book a much higher approval rating if something like an actual editor had gone through it and deleted much of the repetitious information and revised it into something more flowing, concise and cohesive.

*****

The Lucid Dreaming Kit by

Bradley Thompson

The ability to maintain awareness of a dream while dreaming seems to be considered difficult if not impossible by many people. How often do we take conscious action within a dream and steer it to a more favorable outcome? Not very often. The Lucid Dreaming Kit improves our chances of realizing lucidity in dreams using a fairly simple procedure. On one CD in the kit are instructions on how to proceed for a period of seven days in order to achieve maintain awareness during the sleep cycle. Using a digital watch with a an alarm setting on it, one is instructed to set it to beep at various intervals during designated nights . These‘interruptions’ some how provoke us to maintain consciousness during sleep and help us subliminally anticipate a coming dream without waking up and losing contact with it.

I particularly liked the accompanying audio CD which the author recommends to play just prior to sleep. The subliminally encoded, eighty minute soundtrack enabled me to achieve a lucid dream state on the very first night that I used it. Frankly, I was rather surprised because I’ve rarely had fully lucid dreams where I was in complete control from beginning to end. I've always had the assumption that one had to actually struggle for years to achieve thie lucid state.

In the dream, I found myself within a DNA molecule. When I instantly became aware that I was dreaming, I then took direct action and started repairing damaged telomeres, restoring the DNA to its original twenty two strands, marveling at the codon poetry that played out before me. I would float from location to location in this marvelously illuminated DNA coil and could choose where to go and what to do. I then realized, within the dream, that the DNA ‘molecule’ I was in, was really of universal dimensions, spanning vast distances of interstellar space. It was more like an infinite helix, I realized, when I further investigated and started traveling through it. Needless to say, I was most reluctant to have the dream end and woke up with a feeling that I had achieved something rather significant.

The experience was both refreshing and rather amazing as well. It did something peculiarly benign to my waking state consciousness throughout the following day, as if there was some kind of deeper connection and resonance with environments within and without me. I realized that repairing the universal DNA helped with making these deep connections and I actually physically felt better.

Included with the Lucid Dreaming Kit are a Lucid Dreaming screen saver for your computer, a PDF file which contains the day by day instructions the author recommends to follow in order to increase the chances of having a lucid dream and a dream log. (I recently received information from the Lucid Dreaming Kit creator that there is now a version of the audio CD that is eight hours long). The ease of use as well as the immediate effect the CDs had on my dream life has given me sufficient indication that Thompson's method does work effectively. I've tried other methods in the past to achieve lucid dreams such as Tibetan Dream Yoga but nothing so far has given me the quick results that the Lucid Dreaming Kit has. Check it out!

Available at:

www.lucid-dreaming-kit.com

Jaye Beldo writes for Associated Content, Central Sun Journal, Deep Fried Rice, Gnostic Liberation Front, The Parisian, The Sorel Lawncaster Gazette and many other high profile publications. He can be reached at: Netnous@Aol.Com

McHajj

Jaye C. Beldo

McHajj:
Part I

*Please note: The McHajj series you are about to read came to me directly via a series of disturbing dreams, dreams which continue to haunt me at present. These dreams, more like interminable nightmares, have resulted from life long exposure to advertising in the relentlessly predatory, capitalistic society that I'm haphazardly posited in. In order to deal with the severe psychological trauma such exposure has caused me, I have translated what my unconscious mind has directly conveyed to me into the story below. It is the only way I know how to cope with the constant trespassing into my psyche by the corporate powers which loom about in a most menacing and merciless fashion. Thank you for understanding my dilemma. BTW: I am currently starting a twelve step support group for those who may believe that they are victims of a similar kind of corporate psychological terrorism. I will provide more information in the near future...if there is one. Thank you!

Ronald McDonald saunters through the range country all alone, exiled from Playland. He comes upon the Marlboro Men, all maudlin, yet steadfast, sitting around a campfire. He tries clowning but cannot even eke one single grin. One offers him a smoke. Ronald reciprocates with Big Macs for all. They eat hamburgers and smoke, staring into the embers. Ronald lets out a conciliatory chuckle, but the others do not respond.

The next day, they mount the steeds and set out. In the course of their round-up, they encounter Joe Camel, the Pillsbury Doughboy, Colonel Saunders, California Raisins, the Hamburger Helper Hand, Charlie Tuna, Palmolive Madge, The Tidy Bowl Man, Mr. Clean and other iconomorphic cuties traversing the desert in search of greener test markets. All caravan across the wastes, drawn towards a mirage of the eternal milk pour shot. The posse grows in legion. They tour cancer wards, deforested tracts in South America, fished out oceans, tobacco farms with spent soil and carked farmers. They pass out campaign pamphlets to Jivaro Indians and work their way down to Tierra Del Fuego. A vote is to be cast for the next Messiah, since the first one (anthropos) cannot return, cannot get his sandaled foot or staff into Ogilvy's Madison Avenue door.

A vote is cast. Ronald wins. The Golden Arches of Triumph remain.

The division works its way towards Mecca. Upon reaching the ka'ba, Ronald ventures an entrance. With a grin he greets the twelfth Imam who patiently engraves upon a piece of plutonium the size and shape of a bowling ball. The Imam reads aloud what he has inscribed on Allah's favorite alloy:

In the Name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate,

Praise belongs to God, the Lord of all Being,

the all merciful, the All-compassionate

the Master of the Day of Doom.

A television in the North West corner runs a Prime Time Shi'ite Evangelist special. Oppenheimer makes a guest appearance. He quotes the Bhagavad Gita. The t.v. casts a debile numinosity, reminiscent of decaying isotopes over the interior of the ka'ba. The splendor of a thousand suns, however, lay dormant in the Imam's plutonium. Ronald offers the Imam a Big Mac, but is solemnly declined as the final filigrees are added to the stanza. Mr. McDonald shrugs his shoulders, skips over to the Southeast corner, kisses the black stone and savors its meteoric flavor. A tongue emerges from the stone. The stone tries to sing Allah's glory but Ronald begins to French kiss the stone. Allah's eyes open but he cannot recognize who is kissing him. Ronald tears his wig away and smears the make up off his face. The clown introduces himself to Allah and demands a sacrifice of every child watching Saturday morning cartoons in America. Cheers can be heard from as far away as Algiers. Outside, the Marlboro men gallop their horses around the Ka'ba, tossing cartons of cigarettes to the pilgrims, while Van Allen asteroids with angel wings hover above like Hummingbirds, forming a double helix pattern.

Joint-Chiefs-of-Staff in the War room at the Pentagon. A satellite picks up the action over in Mecca. All chiefs ponder the implications. 'Flexible Response' is briefly discussed.

While Ronald and Allah make out, the Imam carefully places the scripted ball into a missile's warhead compartment concealed directly beneath the center of the ka'ba. Ronald just laughs, fluffs his wig out and puts it back on. He fixes his make up and steps outside. It dawns on him that he forgot to takes his clown shoes off upon entering. But no one outside notices his disrespect. His secret would not be betrayed. The pilgrims fervently, ecstatically kiss the Pillsbury Doughboy, the Hamburger Helper hand, and the California Raisins. Joe Camel lets them take turns riding on his back. He circumambulates the ka'ba seven times. The Imam steps outside and climbs up the minaret and sings to the sky and all activity below stops. He holds in his hand the remote control launch button. Palmolive Madge noticed that the cuticles of the Middle Beast were hardened.

The legion works its way over the Great Wall of China and marches to the center of Tienanmen Square. All the cowboys, clowns, fuzzy little denizens of the west sit in front of a giant statue of Mao. Ronald runs his tongue over the plinth. It too tastes meteoric. Soon refugees from slave labor camps, both Tibetan and Chinese, clutching onto Mickey Mouse dolls are paraded past the icons. Ronald feels something. Yet his make-up won't betray his sorrow. The Pillsbury Doughboy deflates a little. The four fingered Hamburger Helper Hand offers to help but cannot grasp the situation. The Marlboro Men hand out cigarettes to the refugees but they are refused. All wait.

McHajj

Part II

*Please note: The McHajj series you are about to read came to me directly via a series of disturbing dreams, dreams which continue to haunt me at present. These dreams, more like interminable nightmares, have resulted from life long exposure to advertising in the relentlessly predatory, capitalistic society that I'm haphazardly posited in. In order to deal with the severe psychological trauma such exposure has caused me, I have translated what my unconscious mind has directly conveyed to me into the story below. It is the only way I know how to cope with the constant trespassing into my psyche by the corporate powers which loom about in a most menacing and merciless fashion. Thank you for understanding my dilemma. BTW: I am currently starting a twelve step support group for those who may believe that they are victims of a similar kind of corporate psychological terrorism. I will provide more information in the near future...if there is one. Thank you!

Joe Stalin nudged Ronald McDonald, grateful that the clown had the chutzpah to invite him to his stag party. The cadre was a bit beaten and weather worn after the China tour. Mao never even showed. Ronald then made the announcement while passing through Cambodia that he was to marry. So a stop was decided, in Berlin, to celebrate before going back state side to the jubilant swarms.

On a stained and battered movie screen that had seen the likes of Caligari, Dr. Mabuse and Nosferatu, a flick starring Goddess Kali and the Virgin Mary played, for the umpteenth time that evening. In it, the Pope, all dolled up in a leather Teddy once owned by Madonna and clutching onto a sequin covered Crozier, watched the gals carpet munch each other. Kali's garland of severed heads, consisting of card carrying members of the United Nations trembled as she climaxed: each head speaking in tongues while an entourage of angels above listened in ears. Mission accomplished, the Virgin appeared demure, scanning her Rolodex, trying to decide which country next to infiltrate with Marian visions via NASA holography. Star Wars indeed.

"Jimmy Swaggart....eat your evangelical heart out.", was the Pope's only line. He delivered it deadpan enough to pass, but who pays attention to dialogue in skin flicks?

Down below, the cadre of commercial icons took on a luminous hue in the porn film light.

Pol Pot announced that the cake would soon be wheeled out. The Marlboro Men tossed some confetti. Joe Camel popped some champagne. All the lights were turned off and silence ensued. A Menorah floated in the darkness beneath an exit sign dimmed below code. It hovered around the theater, leaving sevenfold trails of candle light, which streaked and then formed into Hebrew letters : yod-he-vau-he, UFO's far more convincing than anything Spielberg has cinematically conjured for the masses. The candle flames/letters grew brighter causing the darkness to finally yield up its secret: A Golem had been guiding the Menorah all along. Instead of seven candle sticks there was a septet of finely molded, perfectly uniform wax Porky Pigs with wicks protruding from their snouts. But were they really 100% wax? They sizzled and crackled like some kind of animal fat, a fat which ran down and melted into the cracks in the Golem's thick earthy flesh. Ronald climbed up on the stage, made a wish and blew out the candles and chuckled. But an actor dressed up like Rabbi Loew came out of the wings and chided him. It wasn't a god damned birthday party. Ronald chuckled, bore the brunt of the catcalls from his fellow icons and signaled for the real cake to be wheeled out. An angel handed the Golem a trumpet and noticed the clayey android's breastplate: A Masonic pyramid with an eye in the apex.

Pol Pot signaled his military band to start playing along and the sounds of a million Cambodian skulls cracking in a hydraulic vice washed over the theater like a sonic flood. Joe Stalin wept as the ossified sonority echoed over the Siberian veldt of his soul.

The Golem sounded the first note on his horn, thus breaking Seal Number One: From out of the cake popped Barbara Walters in a bikini. There she was, the carnal frosting on the cake of test market destiny. Soon Berlin Gynecologists dressed like the sorrowful Young Werther, rushed in to see if the Hymen was still intact. It was. The real Mecca was finally reached. All were glad. A sacred pilgrimage spot was declared. Soon they'd be flocking to ABC's New York T.V. Studios and not to cleanse themselves of iniquities with the leftover bath water of Hugh Downs.

A mini-resurrection ensued in the cemeteries surrounding Berlin. All the young men Goethe conned into suicide rose from their mother's graves and began heading towards the theater. Would Gabriel lead the way for them? Or would it be Heine? Maybe Kafka himself would show them the short cuts through Berlin's sewage labyrinths? No, no compasses... they honed in merely by instinct. Once they arrived they were amiably greeted, but relegated to the last rows where the footlights from the stage barely shone.

The film ran again. Yet this time three dimensional like a holographic dodecahedron. Each facet contained an image, a precisely focused promise of salvation. On one facet of the screen was the land of the Houris, on another facet: the New Jerusalem, on another facet: Ashtar Command and other cinematic variations of the Chosen People Syndrome. Each promised land refracted kaliedoscopically like a disco light in which that scientologist John Travolta danced under so soulessly. The dodecahedron floated higher and higher up into the rafters and out through the roof and hovered over Berlin. Soon there were Muslims, Jews, Christians, Buddhists, Hindus all flocking to take in their personal slice of the flick.

Inside, the Rabbi pulled the plug on the projector and searched within the machine for what could possibly fabricate such a hideous illusion. All he found was a crystal, where the projector bulb should have been, a crystal holding the form of some kind of eschatological fractal yet to blossom.

The Marlboro Men ignored the No-Smoking signs and lit up. Barbara and Ronald did a little tango up on the stage in celebration of their union. No one would arrest them. No one would ask for their papers. All was steamy, sultry collusion across the board, that evening. There would be good stories to tell , yes, back on the range, of the strange pariahs abroad.

McHajj

Part III

The Pope gaped at the fuzzy icons hovering near his bedside. Were they angels? Reporters? Eager Cardinals insinuating heirdom? He closed his eyes once again. But when he whiffed the Chanel and heard the familiar burger chuckle, he offered up his hand, marbled with swollen veins and weakly gestured towards a water bowl on a table next to him. He motioned for the couple to genuflect. He dipped his fingers into the bowl and sprinkled their heads.

"I pronounce you husband and wife."

His debility allowed no more. With a weak wave of his hand, he transferred the remaining formalities to the Cardinals who gathered around the couple. Mr. Paul hadn't done a wedding since his moonlight job at I.G. Farben back in the thirties, when his Deutscheland comrades jibingly monikered him 'Quick Karol'. Deprived, he fell back into his pillow and even further, into a beatific, anesthetized daze, that neither of the newlyweds could fathom.

"Enough stress for one day." warned a doctor who entered the room as the tints of life faded from the Pope's visage. A wind sidled its way from the court yard below into the room and ruffled the groom's wig, as sensitive as a theophanic barometer. The bride took off her chador, looked for someone idle, distracted enough to interview. ABC would want something prime time enough to run back home. Maybe even milk it for a series.

"Our union may be his last communion." Barbara proclaimed solemnly to the cameras and beckoned for a close up. Ronald behind her waved and then mouthed, "Hi Mom."

But there was still pulse left in the Pope.

The Marlboro Men , Joe Camel , Palmolive Madge, the Pillsbury Doughboy, Reddy Kilowatt and the Tidy Bowl Man managed to get into the room upon hearing the Good News. The Pope came to for a moment and nodded. Joe Camel flicked a butt into the Baptismal bedpan and placed his hand on the Pope's forehead. The doctor leered at the reprobate Bactrian ungulate. He wondered if that camel had enough sisu to make it back to Bethlehem after he got done with him.

Not much time and a millennium spent without any unfolding of Papal revelation. Time for another counter reformation? No, no more Luthers to contest. So invisible, so blended in with the corporate architecture they are. No Hapsburgian Vectors to carry out orders from Rome. Not even a Jesuit at large to boot. Not like in the good ol' days of the Thirty Years War. No locust, no floods of blood, nothing from the Patmos camp either. Only vapid promises of holographic wish fulfillment dished out by NASA PR and HAARP. And that beast that equaled eighteen, no matter how you added it up? He was a no show as well. Only the icons. No back up generators had been aptly ordained to keep the stage lights going in case of global brown out.

They had no choice. They had to keep PJP II alive. Barbara worried about John's diminishing telepresence and pressured the doctor to operate. At least plastic surgery for they had no foundation to apply.

The doctor quickened to the maculate pall, the obvious onset of Parkinson's disease. But he began to muse. Why were there only pathologies named after baseball players and celebrities? Not one single religious figure had a disease named after him or her. The Doc could fake it, revise the etiology a little and dub it "Paulitis" and get a Noble Prize for curing it on the very day of diseases's world premiere. He eyed Ronald McDonald. Doc could read a blood type like a poker bluff. Just by the skin, even if it was covered with greasepaint. Ronald grasped the portent, telepathic aptitude heightened by the demands of the Hajj. He felt compelled to Jingle.

"You deserve a break today." He twittered into the Pope's ear. The Pope smiled as if receiving benediction from Number One.

The clown chuckled, rolled up his puffy sleeve. A nurse polished up his carotid artery with sanctified antiseptic and inserted the catheter. Barbara saw the transgression and began whispering, "Malpractice" over and over and her eyes brightened up a bit. She reached for her wireless. But the Pope immediately came to when Ronald's plasm hit his system. His eyes lit up like a pair of Golden Arches over a midnight parking lot. The veins and arteries snapped to attention, graciously receiving the fresh influx. Lymphatics sparked along with the neurons and axons and dendrites-the mossed neurology of an apocryphal avatar destined for immortality, He was fired up for another thousand years of the Reich-o-Rama. The infusion brought him to an upright position in the bed. Barbara thrust a microphone towards his lips.

Yet it was not enough. No one, except Ronald himself, knew it was cow's blood they'd been pumping into Ol' Karol, the Zyklon B colporteur.

The Pope faded back into the eternal folds of the bed. The pall returned. He began a coughing jag. He vomited up some hallowed, citrine pus from the pulmonary Rome housed in his rib cage. The doctor turned to the Marlboro Men.

"All for the want of a lung?"

One of the cowboys offered his tar sodden lung to keep the Pope alive. Surgery only took an hour. Yet it was not enough.

"Any volunteers for a liver transplant?"

Yes, one of the icons, Captain Morgan, the Rum Pirate offered his organ of life to keep the Pope going. Yet it was not enough.

"Any volunteers for a heart transplant?"

Joe Camel, a brave bactrian of integrity, sacrificed his pith to keep the Pope alive. John, Jerry and Jack Camel survived their famous brother and carried on with the good work to the delight of Philip-Morris. "See...See.." The tobacco magnates screamed as they watched the proceeding from their Virginia Headquarters, "There is such a thing as altruism!"

Palmolive Madge sacrificed her bone marrow. The Tidy Bowl man sacrificed his digestive tract and colon. The Pillsbury Doughboy had nothing humanly feasible to sacrifice but was there at the bedside, reassuring the Pope that he would rise again. During the revivification, the Papal henchmen , disappointed, worked their way out of the inner circle. The Pope was alive...would stay alive...forever...for there would be no shortage of organ donors. 1-800 numbers would flash and scroll at the bottom of every T,V, show like storm warnings. Blurbs on milk cartons and the back of trucks would beckon for donors to meet the insatiable need of fresh organs for our Pope. No wonder he threw sanctified fertility pills to the Third World. The black market would be glutted with organ donors! The Pope's immortality would generate more media revenue than any celebrity event in history.

Somewhere a lone Turkish gunman slouches towards a Bethlehem carved into a prison wall with his fingernails.

After remission, Pope John Paul Infinity, the Chiliastronaut of the 21st century, was deemed fit enough for the next shuttle mission. For the Newlyweds, a Honeymoon in space? Yes.

Geosynchronous orbit in a space station. The threesome would watch the apocalypse on earth through Pince Nez ,Opera Glasses and Zero Gravity champagne bubbles. And then off to the Pleiades to convert the aliens?

McHajj

Part IV

The Chosen Pupil

The centerpiece for the Newlywed's space station living room was a crystal pyramid, It rested, three feet high with its eye in the sky, in the center of a shallow ceramic bowl. Upon the hour, the Pope would come out, pour a champagne bucket filled with Serpent Piss fermented with goat smegma over the sculpture while humming, 'Fiddler on the Roof.' Once the bowl brimmed with the jaundiced Holy water, he would open some spigots screwed into the sides and fill up enough wine glasses for the guests who were convened at the table, waiting.

David Rockefeller drained his glass in one gulp and ignored the New Year toast all the guests imbibed. Some shadowed members of the P2 lodge in Italy sampled the brew but noticed nothing of its piquant character, so jaded with spirit initiations they were. Ronald McDonald politely sipped the reptilian vintage. Barbara declined, good mother that she was becoming. She pulled her chiffon maternity blouse emblazoned with the ABC logo away and her greasepainted groom played with her protruded navel as if it were some kind of Cold War red alert button.

It, when it arrived, in the dying sextet of seconds of 1999, would be the first zero gravity savior birthed in an orbital Bethlehem. Rockefeller, designated Wise Man Number One, switched on the ultra sound monitor so all the guests could scrutinize the young and upcoming embryo. Its pulse seemed to quicken every time they passed over the Dead Sea, even though they were far beyond the jurisdiction of the earth's electromagnetic field. Soon all the conspirants were doing the devil's tap on the table top in synch with the heart beat. The Pope kept on humming and kept on pouring his vile brew in hopes of upping the ante of the celebration.

As the crew got tipsy on the rounds of the potent cocktail, an argument ensued.

Where would the placenta be air dropped? On the Sphinx? On top of the Ka'ba? Borobudur? Stonehenge? How about skewering it on the obelisk in Washington, D.C.? It became a kind of board game challenge. It was getting time for some Robert's Rules of Order as no consensus was arrived at by this rogue congress. The only thing unaminous amongst them was that the yolk would not, under any circumstance, be freeze dried.

McPope ignored the fracas and scryed a tissue scrap through an ultra high powered microscope. He managed to filch the bit of fetal host through the Anchor woman's carnal portal, posing as resident gynecologist, without damaging the integrity of the savior. Zooming in on a maze of double helix protein chains, he marveled how they began to spin themselves into a kind of genetic grail. The Holy Roman Umpire scanned the inebriated guests and unnoticed, took a hypodermic needle out of his vestibule pocket and flooded the DNA with more of the consecrated wine his unquaffable cadre were gulping down so lasciviously. He switched the screen over to the microscope's point of view and the guests hushed, sobered up a bit and marveled at the display.

The Pope stepped up onto a little stage in front of the big screen T.V.which showed the DNA as it mutated at warp speed into a trinitarian helix pattern-a veritable genomic blue print of the Tri-Lateral commission. The members of the P-2 lodge were the first to take notice. Then the Pope clicked on his remote control, the numinous eye in the apex of the pyramid in the fountain opened up. The Masonic Cyclops looked around as if peering out of some forgotten b-movie. A viperous mannikin emerged from the punch and slithered up the pyramid and began pissing once again. Underneath the sculpture was the phrase: The Chosen Pupil, emblazoned in dark green neon.; Maybe the Pope's new grandson would be the true herald of the Novus Ordo Seclorum, the new telescope so to speak.

"The Apex is not a good place for a placenta...we don't want to obscure its view now do we?" The Pope asked. Rockefeller burst out laughing, fell off his chair and doubled up on the floor. "What about my Tri-Lateral Commission! I'll dissolve the order if this gets through. Where's Jeremy Rifkin when we need him? You didn't send him to a FEMA camp did you?"

The clown was too mesmerized by his wife's navel to take notice of the commotion. Barbara, feeling the first tremors of labor, stood up and excused herself. A door slid open allowing her to pass through to the maternity ward. It squeaked just like the ones on Star Trek. No one even noticed the cue. One of the P2 henchmen stepped out of his own shadow and approached the Pope as if preparing to be consecrated by the mobster.

"And when it's time to crucify again...this time on an Ankh....not a cross...right?" He challenged the Papal authority.

"We can work that in the script...as long as its self replicating." The Pope's eyes turned reptilian even though he hadn't even a sip of the ambrosia. He jabbed his Crozier into the floor for emphasis and his Canonicals began to take on the appearance of medieval armor. Soon the other icons emerged out of their space station quarters. The Pillsbury Doughboy hopped up on to the Pope's shoulder, puffed up and giggled. Some of the Marlboro Men who snuck on board flanked the Pope. One lassoed a P2 and dragged him up to the proscenium. One of the Camel brothers grabbed Rockefeller by the collar and forced him to kneel before the Pope. Soon some nurses wheeled out Barbara and under the camera lights she prepared for the birth. Ronald did some cartwheels and plucked a switch on, thus activating a global satellite which jammed all communications on earth. The Tidy Bowl man would emcee and announce the action. Cameras on.

The delivery was painless, nearly effortless. And the shining new born was put into the Pope's arms and not Ronald's...the clown didn't seem to mind..didn't really care about continuity, he was just along for the ride anyways. The Pope's eyes flared. And in the Ka'ba far below in Mecca the Imam put the final filigrees onto the ball of plutonium and invited the Party of Ali inside for one last look. One took a gavel and drove the warhead home as he pronounced the guilty verdict. And in China Mao did a jig with Stalin and Pol Pot. In Berlin, the Turks were cha-cha ing with the Neo-Nazi's. In Bosnia all looked up into the sky as the Marian radiation showered down upon them. And the gates of the prisons and asylums of the world were swung open. In Israel only love bombs exploded after the perennial peace treaties were signed.

The earth looked so pretty from the space station, all lit up like a Christmas Tree in Rockefeller Plaza. Rockefeller was still kneeling. He started kissing the Pope's feet. And the savior...the savior didn't even protest its expulsion from Barbara's paradisal uterus. There was no announcement from this barkless, hairless dog. Ronald comforted his wife who took no interest in her apocryphal spawn. She merely groped for a microphone, looked for a camera, thankful to be purged of all that weight.

The Pope took the child over to the Baptismal fount and immersed the creature for what seemed like a minute and at the Stroke of the milleniual Midnight pulled him out of the Serpent piss. He sat the infant on top of the Pyramid. The eye turned upward to catch a glimpse of this new Commander in Chief of the Federal Reserve. Cigars for all and everyone sang Auld Lang Zion.

But how would the savior be returned to the Earth? Would there be any reason to since the planet was becoming so conflagrated at t