In 1990 I traveled to the marble mountain quarries near Tuscany to approve the marbles that my architect Skidmore, Ownings and Merrill had selected for my $162 million One North Franklin project’s front lobby not knowing my life was changing.
This video takes me back. In the quarry nestled in the same marble laced mountains that Michelangelo would mine for the statue of David, the marble mavens let you see what the marble will look like after it’s polished. They are smart before to do this before the lengthy grinding process. What they do is spray the marble you are inspecting with a high powered water hose. The water over the marble closely simulates the final appearance.
Clever boys. Now the multimillion dollar pressure is on you if when the marble arrives in he states and you don’t like it. Something than happened with one of marbles. But my order was big enough that they Italians flew me back to Italy a second time to select another marble for my lobby. The architect was not available for the second trip and the full burden of choice fell on my shoulders. None of my partners shared in the second trip either. And this time I took my wife with me to see the Vatican on the trip. She was thrilled while I was appalled at the decadence. A few weeks earlier at out Lake Forest church of St. Mary nuns were begging for contributions to care for their old age home. Staring up into the vast cathedral as a cluster of red clad bishops shuffled past I could only think, “This is all so wrong.”
I experienced a break from the Catholic faith on this trip as I read Joseph Campbell’s book THE HERO WITH A THOUSAND FACES and like the water on the marble I saw clearly that the Catholic faith is simply an amalgam, a collection, of all the proceeding faiths. One group of men using and abusing the stories of others to weave a reality of decadence and control.
Ironically, the book had been gifted to me by my very Catholic wife for the trip and it was this awakening that was huge factor that ended our marriage. She would eventually pay the Catholic church a $5,000 annulment fee to remarry for the first time in the church. Something that only confirmed my feelings as we had two teenage children that now became born outside of “holy” wedlock.
Talk about heavy falling blocks of reality, much like this marble in this cool video. Click the pic to watch NOWNESS.
Love imagining these visits still happening with Robin in spirit Mecca Sedona. Here’s a wild one I imagined over coffee at the Coffe Pot on route 89A.
“Sheetzy, I did it! I am in big mama blue whale waiting to be born again a as creature of the seven seas!”
There amidst all the overweight tourists Robin revealed his whale fetus self floating before me. I almost choked on my coffee and said telepathically, “Nice.”
“Nice? Nice is all you have to say? I’m a freaking baby blue whale, Sheetzo. No thanks to you. Hey, I kind look like that Genie I played in ALADIN!”
“I am sorry I could not abandon the Flangans, Robin. It’s how I am built. But I am happy for you. And I am getting now that it’s all connected. The pocket sized blue whale untrasonics of the NEO and your song with the blue whales.” I say to the smirking blue whale fetus. “How long until you’re born, Robin?”
“Do I look like a whale expert? Look it up on Google, please. Like to know how much longer I will be in mama whale’s belly.”
I type “gestation period for blue whales” in to my Iphone.
“Females typically give birth once every two to three years at the start of the winter after a gestation period of 10 to 12 months. The calf weighs about 2.5 tonnes (2.8 short tons) and is around 7 metres (23 ft) in length. Blue whale calves drink 380–570 litres (100–150 U.S. gallons) of milk a day.”
“Damn 2.5 tons I’ll be at birth! And I thought I was fat when I broke 200 pounds for a while!” belly laughs Robin.
“Looks like next summer late you will be a whale calf, Robin.” I say to myself softly.
I reach across the pancakes and pick up the mug. There on the side of the mug, two blue whaled stand in relief, like reverse hieroglyphs!
My vision of Robin vanishes with a pleased laugh at my shock as the middle aged vet waitress comes up to my table, “More coffee, sir?”
“No thanks. I’ve had more than enough, waitress.” I say in wonder.
“I noticed you poured a cup to cool off while you drank the other. Smart. OK, hon, you need anything else you let me know.” She smiles turning to go.
“Wait, there is one thing. Can I buy this coffee mug with the whales on it?” I say showing her the whales in the side of the mug.
“Huh. Never saw whales on our mugs before, We have desert stuff on them. Kokopellie, cactus’s, ya know. Never whales. Lemme check with the manager if you can buy it.”
A short time later the waitress returns, “OK, young man, you have a deal. One whale mug from the desert of Seodna for $20.”
“Sold!” I say and off I go with my new mug and head back to my home studio for the day’s work.
“The Universe is one big Joy-Gasam!” – Robin William from the Great Beyond (edited)
“The universe is one big Joy-gasm.” – Robin Williams, as I imagine him from the afterlife.
A familiar new inner voice pops into the chorus that is the inner universe I call my big fat head, “Nah! Change that quote to ‘from the great beyond!’ Sheetzy, for the blog poster.
“Why?” I ask, questioning Robin, at least the version of him I imagine him to be in the great beyond.
“Afterlife. WRONG! That’s human lingo,” adds Robin’s voice in my fingertips. “In reality, in the great beyond, well, there ain’t no f’ing past or future here, no judging, no heaven and sure as hell no hell. Time and all the shit that goes with it is an earth game, part of the contract the spirit guides make you sign when you incarnate on earth.”
I pause to think, “Have I finally gone totally nuts? How can I be hearing, Robin William’s explicit thoughts and language, his standup side, so clearly even though he passed away in August?” Remnants of my Irish grandmother’s telling me to hide my gifts, which I managed well until 2010, another blog.
Robin chimes back in, “Stop wondering and write!”
Robin is ranting on so fast my fingers can barely keep up in my weird self-invented shorthand! This will take forever to proof! Not my best skill set as I came on the biz scene in the 70s when we had this person called a secretary. PC terms even PC, hate that shit, had not blessedly come into vogue in those 70s three Martini lunch days when I rose in the Matrix of Chicago to become a millionaire. All this was before sexual harassment abuses by assholes with wandering hands ruined it for the rest of us that simply enjoyed a little playful flirting with our secretaries that might lead to more between two consenting adults.
These days, in the so-called more advanced 21st century where heart and fun is missing from biz, I am painfully on my own, typing poorly as Robin thinks faster than the speed of light, his voice echoing in my fertile empty skull. Now toss in I have glaucoma and am slowly losing vision and, well, you see why proofing is not my thing. I work every day as though it’s my last with sight. In the future, someone can fix all my typos! I gotta get things out there. No time to please the fastidious with perfect blogs or post on FB.
Robin’s voice takes me from my little pity party above, “There’s this little wart of a clause that stipulates the newly departed, and that’s all I am here, suicide has its own set of rules for reincarnation. No judging. Death is death, And we Newly-Deads must take a break from our eternal spirits pals. Here in the great beyond, in spirit form, as well as on earth in human form when you incarnate it a time of painful separation. Paradox alert! All so a soul, like muah’s, feels the love and pain of their earthly life one last horrific time, lasting up to max 100 years tops. Luckily, Sheetz-cheeks, here in the eternity of time and space 100 years adds up to what we call: The Moment of Cosmic Silence. No wonder the spirit guides hide that clause between hairy butt cheeks.”
“I relate. I’m renting a house from a coven of lawyers, makes life hell in Sedona.” I say grimly, glaring at the defective HVAC system I sealed off that pisses me off daily. That this family trust of lawyer won’t fix. “There’s hope though. I actually met a good guy lawyer on FB recently. A loving father watching over a kid hanging on one of my FB groups. So lawyers do actually have hearts in this and so too in the afterlife.”
“Sheetzy, again, where I am now is not the “afterlife’. Williams to Kenneth William Sheetz. That’s my name in the middle of your name Kenneth WilliamS heetz. Clue, my clueless friend overcoming a childhood of Catholic brainwashing and family surpression of your mental gifts. No afterlife. This is LIFE! Life in the great beyond. Ain’t nothing” after-life” about it! Robin Williams, as a sentient spirit of the universe, is eternal and operates outside of time and space. Kinda like we are all gods here. Robin’s not my even my name or gender here in eternity. I have no gender, I am ALL here as we ALL are,” says Robin, spreading his arms and flying right through the sun.
“Wow,” is all I can think to think to Robin seeing his name inside my name, “There’s no more to all this than meets the third-eye.”
Robin riffs on, my typing nightmare growing, “That little name clue blow your mind, my fellow WILLIAMS? Google William. Do it now please. I’ll hang on Alpha Centarui while you search the all seeing oracle of your time.”
Google come back with lots of stuff. I like this one best from Behind the Name.com about the meaning of the name William: From the Germanic name Willahelm, which was composed of the elements wil “will, desire” and helm “helmet, protection”. Saint William of Gellone was an 8th-century cousin of Charlemagne who became a monk.
“I know your old man who beat you regular as the Sunday papers, was a William,” says Robin standing beside me patting my shoulder. “But he played a part too as a man with WILLIAMS in his name. That part was teaching you to be funny. Shame his darkness got the better of him. He was manic depressive like me and you,” says Robin gently.
“Let’s no go there, Robin. My dad, well. It’s complex. I’ll meditate more on this WILLIAMS pattern and him and me and you. A Williams trinity later. Let’s get back to the great beyond. Where my dad’s been since 2011 after dying of bladder cancer before I could say good-bye. He’d beaten cancer many times before. My kids have not forgiven me for missing his farewell. After his death he did make me that red suit of ethereal armor, with high-tech helmet, so there’s the name pattern. Funny that armor was strong enough to help me close the Bermuda triangle but not strong enough to survive busting your soul out of area 51. Whoa,” I say, taking a gulp of coffee, “Back to the cosmic. I’ve met a lot of ETs who are asexual. Any sex thoughts from out there in the great beyond on gender?”
“Good Morning Battle of the Sexes!” says Robin with the passion his famed GOOD MORNING VIETNAM line. “Gender’s a groovy earth thing that makes life more ying and yang in the pooty tang. Here time’s not linear. It’s curly cue as grown-up Shirly Temple’s locks on the Good Star ship Lollipop. Talk about a party boat! Fucking is required at the door before getting beamed aboard naked. Yes, Sheetz-entine, linear is as boring as the hell of the first SFX tale, The Bible. Boring as that fat slob Limbaugh who I am sending a herd Tibetan goats to crap up with his lawn! Here, in the great beyond, we can incarnate at any point in history, on any world, even overlap our incarnations, be either sex and marry ourselves. Always a disaster, BTW, Sheetzrama!”
A dizzying deja’ vu, spins inside my head and I utter out loud, “Whoa,” here in my defective, but lovely, rental house, that reminds me that even the heaven of Sedona, like the great beyond, has dickheads.
“Yeah, you’ve fucked YOU way too many times, Sheetzy! Ha! Talk about creative masturbation!, ” laughs Robin.
“Jesus H. No wonder my relationships are so damn weird,” I say, feeling nauseated.
“Are you a good fuck as both sexes, Ken? Double the wardrobe decisions! If you don’t mind a personal question from the great beyond, you know, as both the man and woman in the sack?” chuckles Robin as I gag into waste can.
“Sometimes…?” I offer weakly, staggering over the washroom to swig some Pepto.
“Ha! Way more to life than we ever, ever see! I am no one to kid you for too much self-love. Relationships, sure as the hell that surely does not exist, are something I never did master either. For this reason in my a next life I must repeat that lesson. And come to think of it, I see what you are doing with your overlapping incarnation fuck fest. Beats hurting another soul. So rotten I signed up for suicide before I was born. Never again! Wow. I miss all my cutie pie wives and adorable kids and lovers and loves and fans, and on so, so terribly on, here in my Moment of Cosmic Silence.” says Robin and who goes silent.
I wait respectfully for Robin’s spirit to speak again as I check my Facebook and do some emails. Cosmic multitasking. Then I see Robin pondering, tears on his cheeks. He drifts out past our Milky Way, a distant swirl of billions of stars and trillions of worlds. Millions, like our own, with sentient life.
Robin’s amazing voice reverberates in my mind as he finally resumes, speaking a bit softer and more slowly than his normal mile a minute pace, in his mourning,”We spirits of intelligence are the light of the universe held in the loving bosom of the what scientists call dark matter. A boring description for the glue that holds all reality to-fucking-gether, buzz bro.”
“I take it you’ve met Ohom, my higher self from another dimension when you say buzz bro, Robin?”
“Not yet, in your sense of linear time. Waiting for your intro, sir, to the insectoid higher 16th dimensional you.” says Robin.
“This is more confusing BACK TO THE FUTURE, but go on,” I say in genuine frustration.
Robin speaks in the professorial tones of his character from DEAD POETS SOCIETY, John Keating,”In concentrated form, where strands of love light energy crisscross, sentient worlds like earth coalesce from mama universe’s cosmic vagina. (BTW, I wanted to write “womb” end of last sentence but Robin said, ‘No dice, Vagina’) The universe’s babies, from the endless lovemaking here, form trillions and trillions of planets that grow up to be Gaia’s sentient sisters of the universe!”
“Slow down a little Robin. I may be bright but I am a fucking lousy typist,” I say in my mind to Robin. He’s in his Peter Pan outfit he likes now, flying lazy circles earth’s moon now. It looks like fun, but I sense the deep loneliness Robin is feeling of space and his missing being flesh and blood.
“Sheetzy, mama universe and papa spirit get bizee over here. UH!” Says Robin making pelvic thrust for emphasis. “So lot’s and lot’s earth-like worlds, each with its own set of rules those crazy spirit lawyers dream up. All in search of that perfect blend of excitement in harmony with nature, they all exist out here. Earth, you see, she’s just a part of one experiment. Poor Gaia’s bordering on a cosmic nervous breakdown because her ingrate human kids are a fucking nightmare of parental abuse! A dash too much drama and sadness there on our old blue world. ‘Sup to all earthlings! Add a pinch of love to the recipe to save the dish, earth homies!” says Robin, soaring past a glittering eagle made of stardust.
“Speaking of sadness and drama, you brought it up, Robin, so I gotta ask –”
“Ah why, if we agree to all the shit we agree to before were born, did I accept all the crushing manic depression that killed poor me off?” Robin rambles grimly on to my inner nod, “Been on my mind too, what’s left of it. Don’t have all my memories here. Hey! You know the answer. You told me we over coffee , Sheetzy!”
“Yes!” I type to Robin, and you at once, how efficient, on my keyboard. “Soul stuff I learned in Italy when I asked my soul teacher Connie Miller, after meeting so many nice Italians, ‘How the hell did these sweet Italian people ever produce a Mussolini?’ Connie said, ‘The brighter the light the darker the shadow.'”
“Right on, soul sister Connie. Yeah, my mission in life was to bring a lot of light to the world through my comedy. And, before I was born, I knew that all the fucking darkness, balancing of my bright light, would kill me in the end. That, to be fair to the spirit guides, one was not hidden in the small print,” says Robin, shifting to his famed Shakespeare shtick, while passing through a super nova, laughing wildly. “Pirthee, All my days on earth, yay, verily, I fought my inner darkness longest as I couldeth, thus giving out a fair light that now outliveth my pale countenance forever more, ”
“Could one say your darkness also outlives you, Robin?” I say typing.
Robin stops on the fringe of the Nova that lights him up, pondering solemnly and says, “Ah, you do wound me to the quick, kind sir. The sorrow of my loved ones and fans is ultra-dark. Heavy. Oh so heavy! And, shit, I see some folks are following my lead. Suicide copycats.”
All the stars extinguish around Robin and his voice fades, as when you start to lose a radio signal, “Much darkness. But life is a never-ending dance of light and dark. Residue light will be generated from my residue darkness. Ying and yang. Sides of one coin. A point of view. No judging. Now, after my death, my films take on a whole new pathos. My comedy a tint of tragedy. I can hear some in the audience, ‘Oh that poor tortured soul… he makes me pee my pants he’s so funny! Ha! Ha!”
Amazed by the profound, yet funny, insight Robin just shared, I say with my keyboard, “Anything more to add Robin? Gotta get to work. I don’t get paid to blog. Proofing this one may take a week or two (which it has).
“Oh, do I bore you, Ken, sharing the meaning of the universe?” says Robin, making a joke of his hurt feelings.
“Heck no! Sorry to rush you, Robin. I value you your connection, even if it is imagined. It’s Tuesday after Labor Day here on earth. Short week. Lots to do because our PR person took another job on us yesterday. So I spent all day getting great a new PS master in place. Good recovery, New one seems awesome. She’s worked with many of my clients like Don Miguel Ruiz and Eric Pearl. But it busted my balls.”
Robin guffaws and says, “At least you still have cajones, senor Sheetz.”
“Always the comedian, Mr. Williams,” I chuckle sadly,
“Yeah, our connection. Laughs and tears. — Sheetyz, earthly movie and TVs producers love happy endings. That’s just like the real stars of the cosmos and all the other worlds. All love happy endings. So, earthies, keep loving each other up. Even when it gets a little weird around the water cooler! Fuck all the rules, humanity. Love is all that matters for each other and every critter on the space ball ride with you. Williams out!”
As I get up from my writing chair to make breakfast Robin adds, “Nanoo Nanoo, Sheetzy!”
Laughter is my reply, an audience of one for an interactive memory of greatest comic of all time’s spirit.
Me and Don Miguel Ruiz atop the Pyramid of the Sun
“The universe is one big Joy-gasm.” – Robin Williams from the afterlife
December 2011, I am blessed to spend the Winter Solstice with Don Miguel Ruiz, author of the epic best seller THE FOUR AGREEMENTS to learn Toltec wisdom in the powerful setting of the pyramids of Mexico’s Teotihuacan.
Don Miguel teaches me, among many amazing things that help my DreamShield work, that in reality all of us live in a ghost world. For example: Look up at the sun and you are looking at a ghost image from 8 minutes ago. That’s how long sunlight takes to travel to earth.
Now let’s say you are sitting across the table from a fiend in a restaurant. It still takes the light milliseconds to reach you. So Welcome to the ghost world the Toltec wizard Don Miguel, where all the people we see are in the past, and ever a construct of our minds.
In the profound spirit of Don Miguel’s Toltec lessons, I humbly offer my latest spirit encounter with Robin Williams. Please take it all in the playful spirit offered here and not as literal truth.
PETER PAN AND THE BATTLE OF AREA 51
In my morning meditation, Robin’s spirit, at lest as I imagine his amazing spirit to be, has been sending me urgent SOS signals all night that he’s trapped in Area 51, I head in my trusty 2011 silver Jeep for the strange base when hail of machine gun fire erupts. I spin the Jeep off the road and hide it safely in in a gully. I love my little used Jeep, my first car owned in over 20 years since losing my shirt in the real estate crash of 1991 and lots of spot leasing that makes me a Gold Club Hertz man, I recall as I head back to Area 51 on foot, cloaked in invisibility.
I’ve done complex meditations to evade psychic security screens before, particularly when I sought to warm the heart of icy banking giant Bank of America, but never have I experienced anything this intense before. Trillions of trapped souls cried out to me from the beyond here at the dreaded Area 51, Robin’s voice being the loudest I followed his psychic trail.
The Orion Ohom informed me along the way, “Careful, Ken. High danger alert. Area 51 has trapped the souls of all the beings that have died on earth since 1957, both human and all the way down to bacteria. To keep the souls from escaping Area 51 uses stolen Grey tech to create an alternate reality, a “Matrix” where no one or nothing knows they are dead.”
“How cheery,” I answer Ohom as I shift my molecules, a gift common to those abducted as kids by aliens like myself, and easily pass through the barbed wire fence. I tiptoe past a sleeping guard. I’m in.
I crest a rocky desert hill. Faint light flashes beneath a guge spirit HARP camouflaged grid. It is about a mile square and hums with a sick strange-colored alien energy. Staying invisible, no guards challenge me as I prowl the perimeter, “Robin?” I shout. “You in there, buddy?”
“Psst, keep your damn voice down Sheetzy!” whispers Robin sticking his head out the barrier and then screams getting sucked back in.
I step across the rough desert terrain to the spot where Robin briefly poked out his head and turn on my red spirit armor. This powerful armor was given to me by my dead father for my secret 2011 meditation to close down the Bermuda Triangle, blogged about here in great detail in earlier postings. I’d give you a link but stick with me. No distractions to this telling of Robin Williams and his work helping the planet and me heal from the afterlife.
As I step into the force field, I am instantly besieged. Overwhelmed by deep sorrow. Trillions of the dead life forms, collected here in Area 51 since 1957, all want to speak to me at once of their fears. The insanity virus is visible in this buffer zone as an nasty flowing energy, the color of clotted blood. I become confused. Lost. Every fear broadcast daily on FOX News and every other news outlet attacks me all once.
I will myself onward against a hurricane of terror about solar flares, radiation, fracking, Ebola virus, GMOs and more and more. My father’s indestructible red armor begins to spark and short out. I trip and fall face first to the desert floor. Epic fear rapidly eats away at my armor and my body becomes exposed to even more fear. I lose hope as I soon lose consciousness.
I awake, my face cut and bruised to smiling face of Robin Williams, the age he was at death, looking down on me saying, “Sheetzy, Sheetzy? You OK, bud? Ooh. Sorry to drag you on your face. You look like you went a few round with Popeye, bro. Ca-ca-ca! What a rotten way to start a Monday.”
I sit up on my elbows, winching at burnt skin on my nose, tender to the touch and say, “Guess that force field is meant to keep out the living. You like fine and dandy.”
“Oh, yeah. Forgot in this corporate fairy Iand I am dead for a moment there!” kids Robin trying to hide his sadness.
This virtual world is a well organized commercial paradise inside the spirit HARP. Trillions of beings live in ignorant bliss in this spotless utopia. No one is aware of the energy vampires running this place, it seems. “God only knows the purpose behind all this damn perfection and advertising,” I groan as an advertising blimp for McDonald’s new Quadrupole Bypass Burger floats by overhead in a cotton candy sky.
The voice of Ohom says for Robin and I to hear, “All this virtual reality is broadcast to the galaxy by Murdock Rupert. True source of his wealth.”
“Whoa! Whose talking to us, Sheetzy? Little green men?” says Robin at hearing Ohom strange voice.
“Long story,” I say as Robin helps me to my feet.
“Humor me. I’m dead and we have all of eternity, Kenny boy,” says Robin.
“Please don’t call me that. I have brother who just got out of Florida jail for two months for drinking and drugging who calls me Kenny boy,” I say sadly.
“Ah, yes, Fred. You’ve told me about his famed Near Beer Recovery program, doomed to fail. Sheetzy OK with you, my fellow sensitive friend?” I nod and Robin continues, “So the voice?”
“Hey, Robin, huge fan of your work, man,” says the disembodied voice of Ohom, echoing over the perfectly manicured lawn where a nasty looking android cop turns his head 360 degrees searching for us.
“Yeah, that one drawing attention of the police bots to us!” says Robin pulling me into crouch to hide behind a huge Ronald McDonald statue.
Ohom whispers now, “Sorry. I am Ken’s higher ET self, of the Orion star system. His guide to help him save you and himself. This place will be most difficult to escape as there will be many distractions. Could take several eons to get out.”
“Nanoo nanoo, ET brother from another mother earth. So why aren’t you in here helping us?” says Robin, not quite knowing where to look as he speaks to the air.
“Grey stolen alien tech powers the Spirit HARP. Keeps my race of Nekatrians and all other ETs out. But I can see and hear and help you through Ken’s handsome blue eyes,” whispers Ohom.
“I can tell you more about Ohom later, Robin, Let’s get the hell out of this Disneyland gone bad before we turn into Mickey and Donald, ” I urge Robin.
“OK. But you’re weirder than I am, Sheety and that’s saying something!” jokes Robin as we exit some hedges near the force field.
Hours later, after many strange distracting adventures in half built house of both our childhoods that almost make us forget to escape this fake branded corporate nightmare, Robin and I hunt in earnest for some kind of exit. Robin and I enter a small neighborhood park with a lighted sidewalk. The sunset is dazzling. I whistle at the beauty all around us.
“Don’t be fooled by all the purdy flowers and birdies, pard. You been in here now with me for six weeks, ” Robin says.
“Yup! This place is like America, filled with distractions. Look at that poor bastard over there!” says Robin.
A guy who looks a lot like my brother Fred runs on a giant gerbil wheel chasing a hot stripper holding a six pack of beer.
“Is that, my brother?” I say.
“Never met Fred. How the hell should I know?
The good folks running this place have about as much heart as a Hollywood lawyer,” says Robin dusting me off.
“Yeah, let’s keep moving. Has to be some kind of power source running this joint,” I say as small remnant of my father’s destroyed red armor clanks to the sidewalk.
“Sorry about you dad’s super suit. Maybe get you a new one if you can get me out of here, Sheetzy, if you tell me your dad’s armor tailor,” says Robin sheepishly.
“Perhaps my old man’s ethereal armor fried because it’s time for me to learn to work without it,” I say kind of happy to be graduating for assistance from my erratic father.
“Cool,” says Robin petting a chihuahua looking for its master.
“Last time I saw you, Robin, you were in that maze world we built in deep space. Safe and sound in a new universe all your own made of the pure love of all who adore you.” I say, recalling yesterday’s epic vision blogged of here.
“Yeah, don’t really know how I got sucked into Area 51-ville. Oh, wait… Forgot to cut my earthly tether. Yikes. I am not good at this dead stuff yet.” says Robin apologetically.
“My fault. Should have told you as your spirit consultant, Robin.” I say bear hugging Robin off the ground. “Happy to see you again, man! Watched you in HOOK with my night. Let’s get you flying again, Peter Pan.” I say doing my best acting brave to hide my loneliness that in the real world of Sedona
Williams jokes, speaking in that hilarious mile a minute rapid fire way of his,”Whoa, Sheetyz. I am an Oscar winner. Plus I can minds read now to boot. Hmm, I see you’re only “acting” all brave and all supy-superman-like. You got some serious Kryptonite poisoning over this spirit daughter of yours moving out of your digs.”
“Got me,” I say, embarrassed at my childhood abandonment issues are still crippling my life after all the spirit healing I’ve been doing.
“Do I get any thanks at all?” says Robin to change the topic.
“For what?” I say
“For dragging your heavy butt out of the HARP barrier when you fainted, Sheetzorama” say Robin with that famed smirk of his.
“I did not faint. Women faint. I passed out, Robin, ” I say defensively as I eye a huge blue whale sailing in the early evening sky above us.
“Whoa. Relax, man. This roomie moving thing out has you as out of whack as President Obama’s lost hope and change agenda. We’re gonna have to straighten this child abandonment stuff of yours out once and for all so that you have enough juice to blast us out of this Walmart paradise. Coffee sucks here, BTW. Nothing but McDonald’s and they make you eat a double cheeseburger with every cup! I’ve packed on ten spirit pounds already!” says Robin brightly.
As I laugh, Robin transforms to his age and garb as Peter Pan in the film HOOK and says, “Ok, Sheetzy, it’s HOOK time. Change to yourself age 8. I want to do a Peter Pan healing of your inner child to pay you back for all the good work you’ve been doing meditating for me and my loved ones.”
“Uh, not really, uh, time. Busting you out of here now before — ”
“Go ahead. Try, Ken. Bust all 7 trillion of us life forms, including your own life force, outta here, Popeye. Try, or better as Yoda says, DO!” said Robin with a comic bow.
I squeeze my eyes and try to use some of the new techniques I’d been gifted in the Mt. Shasta pyramid from spirit architect Metatron, all of which worked so flawlessly the night before helping Robin reunite with loved ones. A tiny ellipse of bright light forms between my hands and PUFF! goes out.
“Spiritual impotency alert! AGH! AGH!” laughs Williams as Pan.
“Point made,” I acknowledge to Robin as I begrudgingly transform to my frightened 8-year-old me.
“Come and sit on uncle Peter Pan’s lap, little Kenny,” says Robin taking a seat on an immaculate park bench. “My lap is safer than Santa’s, Come on. Up!”
I happily climb up into his warm lap and Robin puts a big hairy arm around me. With a reassuring smile Peter Pan Robin says, “Genevieve is someone new and wonderful in your adult life. A spirit daughter is rare. Appreciate her without smothering her. Respect her when she says she’ll always be there for you, Ken, living under your roof or not.”
I nod quickly, wanting to believe Genevieve will not be leaving me forever, but little me is feeling very sick. “My tummy hurts,” I say vomiting onto the perfect lawn.
“Thanks for not puking on me, little Kenny” says Robin, great with kids, Peter Pan or not. He strokes my hair and offers. “Now listen carefully, little Ken. Genevieve’s not your mommy who left you many times as a child because she was afraid of your meanie Captain Hook of a dad, Genevieve is not your grandma who got kicked out by your mean papa and most certainly Genevieve is not your dear auntie who died from loving beer more than you.”
“She’s not?” my eight-year-old self asks innocently.
“Uh uh. She’s simply Genevieve Munoz. A sweet young lady exploring her own life who happened to cross paths with yours. A special friend, a temporary housemate, who used to be your grandma Anna in a past life. Well, I guess that’s not so simple,” says Robin gently lifting me for a swirl and standing little me up on the path. “Wanna play a game I call HELLO AND GOODBYE, little Kenny?” Robin offers, looking irresistibly mischievous.
“Ok…” I say reluctantly, not liking the sound of the GoodBye part of this game.
“Hello, little Ken,” says Robin, shaking my hand and pumping my little arm up and down so hard that I giggle.
“Hello, Peter Pan!’ I giggle happily.
“Goodbye, little Ken,” says Robin patting my head. Tears well in my big blue eight-year-old eyes. My lush lower lip, beautiful I see now, but which my vile father called “Nigger lip”, sticks out, quivering. Robin gives a frown and flies off into a perfect fake cotton candy cloud high above.
Little Ken whimpers to himself, “All alone!” Strangers and animals pass, ignoring little me. I feel so rejected, the orphan child and fall deeper into fear as suddenly the shadowy figure of my drunken father staggers up the pathway.
“Hello, little Ken!” says Robin zipping back into view.
“Hello, Peter Pan!” I say glad to no longer see my ominous father as Peter Pan blocks his view.
Goodbye, Little Ken!” says Robin. He flies away so fast the suction messes the long mop of soft brown hair on my head into a swirl. I spin around. “Oh no…” I whisper. My drunk as a angry skunk father is only 20 yards away.
“Hey, you little shit. Get your skinny ass over here, ” says my father, slurring his words. He guzzles down a beer and tosses the empty can onto the perfect trail. A park robot instantly cleans up after him.
I run and hide behind a ridiculously perfect set of bushes and there is Robin as Peter Pan. “Hello, Little, Ken!” says Robin. But this time before he can fly off I dive onto Robin’s leg and grab hold for life.
“Don’t leave me with my Daddy! He will hurt me! He’s mean! Don’t leave me, Peter Pan, like my mommy, grandma and auntie did!” I beg shamelessly.
Robin sighs and takes me by the hand and firmly guides to where my father is waiting, leather belt in hand, itching to beat me.
“No! Peter Pan please. Fly me away to Neverland with you. My papa is mean. He’ll kill us both!” I beg.
“Time to face the real reason you get so sad when women leave you. Your pops is an abusing jerk. I’ll handle him like I’ve handled him like any other drunk hecklers in my standup work. Relax, little Kenny.” says Robin tugging me along.
“NO! NO! My dad’s meaner than you can know!” I shout, but Peter Pan is too strong for me. I can feel my angry father’s hot dragon breath as we get close. I puke again on the manicured lawn. The cleaning robot beeps in annoyance as he hoses down my vomit.
Robin as the Pan gets right up in my father’s face and shouts, “You! You, sorry excuse for a human being, you should be ashamed of yourself for how you treat this beautiful boy of your. You sir are bad dad!”
“Oh yeah, faggot in green tights? Whatcha gonna do about it? Ken’s a rotten kid. The little shit needs to learn respect for his father!” shouts my dear old dad, the veins on his muscular arms bugling as he put up his fists to fight.
“That’s right, violence solves everything, doesn’t it Captain Hook?” As Robin says and at this my father’s clothes and hair transform into Captain Hook’s, hook hand and all.
My father pulls his sword in the blink of an eye and lunges it for Robin’s heart shouting, “Queer!”
But Peter Pan quickly pulls his sword and shouts in a fake gay voice to taunt my father, “The battle of Area 51 is on like Tinker Bell’s fairy dust, you brute!”
“No one tells me how to raise my God Damn kid, Fem!” shouts my father, striking Robin’s sword so hard sparks fly. My father is a highly trailed US Army drill sergeant and his powers combined with Captain Hook’s are formidable.
“Of course I dare, you drunken fart in the wind! Your old poodle Lacy would make a better dad than you, ” shouts Robin defiantly, his gay BIRD CAGE taunting tone gone.
“To the death, Pan!” says my enraged father, hooking Robin’s tunic and tossing him smashing through a billboard of a perfect shiny new Ford hybrid.
“Now there’s a product placement Spielberg would love,” kids Robin, quickly dusting himself off as he parries swords with my crazed Captain Hook/father.
I bawl and hide my little eight-year-old self behind the cleaning robot, doing it’s best to keep this perfect fake world perfect.
My Captain Hook father does a spin and slashes open a deep gash across Peter Pan’s chest. “Huh? Dead and I can still bleed?” says Robin, stunned. He looks at me as if wanting help. But I was a helpless child again. Watching two people I love fight. My father’s powerful sword blows make Robin weaker by the second.
“Oh, yes, Peter Pan Williams, you can bleed. I am going to gut you like a fish! I shall bleed all your life force into the HARP so that no one even remembers you. Everything you ever created, every film you made, even your kids will vanish as if they never existed!”
“Hello, little Kenny? A little help here, please?” shouts Robin as my father wails hook and sword blows down on him with the viciousness that almost killed me on my 12th birthday.
“Can’t. Can’t help you, Peter Pan. I’m too little, ” I say peering out from behind the cleaning robot.
“Hello, Little Kenny! Then ain’t it time you grow up? Dontcha kinda think, before your old man turns me into a fresh green salad?” says Robin as my father knocks him to the perfect lawn.
Bystanders cheer on my Hook father “Erase the suicide! Williams shouldn’t be here. Peter Pan should be in hell where all suicides belong!” shouts a burly man. This deep dig greatly weakens poor Robin.
“I loved Robin’s movies. He died of depression. No different from someone dying of car crash. This great artist deserves to be here just as much as you and me,” shouts a woman who looks like an amalgam of every woman I ever loved all rolled into one.
The burly man smacks the kind lady to the pavement, “Shut up and stay down, bitch!”
Seeing the violence perpetrated on this innocent woman, defending Robin in this nightmarish world of perfection causes something to erupt inside little me. Little Ken wills down from the heavens the power of the DreamShield I saw the ET angels build in Italy in 2010. He wills up the the volcanic power of mother earth. Instantly, I am my adult-sized again, only now I am young once more, about 27, and wear not my father’s red suit of failed ethereal armor, but the red, yellow and blue suit of Superman, my triumphant childhood hero.
I fly over to the fight at super speed to the fight scene, just as my father is about to make the death blow to Robin’s spirit, erasing him forever from human history. I tap my Hook father on the shoulder and say hoarsely, “Stop Dad.”
My Hook father spins to me, screaming in my face like the madman he was in real life, when I’d shake but while I still faced him down, “You, worthless cur. Every woman leaves you. And who’s always the one to pick up the pieces? Me! Ha! You stand up for a suicide after all I’ve done for you? You make me sick, boy.”
“I am not your whipping boy anymore, Captain Hook. Thanks for all you’ve done. I’m grateful, Dad. You were far from perfect and dangerous as truck full of nitro. But I felt your love, your loyalty. Now, seriously, leave Robin alone.” I say with genuine love and compassion for my father, who though his sick mentally, was the only person I could ever depend on.
“Growed up? Throwing away making millions in real estate to be an impoverished filmmaker at age 50? That’s not grown-up, sonny boy, that’s bat-shit crazy. You need to be locked up for your own good, ” says my Captain Hook father, motioning to some cops with a taser and straight jacket, hiding in the bushes. They advance on me cautiously, afraid of my youthful Superman appearance. Gone is the blubber of screenwriting in a chair for 11 years in Hollywood.
“I thank you for teaching me to fish, to hunt, to draw, to love. I honor you, father.” I say bending to one knee before him.
“Ah, let me knight you then, boy!” says my Captain Hook father, bringing his sword down, hoping to cleave me in two. But instead his sword shatters into a thousand shiny pieces without even cutting a hair on my super head. I casually blow my super breath and “Matrix” cops sail off.
Robin flies into a joyous barrel roll above us, “Who hoo! Sheetz is all grown up. Heralds, play onto this fake world the Pandora channel of AWESOME!”
I stand and look lovingly into my dazed father’s eyes and take off his silly Hook wig. Tears well in his grey blue eyes and Dad says, “Never could break you, Ken. Used to drive me nuts. Today, I am proud.”
My father, as all who knew nothing of his epic dark side will tell you, gives the best bear hugs on earth. And even in my super form I feel his power as he lifts me off my feet in a warm embrace. For the first time in my life, I return his wild love in equal measure, bear hugging Dad right back.
Somehow Robin has impossibly wriggled himself between me and my father, whose dirty “before” t-shirt is now as clean and white as a Tide commercials “after” picture. A Tide jingle plays in this fake world from a speaker on the cleaning robot. I use my heat vision and melt the robot into a puddle silver. Tinker Bell gazes at herself in the mirror puddle
“Sorry, no more product placements, Tide. So big Ken and, Bill, isn’t your name?” offers Robin, all charm now. My father nods “yes” respectfully.
Robin says, “Think you two, 20th century and 21st century marvels, can marvel all we trapped souls out of this corporate military industrial complex nightmare?”
“What do you say, Pops? My light and your dark combined will crack Area 51 wide open,” I say hopefully.
“I like it here, Son. Fought in Korea to create all this perfection. Welded the HARP mainframe myself, “says my dad sincerely, admiring his perfectly imperfect world. A blimp for Budweiser beer, with my jumbo screen of Aunt Katie swigging a beer sails over his head.
“This perfection killed your sis, Katie, Bill. It killed me. I couldn’t hold to your insane standards of imperfect perfection anymore. Lost myself in the booze and drugs. I miss my wife and kids. My fans. Help your son. It’s time we started over. And this time the male and female must be honored equally,” offers Robin gently.
My dad scowls at his beautiful dead sister on the overhead blimp ad of her drinking a beer. Without another word, he joins his hands to my forearms, as I learned to do getting off the boat in Antarctcia on 12.12.12, for the 24 meditations. One for each time zone of the planet, now shifting the world with the help of millions of people like me.
“For my sisters Katie and Merytle,” says my father warmly. He begins to darken as though covered with the grease from his life a welder and ace mechanic.
“For my birth daughter Janelle and spirit daughter Genevieve, ” I add as I grow bright from my healing inner child within, no longer so afraid of his father.
“For both your grandpas Julius and Clarence!” says my father, growing as dark as the dark matter of space itself.
Robin, still in Peter Pan form, flies happy circles around us. His back draft spins my father and me into a Ying and Yang of dark and light. Robin adds to the growing Metatron energetic, which is permanent, and says, “For Zelda and Marhsa! For Susan, Zak and Cody! For all my family, friends and fans!”
Outside the spirit HARP facility, a single guard on night duty looks up from his McDonald’s coffee as the HARP superstructure starts to shake and rumble like an earthquake is happening and says, “Oh shit…”
“BANG-A-RANG!” shouts Robin William as he rockets in glowing green Peter Pan form, soaring from the crumbling spirit HARP.
Below, my father and I are a whirling dervish of silver grey energy. We spin at a super sonic speed that sets off a silver tornado, tearing the spirit HARP to shreds of flying steel. Air raid alarms blare and I know our demolition work is done. And so I say lovingly, “Good bye, Dad!”
“Good bye, Son!” my father says and as he kisses me on my cheek, bright as a super nova, his lips dark as a black hole and… BAM!
A mushroom cloud of released spirit energy sends out a shock wave of compressed air that flattens every structure on the Area 51 base. My father gone, I watch as a Grey’s alien ship, from which all the tech had been stolen to steal souls, rises from the ashes of the spirit HARP. The silvery ship tips its thanks to me and Robin and races off to the stars.
“Guess that’s a wrap, Robin.” I smile, backslapping Robin so hard I almost knock him out. “Uh, sorry. Forgot I’m still in Superman form.”
“Lucky for you I’m in still Peter Pan form. Bet you never knew Pan is more powerful than Superman, did ya?” smiles Robin as the dust begins to clear and stars come out in earnest above the cleansed Area 51.
“What make you say that? Supes has mighty strong Jumaji.” I laugh.
“Because Peter Pan, who always wanted to stay young, understands better than anyone the power of kids. And more importantly, our inner kids. That’s why, smart ass,” says Robin playfully.
“No arguments here, Robin. Well, I guess this is goodbye. Stay Peter Pan, cut your tether and fly off with Tinker Bell to that new universe we built yesterday,” I say without feeling sad about a goodbye to someone I love for the first time in my life.
“Agh! Not yet. I want the lesson of the Hellos and Goodbyes to really sink in for you, Sheetzy. So helooo and bye to several trillion souls that you, your old man and I freed tonight. We’ll start with the largest beings to smallest.” says Robin.
A line of blue whale spirits stretch out before us, hovering over desert floor.
“Hello, Ken, ” the first whale calls to me in whale tones I understand as words.
“Hello, Elizabeth,” I say amazed I know in my heart that the blue whale’s name is the same as the woman Ohom, my spirit guide has told me is my prefect mate but who has yet to accept my invite to Sedona. Elizabeth the whale holds out a fin for a shake and I say with zero anxiety, “Goodbye, Elizabeth. I wish you’d wrap up life in LA and come to Sedona.”
Saying Goodbye without sadness or fear is super cool, Robin,” I say flashing the thumbs up to Peter Pan. “I said bye knowing I’d faced all my father’s darkness with love and compassion. I said it knowing since Ohom is right about everything that she and I will meet again and share many adventures.”
“Might be hope for you yet, Super Sheetz,” says Robin.
I look at endless line of trillions of spirits freed of the Area 51 HARP and turn to Robin, my Super cape fluttering in the night air and say, “Robin, man, this is going to take forever. I really do get it. Hello leads to goodbye and the goodbyes simply lead to back to hello. I’m cool now.”
Robin floats off gracefully on his back, still in Peter Pan form, above the ruins of Area 51. Tinker Bell infuses him with fresh fairy dust for the long journey to the labyrinth universe we’d made together yesterday, Robin says with the satisfied smile of a job well done on his lips, “That’s what eternity is for, Sheetzy.”
“But I have work to do today. Tax reports need –”
“Time is not linear, Ken. So that’s one Hello/Goodbye lesson down and six trillion, 999 billion, 999 million, 999 thousand and 999 souls to say Goodbye and Hello to to go,” grins Robin as he and Tinker Bell rocket off, leaving a trail of pixie dust across the Nevada night sky.
I happily return to my training from the patient spirits tapped here since 1957 by the spirit HARP and ready to be free after they share the Hello and Goodbye abandonment healing to go onto all their next lives and their own Neverlands.
In my morning meditation I feel connection to the memory of my favorite, and sadly deceased, comic Robin Williams’ spirit to download a story for you, dear reader.
I close my eyes and begin to lucid dream. I picture he’s been sending me urgent SOS signals all night that he’s trapped in Area 51. I head in my trusty 2011 silver Jeep for the strange base when hail of machine gun fire erupts. I spin the Jeep off the road and hide it safely in in a gully. I love my little used Jeep, my first car in over 20 years since losing my shirt in the real estate crash of 1991. I head back to Area 51 on foot, cloaked in invisibility.
I’ve done complex meditations to evade psychic security screens before, particularly when I sought to warm the heart of icy banking giant Bank of America, but never have I experienced anything this intense before. Trillions of trapped souls cried out to me from the beyond here at the dreaded Area 51, Robin’s voice being the loudest I followed his psychic trail.
The Orion Ohom informed along the way that Area 51 has trapped the souls of all the beings that have died on earth since 1957, both human and all the way down to bacteria. To keep the souls from escaping Area 51 uses stolen Grey tech to create an alternate reality, a “Matrix” where no one or nothing knows they are dead.
I shift my molecules, a gift common to those abducted as kids by aliens like myself, and easily pass through the barbed wire fence. I tiptoe past a sleeping guard. I’m in.
I crest a rocky desert hill. Faint light flashes beneath a guge spirit HARP camouflaged grid. It is about a mile square and hums with a sick strange-colored alien energy. Staying invisible, no guards challenge me as I prowl the perimeter, “Robin?” I say. “You in there, buddy?”
“Psst, keep your voice down Sheetzy!” whispers Robin sticking his head out the barrier and then getting sucked back in.
I step across the rough desert terrain to the spot where Robin briefly poked out his head and turn on my red spirit armor. This powerful armor was given to me by my dead father for my secret 2011 meditation to close down the Bermuda Triangle, blogged about here in great detail in earlier postings. I’d give you a link but stick with me. No distractions to this telling of Robin Williams and his work helping the planet and me heal from the afterlife.
As I step into the force field, I am instantly besieged. Overwhelmed by deep sorrow. Trillions of the dead life forms, collected here in Area 51 since 1957, all want to speak to me at once of their fears. The insanity virus is visible in this buffer zone I see as a nasty flowing energy, the color of clotted blood. I become confused. Lost. Every fear broadcast daily on FOX News and every other news outlet attacks me all once.
I will myself onward against a hurricane of terror about solar flares, radiation, fracking, Ebola virus and more and more. My father’s red armor begins to spark and short out. I trip and fall face first to the desert floor. Epic fear rapidly eats away at my armor and my body becomes exposed to even more fear. I lose hope as I soon lose consciousness.
I awake, my face cut and bruised to smiling face of Robin Williams, the age he was at death, looking down on me saying, “Sheetzy, Sheetzy? You OK, bud? Sorry. Wow. What a rotten way to start a Monday.”
I sit up on my elbows, winching at burnt skin on my face, tender to the touch. This virtual world is a well organized paradise inside the spirit HARP. Trillions of beings live in ignorant bliss in this spotless utopia. No one is aware of the energy vampires running this place, it seems. “God only knows the purpose behind all this damn perfection,” I groan.
“Yeah, let’s get the hell out of this Disneyland gone bad before we turn into Mickey and Donald, ” urges Robin, helping me to my feet.
Looking for some kind of exit, Robin and I enter a small neighborhood park with a lighted sidewalk. The sunset is dazzling. I whistle at the beauty all around us.
“Don’t be fooled by all the purdy flowers and birdies, pard. The good folks running this place have about as much heart as a Hollywood lawyer,” says Robin dusting me off.
“Yeah, let’s keep moving. Has to be some kind of power source running this joint,” I say as small remnant of my father’s destroyed red armor clanks to the sidewalk.
“Sorry about you dad’s super suit. Maybe get you a new one if you can get me out of here, Sheetzy, if you tell me your dad’s armor tailor,” says Robin sheepishly.
“Perhaps my old man’s ethereal armor fried because it’s time for me to learn to work without it,” I say kind of happy to be graduating for assistance from my erratic father.
“Cool,” says Robin petting a chihuahua looking for its master.
“Last time I saw you, Robin, you were in that maze world we built in deep space. Safe and sound in a new universe all your own made of the pure love of all who adore you.” I say, recalling yesterday’s epic vision blogged of here.
“Yeah, don’t really know how I got sucked into Area 51-ville. Oh, wait… Forgot to cut my earthly tether. Yikes. I am not good at this dead stuff yet.” says Robin apologetically.
“My fault. Should have told you as your spirit consultant, Robin.” I say bear hugging Robin off the ground. “Happy to see you again, man! Watched you in HOOK with my last night. Let’s get you flying again, Peter Pan.”
“Do I get any thanks at all?” says Robin to change the topic.
“For what?” I say
“For dragging your heavy butt out of the HARP barrier when you fainted, Sheetzorama” say Robin with that famed smirk of his.
“I did not faint. Women faint. I passed out, Robin, ” I say defensively as I eye a huge blue whale sailing in the early evening sky above us.
“Whoa. Relax, man. This roomie moving thing out has you as out of whack as President Obama’s lost hope and change agenda. We’re gonna have to straighten this child abandonment stuff of yours out once and for all so that you have enough juice to blast us out of this Walmart paradise. Coffee sucks here, BTW. Nothing but McDonald’s and they make you eat a double cheeseburger with every cup! I’ve packed on ten spirit pounds already!” says Robin brightly.
As I laugh, Robin transforms to his age and garb as Peter Pan in the film HOOK and says, “Ok, Sheetzy, it’s HOOK time. Change to yourself age 8. I want to do a Peter Pan healing of your inner child to pay you back for all the good work you’ve been doing meditating for me and my loved ones.”
“Uh, not really, uh, time. Busting you out of here now before — “
“Go ahead. Try, Ken. Bust all 7 trillion of us life forms, including your own life force, outta here, Popeye. Try, or better as Yoda says, DO!” said Robin with a comic bow.
I squeeze my eyes and try to use some of the new techniques I’d been gifted in the Mt. Shasta pyramid from spirit architect Metatron, all of which worked so flawlessly the night before helping Robin reunite with loved ones. A tiny ellipse of bright light forms between my hands and PUFF! goes out.
“Spiritual impotency alert! AGH! AGH!” laughs Williams as Pan.
“Point made,” I acknowledge to Robin as I begrudgingly transform to my frightened 8-year-old me.
“Come and sit on uncle Peter Pan’s lap, little Kenny,” says Robin taking a seat on an immaculate park bench. “My lap is safer than Santa’s, Come on. Up!”
I happily climb up into his warm lap and Robin puts a big hairy arm around me. With a reassuring smile Peter Pan Robin says, “Genevieve is someone new and wonderful in your adult life. A spirit daughter is rare. Appreciate her without smothering her. Respect her when she says she’ll always be there for you, Ken, living under your roof or not.”
I nod quickly, wanting to believe Genevieve will not be leaving me forever, but little me is feeling very sick. “My tummy hurts,” I say vomiting onto the perfect lawn.
“Thanks for not puking on me, little Kenny” says Robin, great with kids, Peter Pan or not. He strokes my hair and offers. “Now listen carefully, little Ken. Genevieve’s not your
“Hello, little Ken,” says Robin, shaking my hand and pumping my little arm up and down so hard that I giggle.
“Hello, Peter Pan!’ I giggle happily.
“Goodbye, little Ken,” says Robin patting my head. Tears well in my big blue eight-year-old eyes. My lush lower lip, beautiful I see now, but which my vile father called “Nigger lip”, sticks out, quivering. Robin gives a frown and flies off into a perfect fake cotton candy cloud high above.
Little Ken whimpers to himself, “All alone!” Strangers and animals pass, ignoring little me. I feel so rejected, the orphan child and fall deeper into fear as suddenly the shadowy figure of my drunken father staggers up the pathway.
“Hello, little Ken!” says Robin zipping back into view.
“Hello, Peter Pan!” I say glad to no longer see my ominous father as Peter Pan blocks his view.
Goodbye, Little Ken!” says Robin. He flies away so fast the suction messes the long mop of soft brown hair on my head into a swirl. I spin around. “Oh no…” I whisper. My drunk as a angry skunk father is only 20 yards away.
“Hey, you little shit. Get your skinny ass over here, ” says my father, slurring his words. He guzzles down a beer and tosses the empty can onto the perfect trail. A park robot instantly cleans up after him.
I run and hide behind a ridiculously perfect set of bushes and there is Robin as Peter Pan. “Hello, Little, Ken!” says Robin. But this time before he can fly off I dive onto Robin’s leg and grab hold for life.
“Don’t leave me with my Daddy! He will hurt me! He’s mean! Don’t leave me, Peter Pan, like my mommy, grandma and auntie did!” I beg shamelessly.
Robin sighs and takes me by the hand and firmly guides to where my father is waiting, leather belt in hand, itching to beat me.
“No! Peter Pan please. Fly me away to Neverland with you. My papa is mean. He’ll kill us both!” I beg.
“Time to face the real reason you get so sad when women leave you. Your pops is an abusing jerk. I’ll handle him like I’ve handled him like any other drunk hecklers in my standup work. Relax, little Kenny.” says Robin tugging me along.
“NO! NO! My dad’s meaner than you can know!” I shout, but Peter Pan is too strong for me. I can feel my angry father’s hot dragon breath as we get close. I puke again on the manicured lawn. The cleaning robot beeps in annoyance as he hoses down my vomit.
Robin as the Pan gets right up in my father’s face and shouts, “You! You, sorry excuse for a human being, you should be ashamed of yourself for how you treat this beautiful boy of your. You sir are a bad dad!”
“Oh yeah, faggot in green tights? Whatcha gonna do about it? Ken’s a rotten kid. The little shit needs to learn respect for his father!” shouts my dear old dad, the veins on his muscular arms bugling as he put up his fists to fight.
“That’s right, violence solves everything, doesn’t it Captain Hook?” As Robin says and at this my father’s clothes and hair transform into Captain Hook’s, hook hand and all.
My father pulls his sword in the blink of an eye and lunges it for Robin’s heart shouting, “Queer!”
But Peter Pan quickly pulls his sword and shouts in a fake gay voice to taunt my father, “The battle of Area 51 is on like Tinker Bell’s fairy dust, you brute!”
“No one tells me how to raise my God Damn kid, Fem!” shouts my father, striking Robin’s sword so hard sparks fly. My father is a highly trailed US Army drill sergeant and his powers combined with Captain Hook’s are formidable.
“Of course I dare, you drunken fart in the wind! Your old poodle Lacy would make a better dad than you, ” shouts Robin defiantly, his gay BIRD CAGE taunting tone gone.
“To the death, Pan!” says my enraged father, hooking Robin’s tunic and tossing him smashing through a billboard of a perfect shiny new Ford hybrid.
“Now there’s a product placement Spielberg would love,” kids Robin, quickly dusting himself off as he parries swords with my crazed Captain Hook/father.
I bawl and hide my little eight-year-old self behind the cleaning robot, doing it’s best to keep this perfect fake world perfect.
My Captain Hook father does a spin and slashes open a deep gash across Peter Pan’s chest. “Huh? Dead and I can still bleed?” says Robin, stunned. He looks at me as if wanting help. But I am a helpless child again. Watching two people I love fight. My father’s powerful sword blows make Robin weaker by the second.
“Oh, yes, Peter Pan Williams, you can bleed. I am going to gut you like a fish! I shall bleed all your life force into the HARP so that no one even remembers you. Everything you ever created, every film you made, even your kids will vanish as if they never existed!”
“Hello, little Kenny? A little help here, please?” shouts Robin as my father wails hook and sword blows down on him with the viciousness that almost killed me on my 12th birthday.
“Can’t. Can’t help you, Peter Pan. I’m too little, ” I say peering out from behind the cleaning robot.
“Hello, Little Kenny! Then ain’t it time you grow up? Dontcha kinda think, before your old man turns me into a fresh green salad?” says Robin as my father knocks him to the perfect lawn.
Bystanders cheer on my Hook father “Erase the suicide! Williams shouldn’t be here. Peter Pan should be in hell where all suicides belong!” shouts a burly man. This deep dig greatly weakens poor Robin.
“I loved Robin’s movies. He died of depression. No different from someone dying of car crash. This great artist deserves to be here just as much as you and me,” shouts a woman who looks like an amalgam of every woman I ever loved all rolled into one.
The burly man smacks the kind lady to the pavement, “Shut up and stay down, bitch!”
Seeing the violence perpetrated on this innocent woman, defending Robin in this nightmarish world of perfection causes something to erupt inside little me. Little Ken wills down from the heavens the power of the DreamShield I saw the ET angels build in Italy in 2010. He wills up the the volcanic power of mother earth. Instantly, I am my adult-sized again, only now I am young once more, about 27, and wear not my father’s red suit of failed ethereal armor, but the red, yellow and blue suit of Superman, my triumphant childhood hero.
I fly over to the fight at super speed to the fight scene, just as my father is about to make the death blow to Robin’s spirit, erasing him forever from human history. I tap my Hook father on the shoulder and say hoarsely, “Stop Dad.”
My Hook father spins to me, screaming in my face like the madman he was in real life, when I’d shake but while I still faced him down, “You, worthless cur. Every woman leaves you. And who’s always the one to pick up the pieces? Me! Ha! You stand up for a suicide after all I’ve done for you? You make me sick, boy.”
“I am not your whipping boy anymore, Captain Hook. Thanks for all you’ve done. I’m grateful, Dad. You were far from perfect and dangerous as truck full of nitro. But I felt your love, your loyalty. Now, seriously, leave Robin alone.” I say with genuine love and compassion for my father, who though his sick mentally, was the only person I could ever depend on.
“Growed up? Throwing away making millions in real estate to be an impoverished filmmaker at age 50? That’s not grown-up, sonny boy, that’s bat-shit crazy. You need to be locked up for your own good, ” says my Captain Hook father, motioning to some cops with a taser and straight jacket, hiding in the bushes. They advance on me cautiously, afraid of my youthful Superman appearance. Gone is the blubber of screenwriting in a chair for 11 years in Hollywood.
“I thank you for teaching me to fish, to hunt, to draw, to love. I honor you, father.” I say bending to one knee before him.
“Ah, let me knight you then, boy!” says my Captain Hook father, bringing his sword down, hoping to cleave me in two. But instead his sword shatters into a thousand shiny pieces without even cutting a hair on my super head. I casually blow my super breath and “Matrix” cops sail off.
Robin flies into a joyous barrel roll above us, “Who hoo! Sheetz is all grown up. Heralds, play onto this fake world the Pandora channel of AWESOME!”
I stand and look lovingly into my dazed father’s eyes and take off his silly Hook wig. Tears well in his grey blue eyes and Dad says, “Never could break you, Ken. Used to drive me nuts. Today, I am proud.”
My father, as all who knew nothing of his epic dark side will tell you, gives the best bear hugs on earth. And even in my super form I feel his power as he lifts me off my feet in a warm embrace. For the first time in my life, I return his wild love in equal measure, bear hugging Dad right back.
Somehow Robin has impossibly wriggled himself between me and my father, whose dirty “before” t-shirt is now as clean and white as a Tide commercials “after” picture. A Tide jingle plays in this fake world from a speaker on the cleaning robot. I use my heat vision and melt the robot into a puddle silver. Tinker Bell gazes at herself in the mirror puddle
“Sorry, no more product placements, Tide. So big Ken and, Bill, isn’t your name?” offers Robin, all charm now. My father nods “yes” respectfully.
Robin says, “Think you two, 20th century and 21st century marvels, can marvel all we trapped souls out of this corporate military industrial complex nightmare?”
“What do you say, Pops? My light and your dark combined will crack Area 51 wide open,” I say hopefully.
“I like it here, Son. Fought in Korea to create all this perfection. Welded the HARP mainframe myself, “says my dad sincerely, admiring his perfectly imperfect world. A blimp for Budweiser beer, with my jumbo screen of Aunt Katie swigging a beer sails over his head.
“This perfection killed your sis, Katie, Bill. It killed me. I couldn’t hold to your insane standards of imperfect perfection anymore. Lost myself in the booze and drugs. I miss my wife and kids. My fans. Help your son. It’s time we started over. And this time the male and female must be honored equally,” offers Robin gently.
My dad scowls at his beautiful dead sister on the overhead blimp ad of her drinking a beer. Without another word, he joins his hands to my forearms, as I learned to do getting off the boat in Antarctcia on 12.12.12, for the 24 meditations. One for each time zone of the planet, now shifting the world with the help of millions of people like me.
“For my sisters Katie and Merytle,” says my father warmly. He begins to darken as though covered with the grease from his life a welder and ace mechanic.
“For my birth daughter Janelle who has not spoken to me in 3 years, ” I add as I grow bright from my healing inner child within, no longer so afraid of his father.
“For both your grandpas Julius and Clarence!” says my father, growing as dark as the dark matter of space itself.
Robin, still in Peter Pan form, flies happy circles around us. His back draft spins my father and me into a Ying and Yang of dark and light. Robin adds to the growing Metatron energetic, which is permanent, and says, “For Zelda and Marhsa! For Susan, Zak and Cody! For all my family, friends and fans!”
Outside the spirit HARP facility, a single guard on night duty looks up from his McDonald’s coffee as the HARP superstructure starts to shake and rumble like an earthquake is happening and says, “Oh shit…”
“BANG-A-RANG!” shouts Robin William as he rockets in glowing green Peter Pan form, soaring from the crumbling spirit HARP.
Below, my father and I are a whirling dervish of silver grey energy. We spin at a super sonic speed that sets off a silver tornado, tearing the spirit HARP to shreds of flying steel. Air raid alarms blare and I know our demolition work is done. And so I say lovingly, “Good bye, Dad!”
“Good bye, Son!” my father says and as he kisses me on my cheek, bright as a super nova, his lips dark as a black hole and… BAM!
A mushroom cloud of released spirit energy sends out a shock wave of compressed air that flattens every structure on the Area 51 base. My father gone, I watch as a Grey’s alien ship, from which all the tech had been stolen to steal souls, rises from the ashes of the spirit HARP. The silvery ship tips its thanks to me and Robin and races off to the stars.
“Guess that’s a wrap, Robin.” I smile, backslapping Robin so hard I almost knock him out. “Uh, sorry. Forgot I’m still in Superman form.”
“Lucky for you I’m in still Peter Pan form. Bet you never knew Pan is more powerful than Superman, did ya?” smiles Robin as the dust begins to clear and stars come out in earnest above the cleansed Area 51.
“What make you say that? Supes has mighty strong Jumaji.” I laugh.
“Because Peter Pan, who always wanted to stay young, understands better than anyone the power of kids. And more importantly, our inner kids. That’s why, smart ass,” says Robin playfully.
“No arguments here, Robin. Well, I guess this is goodbye. Stay Peter Pan, cut your tether and fly off with Tinker Bell to that new universe we built yesterday,” I say without feeling sad about a goodbye to someone I love for the first time in my life.
“Agh! Not yet. I want the lesson of the Hellos and Goodbyes to really sink in for you, Sheetzy. So helooo and bye to several trillion souls that you, your old man and I freed tonight. We’ll start with the largest beings to smallest.” says Robin.
A line of blue whale spirits stretch out before us, hovering over desert floor.
“Hello, Ken, ” the first whale calls to me in whale tones I understand as words.
“Hello, Elizabeth,” I say amazed I know in my heart that the blue whale’s name. Elizabeth the whale holds out a fin for a shake and I say with zero anxiety, “Goodbye, I hope you’ll finish your LA life and join me in Sedona some day. Don’t forget Ohom says you are my perfect mate.” The giant blue whale vanishes.
Saying Goodbye without sadness or fear is super cool, Robin,” I say flashing the thumbs up to Peter Pan. “I said bye knowing I’d faced all my father’s darkness with love and compassion. I said it knowing my spirit daughter Elizabeth and I will meet again and share many adventures.”
“Might be hope for you yet, Super Sheetz,” says Robin.
I look at endless line of trillions of spirits freed of the Area 51 HARP and turn to Robin, my Super cape fluttering in the night air and say, “Robin, man, this is going to take forever. I really do get it. Hello leads to goodbye and the goodbyes simply lead to back to hello. I’m cool now.”
Robin floats off gracefully on his back, still in Peter Pan form, above the ruins of Area 51. Tinker Bell infuses him with fresh fairy dust for the long journey to the labyrinth universe we’d made together yesterday, Robin says with the satisfied smile of a job well done on his lips, “That’s what eternity is for, Sheetzy.”
“But I have work to do today. Tax reports need –“
“Time is not linear, Ken. So that’s one Hello/Goodbye lesson down and six trillion, 999 billion, 999 million, 999 thousand and 999 souls to say Goodbye and Hello to to go,” grins Robin as he and Tinker Bell rocket off, leaving a trail of pixie dust across the Nevada night sky.
I open my eyes and smile that Robin’s still a vital part of my subconscious.
“The proper tools for the proper job.” – Source Unknown
4:01 AM AZ Time 7.23.14. Covering spirit news is great but the hours suck
After a relatively quite spell for my vision work as a spirit reporter for the unseen and the amazing help earth is getting from ETs and earth angels alike, an odd beat for this former corporate real estate exec to end up with, my visions have been growing in power and number over the past two weeks. I am activating for the end of the doorway of the new Mayan age on 12.13.14 and I am strongly called to back Antarctica, where I made it for 12.12.12 and the coolest meditation ever, still #1 on Google, by the blue Orions of the world Nektar, who have a base deep beneath the ice sheet, on what was once a tropical paradise called Atlantis.
Penguins join my 12.12.12 meditations to save earth.
How life has changed since I wore a suit and tie and earned millions as a greedy corporate worker bee in the hive of Chicago. Back then I had over 300 people working for me a $162 skyscraper called One North Franklin I owned and built-in the heart of the Loop. It was 1991, building Oprah’s Harpo Studios had earned me the developer of the year award. Yet I was unhappy and driven. No amount of money ever seemed enough to fill the black hole inside me.
Just one year later, 1992 I had lost it all in an epic commercial real estate crash that cost me, not only my fair share of the failed skyscraper losses on $80 some million, but an 18 year marriage and that sadly estranged me from two great, but lost-in-the-Matrix, kids. Kids who live in fear that their dad has lost it, seeing and talking to ETs.
Looking back in 1992, and losing it all, I see now I was freed of life as corporate slave by my higher self Ohom. My kids will see this one day, as will my grandkids. Onward and upward. Way upward. High above the earth…
INSANITY ABOARD THE MOTHERSHIP
Last night I found myself aboard a vast research spaceship. a mothership with complete with a living benign zoo filled with holographic dynoramas. The dazzling light speed ship, capable of time and dimension travel, teamed with many races of aliens caring for the experimental zoo. Enough ET races to make Lucas or Rodenberry blush.
As I explored the vast ship many ETs saluted me with pounds to their heart, some in odd places. It was then I realized I was not longer Ken Sheetz. I looked in a mirror and the my blue face beloing ET being Ohom, my higher self grinned. Ken was forgotten. I was Ohom fleet commander.
Nice having a higher self on high places. Right? But this mission was no cake walk or prize. Ohom was extremely nervous, like the fate of the universes depended on his, because it did that night.
Ohom’s multi-race crew had abducted a great many CEO’s, the “hyper success driven” destroyers of the earth, to study in our corporate zoo. The zoo is so amazing the CEOs had no idea they were billions of miles from earth.
Ohom and the team of researcher had at last devised a cure for the insanity virus. A virus foisted on humanity by dark forces out to wreck worlds for reasons unknown ever to themselves. Always there is dark and light in the universe. The light and dark work actually together well when left alone to balance and energize each other. But Earth has been unfairly tampered with in the form of this insanity virus by the dark side, a side that’s ego constantly wants dominion over other. So by the rules of reality the light side is allowed to right this wrong upon humanity.
Time to save humanity from itself, Ohom urged the crew, was running out,”Brothers and sisters of the League of Ghost worlds. Gaia is losing heart with humankind and the greed of their corporations consuming all and making a nightmare of her nature. She worries most about her sea beings that are being slaughtered in countless numbers by radiation from Fukushima, oil exploration gone mad and outright contamination of her oceans by dumping of toxic waster by men who care only for profits and more profits. Humans have proven resistive to all our cures for the insanity virus… so far. Tonight I believe we shall be successful with our CEO test subjects. Let us join our minds and visualize the freeing of humanity this very night!”
A cheer rose up from the alien throng of tireless scientists. A short time later Ohom entered the zoo. He became invisible and strolled into the office simulation of a busy oil CEO speaking curtly to his frumpy virtual reality secretary, “I don’t give a swimming crap about any dolphins our new rig might be killing. There’s no proof of that, Ms. Martinez. Zilch, zero, nada. Just some vegetarian kelp eating hunch of yours. Dolphins be damned. Send the order to the manager of the Orleans rig he’s to be fired if I do not see a 33% increase to oil production by –”
Ohom waved his hand and the oil CEO froze mid-sentence. Ohom deftly reached into the skull of a major oil company CEO, defying the physics of reality. With a quick twist of Ohom’s wrist, a cylindrical brain core protruded about an inch over the forehead of the peacefully resting and clueless oil CEO. Ohoml gently lifted the CEO’s brain core free.
It looked gross, as the missing core left of circular hole, about 3 inches in diameter, in the middle of the forehead of the sleeping exec. The hole extended down to where his pineal gland had also been removed.
The oil company excec’s brain core was filthy with contaminated, bad food, bad water, bad ideas and bad psychic oil. Ohom’s beautiful young assistant, think of a humanoid elephant-form, took the core from Ohom and washed it in a blue gel solution. She had one word to say about the CEO brain core, “Yuck!” Satisfied the core was clean she proudly returned Ohom. He carried it gently, like one might with bomb, to a work station where a dolphin-like being radiated the CEO’s brain core with new information, and tested the core to make extra sure the insanity virus was extinguished.
Ohom turned to a screen that the several thousand strong research crew watch, “Rejoice. Humanity is cured! Please send the signal to Gaia to hold off unleashing her fury upon her human children.”
As aliens hugged and danced for joy, the virtual secretary’s image shifted. Gone was her drab grey suit and frumpy hair style. The secretary shifted into the dazzling beauty known as Gaia, complete with her gown of green and she shouted, “Silence, all of you! As you dance and rejoice over nothing seven whales and seven hundred dolphins have perished to man’s greed! Tell me, Ohom, must we go down this road again of your endless cures that fail? How many more of creatures must die before humanity is cured as falsely promise over and over again?! HOW MANY?”
Ohom hung his blue head sadly and offered, “That I cannot say Gaia. For the insanity virus has had a total grip on humankind for several thousand years now and –”
“Shut up! I am tired of your excuses, Ohom! The humans are my children all seven billion of them, but they are beyond salvation. I must unleash all my furies upon them before they kill all their brother and sister creatures. You are too late!”
“Gaia, please. Be patient just a little while longer,” said Ohom softly.
“What exactly is “A little while longer?” said Gaia glaring deeply into Ohom’s bee-like eyes.
“Um, a cosmic blink of an eye, uh just 46 years more years and you will be so proud of your sane humanity,” said Ohom, awaiting Gaia’s fury.
“46 years? 46 years you expect me to wait for yet another ” insanity cure” of yours to take at last take hold? Why, in the mere seconds we have stood here babbling over one million birds have perished in slaughter houses of corporate farms! What you ask of me, Ohom, and you have asked for eons now on humanity’s behalf, well, this time mercy is not an option!” shouted Gaia in Ohom’s face.
The entire crew watched in horror on the jumbo screen as Ohom mustered all his persuasive powers, “Gaia, my beautiful old friend, extinguish humanity and you extinguish yourself.”
“Ha! I’ve lived for five billion years without humanity upon my world. To use human slang, they are but mere a typo in the blog of my life story. Humanity is nothing more than a missed comma,” huffed Gaia.
“Wrong, earth’s goddess.” said Ohom in a whisper.
“OK. fairly warned. I will take my chances then. It’s far better than sitting idly by for another of your failed cures while my forests and oceans die and I lose billions of years worth of my work!”
“Gaia,” said Ohom taking Gaia’s hand, “We have been friends through millions of my lifetimes in lower form on your world. And aside from my home world of Nektar, your earth is my favorite place to reincarnate. I am one of your dolphins, besides my human form of Ken, and I can tell you we as species will not appreciate you killing our brother and sister humans.” Ohom shifted to a combination of his ET self and dolphin self.
Gaia’s face, nonetheless, remained as firm as the stone of Mt. Everest. The vast spaceship trembled with her simmering rage. All aboard knew if she erupted all would perish. And so did she so she mastered her rage and calmly hissed, “I’ve made up my mind. In time you will all see I am right to wipe out my ungrateful children. Whelps who could have shaken off this virus ages ago if they had the powerful souls they proclaim in their silly religions, another form of their insanity to see themselves as lords of a universe thy barely comprehend. Sick creatures living for thing called money that is not real. It will be a mercy killing to end their rein in terror over all their brother and sister creatures and their vile abuse of my resources, meant to be shared equally!”
Ohom shifted back to his seven-foot tall blue insect-oid angel looking form and said, “Gaia, you know I live outside time and space. And what I have seen is that what you created in humanity has a far greater role than any of us could have ever known…”
Gaia laughed spitefully and cooed sexily, “Oh, Ohom. Hilarious. Now you sound like one the human priests. Fool.”
“Gaia, I have seen humanity, sick as it is, is literally holding all the universes and dimensions together. Destroy humanity and all of space and time across all realities will unravel. This I swear upon my dead world Nektar that lives on outside time,” said Ohom with deep sincerity.
Gaia turned to face the greedy oil exec to process what Ohom had just told her. Tears began to well in her eye and she let loose a scream of agony and frustration that echoed into deep space, where no echo should carry in the vacuum of space.
“Please, Gaia. Return to the simulation. Let the fate of earth, the fate of humanity, the fate of all reality hinge on what final action this oil CEO takes now that he is cured,” said Ohom bravely, not really sure his cure had in fact worked. But there was no other way. The dice must be rolled. The time for words was past.
Gaia wiped her tears and shifted back into being the frumpy virtual reality secretary. Ohom waved his hands and the oil CEO continued bellowing right where he left off, “33% and not and iota of increased production less. And never mention this dolphin crap again!”
The secretary Gaia looked pleased at the clear failure and headed for the office door. Ohom appeared before in a transparent form the oil CEO could not see and whispered, “Ask him again, Gaia. He was mid-thought when I cured him. Momentum of the insanity virus carried him on. Please!”
The secretary Gaia spun on her high heels and said gently, “Mr. Capricorn, have you ever swam with the dolphins?”
The oil exec cleared his throat nervously, wondering what was happening to his drive to conquer any all before him, and said in amazement at his own words, “Can’t say as I ever have, Ms. Martinez.”
“Sir, would you be willing to try? My treat. Dolphin swim on me,” said Gaia as the secretary, hope swelling in her great heart.
The oil exec pondered in pleased confusion, not knowing the fate of his species, all the universes hung on his word and finally he smiled warmly and said, “Ha, by God, do you know how long it’s been since anyone treated me to anything, Ms. Martinez?”
“There’s a beautiful dolphin pen, just five minutes away off Waikiki Beach. I could take you over lunch hour. I’ll even buy lunch, long as it’s vegetarian, ” said the secretary Gaia.
The oil exec chuckled as he ran a hand through his wavy grey mop of hair and said in stunned disbelief of his words, ” And afterwards, if I decide that I don’t give a damn about your precious dolphins, do you promise to stop nagging me?”
“Deal,” said the secretary Gaia shaking the oil exec’s hand.
Ohom froze reality again and Gaia stepped out of the secretary’s body with a deep sigh and said, “46 years, Ohom. 46 years to show me a lot more progress than a dick like this going for a dolphin swim with his secretary.” With a clap of thunder and flash of lightning Gaia was gone and humanity had bought some more time.
I awoke with a start, knowing this was not an ordinary dream, but a powerful vision dream, a download. This really happened on another plane of reality. Though only getting about 4 hours of real sleep I am full of energy and light. And so, dear readers, fellow humans, it’s my joy to share with you the end of corporate insanity is at hand. Ah. No one will likely believe me as usual. That’s the magic of all this hiding in plain sight.
THIS CONFIRMATION CAME IN AS I BLOGGED!
Today the Washington Post ran a story about how the world as we know it almost ended in fact in 2012 from a massive solar flare than barely missed earth. Ohom guided me to hold a save the earth from solar flare mediation event LA’s Gateway with Dr. Sarah Larsen on 1.4.11 to prevent that destruction. And we were not the only meditation team focusing on saving earth from solar flares that day. This project has redundancy upon redundancy, all teams hidden in plain sight and marginalized by the establishment as nut jobs. Occupational hazard.
Ohom knows the power to small shifts in advance of things and how that ripples out to save this world. In quantum psychics it’s called the Butterfly Tsunami effect. In June of 2014 he called me to Chicago for a small butterfly of an action at the very building I built One North Franklin. This action I was guided to do will created positive tsumai emanating from the center of the windy city, parallel to an ET portal called the Bean on the lakefront that will save not only earth, but the entire universe. Afterwards, I enjoyed a musical called MOTOWN like nothing had happened with my shocked associate.
It’s not an ego trip that I help save the world. I’ve been doing it regularly since 2010. Rather, I am part of many doing this work to protect this world. Earth is very connected to the universe. Quantum physicists will back me up that at the moment before the big bang, everything was together in one ball of energy. So a small hole in the fabric of reality can unravel this entire universe. I cannot say more of my Chicago surprise mission to save the universe for a few months, but I had a witness to it all with me to confirm it all. It was a secret mission I did not get instructions for until I was half way to Chicago in the sky. Not unlike the 2011 meditation that closed the Bermuda Triangle that is here on the blog. A written record of all the amazing real life spirit adventures to save earth from dangers both internal and external.
Once again, I can’t wait to watch the news and see the shift of our mentally sick CEOs to true health really happen. Perhaps already happening as linear time is an illusion. I called in a rainbow right on camera the other day in this LINK to THE RAIN OF TRUTH. Things are getting pretty darned amazing and being in Sedona and working with a great scientist like Patrick Flanagan on his NewNeurophone project.
Meantime, Ohom and the med crew will be working on curing many other CEO’s. This vision is a direct result of the pain expressed by my friends in their posts about the planet’s plight at the hands of insane CEOs and corporations and the video this inspired. This lucid dream is the answer to the video’s challenge to take this world to the corporations to the light.
Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light. – Helen Keller
Happy Sunday morning. Enjoying my home like it’s a log cabin despite the defective HVAC duct I taped off. Many of my friends are saying “lawyer up” and sue the negligent landlord, because dear readers, I almost passed this week. A combination of my normally manageable sleep apnea combined with the fiberglass I breathed in, painful to expel from my body, to become a deadly mix that almost sent me to work on the other side. I became almost impossible to live with as my fear rose, as a few of my dear friends can attest.
Fear for my own life is not what made me so hard to get along with this week. I have lived a long amazing life at 61. I don’t really fear death. Fact is I practically welcome it as the dichotomy of tragedy like the Malaysian airline shot down this week with the positive changes happening in an awakening humanity are maddening. Rather, I lost faith and feared not being able to do my 50 year mission that began in 2010. What keeps me fixed to earth right now is my selection by ETs in 2010 as a connector to their wisdom and distinct instruction I must live until the year 2040 to help usher in an age of balance of the dark and light.
The air crash had me in tears this difficult week. I posted this to Facebook a few days ago:
How small this world is. One of my fellow SoulDrama trainees of client/friend Connie Miller‘s amazing global workshops, where DreamShield was born in a yoga hall in Italy, was traveling to Indonesia when her plane was shot down over the Ukraine and she perished with 295 others.
Hanny was an angel in training, awakening thousands of souls around the world to their full potential. RIP Hanny and all your fellow passengers. What the dark side cannot know is they have made you even more powerful angel in shifting this mixed up world into the light.
Though I never met you, my fellow Soul Dramatist, I will miss you, Hanny Huntjens.
Then this morning this came through loud and clear that all is not as it seems and I posted to Facebook.
I had a powerful vision of Hanny and all the passengers this morning. As the missile hit, and all was flame, I saw Hanny and each passenger transcend their human form. They became a fire of love and light, no fear as they rocketed for the soil of the war-torn Ukraine. As the passengers, crew and plane itself impacted the earth a shock wave of love and light raced outwards. A tidal wave of peaceful loving energy to heal a land taking this world to the brink of nuclear war. Satisfied their sacred mission was accomplished, all board willed the plane to reassemble into a jet of light and love and they, the new human angels of Malaysia flight MH17, lifted off to their home cities across the globe to comfort the hearts and souls of those they left behind.
About 20 minutes later, in that light sleep stage where the Orion ETs like to reach me before my busy day begins, I was shown the balancing act of my life mission in my existence in an amazingly fast life review. Darkness, even something as dark as Hanny and her fellow passengers and the crew who died transcended the darkness with their light. It’s all cosmic fuel for transforming the word, as was 9/11.
My outlook on all tragedy has changed so much. I bless my bizarre experience with my negligent landlord for showing me it can all be used, like a rope of white light weaving with a roped dark as space. Yes, we must honor our human feelings of outrage and grief that this energetic still needs to happen in this world. But is getting easier for me to accept the pain for its higher end and move on. Come the end of my lease on Halloween, how appropriate, assuming my health has returned that what I will do and bless my bad landlord for his lessons. Perhaps a good PI attorney can transmute it in a financial blessing. So even if I do “sue the bastard” as the saying goes, it will not be done from anger but love and laughter.
So there I am ready to start my day when I release the rage over a tough week and weave it, the rope of light and dark and I see the rope gather into ball of grey energy and from one end a shaft of bright light heads into space, and another dives for the new central core of the planet the ETs, teleported in this busy spirit week to help shift humanity faster, and I see the rope of darkness drop and anchor into the new core. The rope of dark and shaft of light based in Sedona join the 24 twins we constructed in Antarctica. Now I see all the Antarctica meditations are designed to shift humanity’s darkness to light. Like “Greed to Sharing”, coolest ever meditation number 12.
That’s when the angels started laughing at and with me in my bed. An ET angelic chorus of laughter that it took me 61 years to figure this out. I was not embarrassed at my clueless self, as 61 years is the blink an eye to the universe. Heck no! I laughed right along with the ET angels and began my Sunday feeling like a new man!
“Someday, after mastering the winds, the waves, the tides and gravity, we shall harness for God the energies of love, and then, for a second time in the history of the world, man will have discovered fire.” – Pierre Teilhard de Chardin
“If only a small fraction of what is already known about the effects of sugar were to be revealed in relation to any other material used as a food additive, that material would promptly be banned.”—John Yudkin MD, Ph.D., F.R.C.P., F.R.S.C., F.I. Biol., Prof of Nutrition at London University
Five stars for FED UP, the new documentary film from Exec Producer Katey Couric, who also narrates the film. The vivacious Katie and fellow exec producer Laurie David, producer for AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH, work in divine harmony to lay bare the sweet conspiracy of a mad food industry poisoning us all.
FED UP struck me deeply because I have two kids, a boy and girl, born 1979 and 1982 respectively, who battled obesity their whole childhoods, and who continue to battle their waistlines now in their 30s. Until FED UP it was a mystery how my kids got, no nice way to say it, fat. It made no sense, my sweet ex-wife-to-be cooked the same hearty meals as her mother and my mother… and yet our kids became ever more obese as the years passed.
I realize now, hindsight painfully 20/20, that I too started to pack on weight around the time my kids were born. This after being so thin most of my life that I had to drink shakes to gain pounds. I chalked it up to a change in my metabolism at 27. Thanks for the brainwashing, food giants.
DEAR UNIVERSE, MAY I PLEASE RELIVE THE PAST 35 YEARS WITH WHAT “FED UP” TEACHES?!
Imagine my outrage learning the truth from FED UP that the root cause of my family’s suffering was simply that my kids and me were daily, unknowingly, ingesting, concealed by lack of proper labeling of Nutritional Standards, ten times the World Health Organization’s suggested levels consumption of sugar per day. Indeed, a modest 25 grams per day is what the WHO recommends in their new publication of May 14, 2014. Likely, even that is high as this stuff is an addictive poison when not ingested through fruits and honey.
WHO’S WHO
Note: This WHO info is more current than the film which reports the WHO’s standard as twice as high at 50 grams. My guess is the release of FED UP caused the WHO to update their standard to suggest ever less sugar out of shame. Shame, as Katie points out in her sure to win a doc Oscar, for the WHO taking a half billion dollar bribe decades ago to keep their WHO mouths shut about who is escalating the dangers of too much sugar consumption in our global diets.
Katie’s FED UP does not mince words. The famed news personality bravely depicts our food industry as downright evil, though not using that term as say an Alex Jones does. Katie therefore gives FED UP mainstream credibility Alex cannot, despite the fact he’s just as right and has been sounding the alarm for decades. FED UP is therefore the ideal tool that we the conscious community need to end this food fight before we are all too lethargic to jump from the pot, like the proverbial frog who boils to death as the temp, the sugar content, is slowly turned up.
GMOs are not touched upon in FED UP at any length. Nor are brain damaging MSGs talked about, nor are strange lethal chemicals and pesticides embedded in processed foods like a wolf in sheep’s low-fat clothing. The laser focus on sugar plaguing our food supply is what makes FED UP powerful.
BEGINNING OF THE END
As the poster plays with the big and fun “F U” top of the blog, let’s stick it to these F’ers where it F’ing hurts: F’ing Sales! Boycotting sugar is not needed. All we have to do is eat the WHO proper amount of 25 grams of sugar consumption a day. Then we all get healthy and the food giants must either cater to the enlightened American consumers’ new tastes or these despicable money-grubbing corporations, who do know they are killing us my the millions, will go the way of a triple-decker burger left on the counter in the sun for three days.
And good riddance to bad food corps. The CEOs of these obesity purveyors should in fact be in prison for what they are doing. What I suggest, eating the proper WHO amount of sugar, is forgiveness on an epic scale they don’t really deserve. But let’s move on. Putting these F’ers in jail misses the point. Let’s transcend this bull. America getting healthy is the best revenge.
It’s up to us to help get the word out about FED UP ourselves. Because I predict, distribution of FED UP will be fought tooth and nail by the soda pop makers where it hurts. Namely, forcing theater owners not to ever show FED UP. Why do I predict the foodsters can and will bully the main stream theaters into not showing FED UP and, worse, get away with it? Simple: Movie houses make over 50% of their revenue selling sodas in ever larger sizes. That’s beverage leverage, my fellow fat Americans.
Wow. Update to the blog. I hate it when I am right at times like this when everyone, EVERYONE, in the world needs to see this film. I just did a 40 miles radius search of LA and as of 7.18.14 not a single theater is showing FED UP. Not one movie house in a city of 8 million?! Yup, for a doc this amounts to my prediction coming true of a distribution shut out by the foodsters. Clear as a bag of sugar coated donuts in a cop car.
You see, docs spread through word of mouth and they need time to generate an audience. WHAT THE BLEEP? took nearly a year to germinate into a mainstream hit. No matter. We can still the foodsters with the DVD when it come out. Hold a sugar-free, with no artificial sugars as they only worsen sugar addiction, private screening party. Watch on VOD and NetFlix when released there with your whole family and save them from the pain I went through my family where all our weights were out of control, spawning eating disorders and obesity for the Sheetz’s.
The days of the studios and theaters blocking what we can use as amazing tools to teach our global soceities to be healthy are over! It’s up to us, dear readers, to get FED UP seen by “We the Fatties” that me and so many have unwittingly become at the hands of these ultimate, all too real, film villains, the food companies. This tragedy of a nation and a world addicted to sugar, a world, must and will have a smart happy ending!
NEGLECT IS DEADLY
At the moment I am living in little Sedona, nestled in the red rocks. Sadly, I am battling health issues caused by the negligence of an absentee landlord causing damage to my lungs. It was caused from my unknowingly breathing loose fiberglass for 8 months, like I had been unknowingly eating too much sugar before seeing FED UP, before I finally figured it all out why I kept getting sicker and sicker in my rented home. The pointlessly neglectful landlord will be made to pay for their negligence with a lawsuit. I must do this as otherwise the next occupant will suffer my fate and maybe they won’t be lucky enough to survive. People die in Arizona from contaminated HVAC I painfully learned from my doctor treating me here, and I am not out of the woods yet. I almost passed to the other side a few nights ago.
I mention this HVAC debacle, blogged about in great detail in another post JUNE’S NEARLY LETHAL MERCURY RETROGRADE, the names changed to protect the guilty, as my plight is painfully symptomatic of the global issue of massive neglect exemplified by FED UP.
A SMARTER WORLD IS COMING!
I am still based here in Sedona for amazing crowd funding project launching 8.1.18 to finance the R&D for a mass affordable Neurophone. It’s a profund device first invented back in 1957, and subject of feature story in a 1962 LIFE Magazine article about scientist Dr. Flanagan. Only 17 at the time of the LIFE story WHIZ KID FOR SURE.
Dr. Flanagan’s techno-meditation device he called Neurophone, is not a phone. It’s way smarter than a smart phone as it’s been proven in many scientific studies makes you smarter. Currently Deepak is updating studies of the Neurophone, of which he endorses enthusiastically as “I tried the Neurophone and it’s one of the most amazing experiences of my life.”
Indeed this amazing invention of Patrick Flanagan’s, who Deepak calls “A gift to humanity” undoes the neglect of our mass media, out to dumb us down and a sugar industry feeding off us like vampires in one fell swoop. Join the volunteer group to spread the word today and click on this NEW NEUROPHONE link.
The Neurophone project I must finish before leaving beautiful Sedona all fits with the intent of FED UP. Dropping sugar consumption to 25 grams per day as the WHO recommends is smart. I saw FED UP at the genius art house here The Mary Fisher that scientist Patrick Flanagan and his wife help back with donations. I like sitting in the seats there that carry their name tags. Amazingly I feel better after just a few days of closely reading labels for grams of sugar and making the calculations on daily intake I should be doing. FED UP points out the free pass by the FDA to flood America with sugar by not listing it’s over-serving madness on packages.
Sugar is pushed at us constantly. Foodsters are nothing more than sugar dealers feeding the bad habits they market to an addicted America. Indeed, I detest the way the main stream movie chain across 89A from the Mary Fisher, the 6 screen Harkins, forces their innocent kid vendors, for whom many this is their first job, to up-sell sugar. Order your giant small soda, larger than a large used to be way back when bottles of Coke were small, and the young Harkins vendor boldly asks, even when you ask them not to ask, “For only twenty-five cents you can have a bigger size, sir, and how about some candy with your popcorn?”
Ironically, back in my millionaire Chicago real estate mogul days, I served many of the corporate giants poisoning us today talked about in FED UP. I still cherish my hard-earned title as a Chicago Sun Times developer of the year for angel client Oprah Winfrey and as a broker of the year for devilish clients like Quaker Oats, McDonald’s, Sara Lee, Target Stores, NBC, Chase Bank and Allied Mills, to name but a few. The main villain of FED UP, Coca-Cola Bottling Company of Atlanta, has never been a client, but I had hopes. Speaking of which…
THE REAL THING
In 2002 I wrote a fictional screenplay about Coke addiction. I titled it THE REAL THING. It’s about a London reverend who runs a drug rehab clinic back in the year 1985. Reverend Fear looks down on junkies he treats at his clinic. This fitness freak, kung fu-loving preacher smugly feels himself a far better a human being than his cocaine and heroin addicts.
The tale takes a strange twist for the smarmy Reverend Fear when Coke changes to New Coke, and the old formula is taken off the market and suddenly unavailable. The reverend then sets off on a hilarious quest to hoard the last of the original Coke. Through his trails and tribulations fighting gangsters over the last supplies of Coke, the Revered realizes he’s no better than his junkies and finally becomes the real thing in battling addiction.
What inspired the screenplay was my own addiction to Coke, the soda. In real life I was living high as real estate consultant millionaire in 1985 when Coke was discontinued, in what is considered the greatest marketing blunder of all time. Back then I drank at least 3 cans of Coke a day. But I kept trim working out daily at Chicago’s famed East Bank Club like a mad man. I remember clearly the shiver of rapture that shot through my body and brain taking a swig of Coca-Cola. New Coke didn’t give me that buzz.
I wrote an impassioned complaint letter to Coke in May of 1985, bitterly asking they bring the old Coke formula back. The Pope wrote such a letter himself. There were even riots for old Coke to be brought back in Portland. Look up New Coke on Wikipedia sometime. It’s all there, Coke junkies like me and the Pope going into angry withdrawal across the globe.
My father was a severe alcoholic, jealous of my amazing successes. I was thrilled to look down on him from my pile of money, chugging a Coke. So it was in this strange moment that arrived for me in Coke’s sudden 1985 removal of its product that my severe withdrawal symptoms came to shocking light. Seeing I was as addicted to Coca-Cola as badly as my father was addicted to booze humbled me.
But I clowned about hording Coke beverages wherever I could find some as I stockpiled what was left on store shelves. I kept my horror of being a Coca-Cola addict to myself. My wife and kids go a kick out of my hamming up my bizarre behavior. 90 days later, Coke came back by popular demand as Classic Coke.
My real-life story of my shock that I was addicted to Coke stuck with me until I began writing screenplays in 1996. And by 2002 I was sending out the awesome story of THE REAL THING to studios. After dozens of pitches, there was a nibble of interest from a major studio for this action-comedy cola tale, based on my true addiction feelings!
Just one catch; the studio exec asked me to get Coca-Cola to sign off on the story, perhaps even back the film. I knew from my cravings and the worldwide outrage that Coke was addictive as hell, just not why. Still it came as great shock to me when Coke’s chief legal consul sent me a letter on beautiful Coca-Cola Atlanta HQ stationary, stating emphatically:
Dear Mr. Sheetz:
We have carefully reviewed your screenplay THE REAL THING. Unfortunately, we find your story equating a healthy safe product like Coca-Cola to something as addictive as cocaine and other illegal substances, used no less by criminals and junkies, to be highly offensive to the fine brand of Coca-Cola beverages and our related products.
Coca-Cola Bottling Corporation of America hereby gives you formal notice that should you, your firm Overactive Imagination Pictures, or any studio you may sell this screenplay to, seek to produce and distribute this film to the public at large we shall take the strongest legal remedies available to our company to halt production of THE REAL THING by any and all means.
Thank you for giving Coca-Cola the courtesy to offer you our feedback and avert production of THE REAL THING before productions cost and legal damages were incurred for any of all parties concerned.
All the best to you, Mr. Sheetz. in your other film endeavors.
Sincerely,
Coca-Cola Bottling Company of America
So imagine my vindicated laughter in the Mary Fisher theater here, an oasis of fine art film in the desert, when FED UP Katie Couric reports: “Brain scans show sodas are 8 time more addictive than cocaine.” Yep, my screenplay THE REAL THING missed the mark by 800% by imagining Coke was only 100% as addictive as cocaine, the other coke. One day I hope to find studio with the cajones to work with me to produce THE REAL THING. Perhaps Katie’s film FED UP leads that to happening.
Until FED UP I’d been thinking it was some mysterious artificial cocaine formulation in Coke that’s the famed addictive secret ingredient locked in the Coca-Cola corporate vault in Atlanta was simple sugar. So addictive is Coke it would take me 20 years from the time my 1985 discovery of my sad addiction to Coca-Cola for me to actually kick my Coke cola habit.
Imagine my outrage learning from FED UP that any brand of soda is as bad for the body as Coke as they all contain massive sugar. And even worse that sugar in all processed food, l,ow-fat or otherwise. What a deadly joke to pull in humanity. Still, there is something even more addictive about Coke than all the other sodas for me. I’ve only been free of Coke enslavement about 7 years. I suspect Coke takes the prize for addicting its customers based on it #1 spot on the global consumer charts.
Back when I was writing THE REAL THING a girlfriend I briefly dated from Columbia told me Coca-Cola was in fact a CIA front. I poo-pooed her fears. I just did a Google search after all my denial and yes. it’s all over the web. Ho boy. Here we go with conspiracy theories again about the Man seeking to kill us.
THERE’S NOTHING REFINED ABOUT REFINED SUGAR
Through comparative brain scans FED UP shows sugar is 4 to 8 times more addictive than cocaine. Personally painful. How clearly I see life’s turning point for me and my two kids of when, as FED UP shows in great detail, something went very wrong in our collective consciousness around 1980. In compensation, following pressures by Congress and the heath gurus to reduce fat in what America consumes, the food industry began removing the tasty fat, but replacing it with more tasty sugar. Now, the food industry had “inadvertently” learned a way to sell more processed foods: Sugar addiction.
This twist of a Congress’ good intentions to a harmful end is not unique. The dark side is clever, relentless, patient and insidious. It works in what I am dubbing an Unconscious Conspiracy throughout our whole society, planet-wide.
Take geo-engineering for example. It starts with good intentions: Save the world from global warming. But what do we get? Chemtrails raining down aluminum, barium and a host of other chemtrails killing our forests and people at levels never seen before. Or clean nuke power becomes Fukushima built on the ocean on a fault line. There are 23 Fukushima like plants around the world, all built on fault lines, many in California.
Recently I picked up a Reiki magazine at the health food store and sure enough it was filled with an overall agenda to corporatize this sacred healing art into a brand to be pedaled like soda pop in bringing we free spirits back to enslavement to conventional religions, a whole other blog in itself.
The malevolent pattern of evil warping good intent to dark ends repeats on all fronts. As Darth said to Luke, “You have no idea the power of the dark side.” It’s no longer enough to protest for change, the process must be followed through to the end and the good must learn the same skill sets to subvert bad into good.
THE SHAME GAME
Despite the mounting evidence, I still don’t believe there’s some master Illuminati conspiracy to wreck our world. However, this persistent naivety on my part matters little as the Unconscious Conspiracy of greed makes the corporations unconsciously act like an Illuminati. The way to battle to Unconscious Conspiracy is for those of us conscious of their crimes, intentional or otherwise shame those in power. Shaming the evil double-thinkers and masters of the Unconscious Conspiracy is in fact how the protestors of the 70s ended the Vietnam War. Shame was what bright light media people, teamed with enlightened politicos, used to beat the tobacco industry into submission.
Speaking bad shaming. Back in the 80s and 90s I was shaming my kids to be in great shape like me. Yeah, you would not have liked me when I was a slave to corporations. Ironically, it turns out with my high sugar diet, when I used to easily consume 3 cans of Coke per day, I was a FILO. A FILO is a fat-on-the-inside-light-on-the-outside person. America’s considered 30 % obese right now, however factoring in the FILOs, like me, America is actually 51% obese. At the rate we are growing fatter, inside and out, we will be 75% obese in 10 years as a nation. Walgreens and CVS are the pharmas are gearing up for diabetes as their bread and butter, pardon the pun.
FED UP beautifully documents to corruption of Michelle Obama’s Let’s Move campaign for healthy eating. Peppered throughout the film we watch Michelle, a mirror to her husband’s bad record of no hope and no change, kidnapped by the very fast food makers now providing 80% of kids health harmful school meals.
FED UP brilliantly places today’s soft drink makers side by side in footage before Congressional hearing as the execs deny the harmful effects of sugar, side by side with the tobacco players whose lies were outed in the 90s. Sugar is the next big thing to be dealt with and we the consumers are the ones to sound the battle cry.
SHARE BEING FED UP!
Share the outrage at America’s Sweet Conspiracy. Share this film. Take your entire family to see FED UP. And one day, mark FED UP as a must own DVD to use as a tool to enlighten and daily inspire you, your loved ones, a planet. My highest recommend for five DreamShield star ships. FED UP is part of the magic of the 1.11.11 DreamShield meditation to transform Hollywood into a tool for change.
The corporate grip on opinion in the United States is one of the wonders of the Western world. No First World country has ever managed to eliminate so entirely from its media all objectivity – much less dissent. – Gore Vidal
By Ken Sheetz
GORE VIDAL – THE UNITED STATES OF AMNESIA
The first film for my new consciousness film blog page is the new documentary about the extraordinary life of an extraordinary writer and liberal political commentator, Gore Vidal.
For those of you who are not a baby boomer like myself, Gore Vidal was a creative, passionate, bright light of reason and considered to be the last lion of liberalism. Gore burst onto the public scene in the 60s, seemingly all at once in books, TV appearances, and screenwriting. Against his own upper class childhood, Gore spoke out loud and clear and consistent on the issues plaguing an American political system taken over by corporations.
When all were praising JFK, Gore spoke of our country’s epic slide into decadence starting with Kennedy’s ill-fated invasion of Cuba that led the world to the brink of an all-out Nuclear war. Gore was also outspoken on Kennedy sending 20,000 troops to Vietnam. A JFK blunder that would launch a war that would claim the lives of 58,000 baby boomers and maim mentally and physically countless others.
After JFK’s death, Gore imagined that if the iconic Kennedy had not been assassinated that he would have proven no better than LBJ in escalating the Vietnam War. Amazingly, the harsh look at JFK was Gore’s criticism for a president he liked and who was blessed to personally experience life in John and Jackie Kennedy’s inner circle. Sadly we, longer see this kind of brilliant objectivity in any major media people of this era of dumbed down news as entertainment.
Gore’s liberalism carried into his personal life as one of the first popular voices of the Gay movement. In his Hollywood years, Gore became a magnet for brilliant intellectual parties with buddy Paul Newman.
Young documentary filmmaker Nicholas Wrathall became interested in Gore’s famed 911 pamphlets that took the controversial POV that America had brought destruction on itself and that the Neocons used to the fear of future attacks to negate the constitution. And Gore took a liking to the young filmmaker giving Wrathall full access to his life and life’s work.
He tells Gore’s life story with masterful brilliance that goes beyond Moore’s as he respectfully stays behind the camera. Nicholas first shows us Gore’s family roots as member of elite society. We meet his Senator grandfather who Gore was a page to and his brilliant aviator father who was an adviser to the president. And we learn of his tumultuous relationship to his estranged mother.
On this firm foundation Nicholas then takes us on a journey through Gore Vidal’s brilliant life, a life that ended in his eighties. He lived long enough to see his prophetic warnings about America’s decline to perpetual war machine come sadly to life.
Throughout the telling of Gore’s epic life, where he mingled with all the greats of his time from the world’s top film, literary and politicos, secluded as a self-imposed exile in Italy in mountain villa. Gore held court like a king media.
Footage is gathered from a wide variety of sources, including filmmaker/nephew Burr Steers and the late Christopher Hitchen. Nicholas blends this seamlessly with footage from Vidal’s legendary on-air debate with ultra conservative William F. Buckley and other footage from Gore’s time in the media spotlight from the 60s to his passing in 2012.
And Gore remained outspoken until his dying day as one of the first people to see through the insincerity of Obama.
I rate film five-stars, my highest recommend. I saw the film with my beautiful 45-year-old and 27-year-old friends at the Mary Fisher fine arts film theater for a one-time screening, thus giving us three generations’ POV when we discussed it after over wine at the Hopi here in Sedona. All three of us agreed the Vidal doc is a truly marvelous tool for freeing of the mind. It shows you what the mainstream does not want to show you: America has become modern war machine killing the planet with war driven over-consumption that stays in power by use of brainwashing and sheer brute force that would make George Orwell blush.
This movie, like its subject, Gore Vidal, takes on the establishment or the Matrix as many in today’s PC-neutered lingo describe it today, so you won’t likely be seeing this film at your local theater. I suggest getting the DVD and hosting a private screening party. You’ll have lots to talk about after about the sorry state of America and the world in general.
Unlike Gore I do have hope for humanity. The wheel is turning. More of us that are grounded in reality are awakening to the higher realms. Replacing the old regime with new idealists is not enough. We must and shall transcend the old as we create a better world in harmony with nature.
Oh, Mercury retrograde. You are here, AGAIN. You have arrived on our collective doorsteps in all your messy glory. – Gala Darling
Communicating during Mercury retrograde is never a thing of beauty. But this Merc turned ugly on June 5th, a day early of the calendar dates of some astrologers. And it took a long road to get to this almost deadly June retrograde that’s turned out to be life threatening. Yes, bad communications can be lethal. We see in this sad fact in the news every day. But this one hit home for me. Literally home.
HOME SICK HOME
Back in October 2013 I rented a sweet little green concrete block house that had been built-in the 1950s to continue on extended assignment filming famed scientist Patrick Flanagan. The house was built the same era I was born in and was totally renovated in 2012. Same year I went to Antarctica to meditate on shifting the negativity of the Mayan calendar fears to making a change to human consciousness.
Indeed, it all seemed so perfect. It was the first house in my rental hunt that I toured and I told the leasing agent I’d take it right on the spot. Love at first sight for this sweet little place on a big 2 acres of land. Looking for some company, having been used to sharing homes with roomies since 2009 when I was evicted in the depths of the Great Recession, I moved in with a beautiful Sedona psychic I’d met back in 2010 as my housemate. She had a cute little dog. I was in totally in love with the psychic, but she was clear had no such feelings for me. Still I enjoyed her company, and the dog adored me like it was my own and so I was looking forward to a fun time-sharing a house with the beauty and pooch.
Ah, but it just did not work out. For some reason the exquisitely sensitive soul, an extrovert to my introverted nature became very agitated hanging with me. I learned an introverted type like me likes to socialize at home whereas an extrovert socialize in public and wants isolation at home. So the psychic isolated herself in her part of the house, a later addition with its own HVAC and bath. Lots of upsets, that seem like something out of rom-com in retrospect. led to us mutually parting ways after her sharing my Sedona paradise for only 10 weeks. One day I came home from a long trip to help my brother find his new place in Florida and found I had the house to myself.
FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE
I decided to make it a meditation on living in such a secluded area of Sedona, the smallest city I’ve ever lived in since I was a kid. My rental house has no visible neighbors and sits near the base of Sedona’s famed Chimney Rock and Thunder Mountain. The ET energy here is epic and the alone time is important my guides say. So I accepted my fate loneliness.
Strangely, even when I asked friends over things would fall through and my isolation went on and on. For months on end I went on not even seeing a soul for weeks and months on end. No matter how hard I tried to break it this was an alone time.
Brokenhearted about losing my housemate that I had a hopeless one-way crush on, I was loving my fortress of solitude in the chill of winter, and somehow doing the best behind the scenes social media of my life for famed inventor Dr. Flanagan. Who became not only my greatest clients ever, surpassing even the amazing Oprah, but a dear pal, when suddenly I became deathly ill with walking pneumonia.
A lot of people in Sedona were getting sick with their immune systems compromised by Juniper tree allergies. So that’s what I figured was happening to me. Though sick as a dog, I was somehow managing to do my work for the NewNeurophone project and making awesome videos of its inventor Patrick Flanagan, but this lung sickness would just not let go. Breathing became a nightmare. My eyes were blood-red and looked like two blue marbles floating in a sea of tomato juice. Sickness is so unlike me. At 61 I’ve only been in hospital once in my life. Nothing’s ever made me sick long. I’ve not even had cold since 2008.
But the skies here in AZ are filled with more chemtrails from jets than I’ve experienced anywhere in the world. I had many chemtrail flu symptoms. I was taking lots of Patrick Flanagan’s Megahydrate which profoundly battles chemtrail flu and radiation poisoning as THE product for our times. Despite that, and downing lots of antibiotics and cough medicine, still I was near death many times with epic coughing fits. No matter how much gunk I coughed up, I was not getting well.
BREATH OF FRESH AIR
It was looking like I’d have to take a break from the Flanagan account to co when I was blessed to have a new person come into my life as an assistant, Genevieve Munoz, a 27-year Cal Poly marketing grad. Genevieve was able to pick up a significant part of my workload on the Neurophone project. And so I was able to go on despite my sickness to giving Patrick the fine service he deserved.
As the weather warmed in March and the Juniper allergy season ended I started to get much better. Still a lot of gunk remained in my lungs, breathing was still ragged. I visited four different healers here in Sedona to knock this thing out to no avail. I was stuck in sick land.
The weather warmed slowly. It was a late spring for Sedona. Finally as temps climbed into the 80s, I asked the landlord agent, who we’ll call Jerry, a sweet man in 70s with 40 years of managing rental homes for Sedona’s wealthy snow birds, how to turn on the rooftop based swamp cooler for the first time in my tenancy. Swamp coolers Jerry would explain, work on evaporative cooling in the dry AZ climate and use a powerful fan to suck air through a wet filter.
After Jerry left, I followed his directions I sat down in my office to work. No sooner did my butt hit the seat and I was attacked, no better word for it, by filth spewing from the powerful swamp cooler fan driven air vents. My eyes, ears, throat and lungs all burned instantly. I knew I was in for a total relapse into pneumonia if I did not get some antibiotics in me.
The Flanagan’s suggested a new doctor for me, a Dr. Haggard. She’s the doctor of my dreams as she avoid pharmaceuticals when she can. She gave me vitamins and the drugs I needed to heal faster, along with placing me on her nebulizer to open my air passages since I was wheezing like a 90 year-old emphysema victim.
I called Jerry the agent for the family trust and told him the filters on the HVAC obviously needed cleaning ASAP. Jerry hesitated on the line and said timidly, “Well, I am going to have to get Bob from the family trust’s OK for that.”
DEADLY ANGER MEDITATION
Some background on the stubborn and cantankerous Bob, the landlord family trust member point person, and why Jerry was afraid to call him. Bob’s a talented metal sculpture artist who is at war with his lawyer side. Bob bullied Jerry for each and every repair that’s ever been done here, as the watchdog for the family trust owners. I was Jerry’s first tenant he brought in for Bob. And Jerry was losing spirit about the account with each harsh encounter with Bob. Bob seemed a sweet man but there were buttons fixing the property that got pushed
“Sorry, Jerry, there’s no option here but for you to go to Bob for the OK. My guess is this filter issue has been what’s been making me sick since I first started using the HVAC here in winter.” I was greeted by Jerry’s silence and so I went on, ” I don’t get sick. Please fix this, Jerry. I think we’ve uncovered a serious health hazard. Tell Bob the last thing he wants and I want is a lawsuit for negligence over my damaged health.”
A terse “OK” was Jerry response and he hung up.
As a few days passed, I could tune in on the grief Jerry was having heaped on him. So I called him, “How’s it going, Jerry? Talked to Bob?”
“Yeah, and got an earful. He’s taking the matter to the trust,” said Jerry.
“Why must the trust vote on basic repairs?” I said, tension creeping into my voice.
“I agree it’s a pain in the ass. But I’ll get ‘er done,” said Jerry trying to sound chipper.
After another round brow beating by Bob, the trust finally allowed Jerry to replace all the filters with two contractors. One for the swamp cooler fixing and one for the AC fixing. Swamp coolers, as it turns out, do not work in the humid weather. So AZ homes use the two different systems for cooling. Cool thing is swamp coolers gives you humidity. A huge plus in the 0% humidity dryness of AZ.
New filters in place I again I happily turned on the swamp cooler and settled down to work at my desk. Victory! Wrong. Again I was bombarded my filthy stuff spewing from the HVAC vents. When I complained to the filter cleaning company worker as he packed up his stuff he said, “Filters are all clean. Might just be calcium from the cooler forming and flying at you from the swamp cooler.”
“Nonsense. This stuff is black and brown flying out the ducts, not white like calcium,” I said. A few minutes later I watched in disappointment as the contractor drove off down the rocky primitive road to the house with that sad look men have on their face when they fail at fixing something important.
STEPHANIE SUTTON’S RADAR ALARM
The Flanagans were coming over for a filming session soon and the weather had cooled again so I put off dealing with the bad HVAC and bad service arrangement here that took a vote of the family trust and overcoming the family watchdog Bob to get done. It was early May now, and an unusually cool spring was working to my favor in punting on this HVAC thing.
After filming, Stephanie Sutton-Flanagan noticed the kitchen duct was very dirty as she got a glass of water and said, “Ken, you’ve been sick for so long. I bet this filthy HVAC is what’s been hurting you. Get your landlord to come in a clean the duct system before this kills you.”
“I’ve been trying, Steph, believe me. For weeks. The landlord here has an anger fit for any repairs he has to make,” I complained to Stephanie, happy to have fresh sympathetic ear. “I once heard Bob screaming at Jerry over a measly $70 electrical outlet that needed repairing.”
Stephanie, as amazing as her husband Patrick Flanagan, scolded me in friendly fashion, “Then pay for the duct cleaning and get it fixed yourself. This is your lungs. You only get one pair!”
INTO THE BREACH
So I dove into solving the HVAC mystery again. I called Jerry soon as Stephanie and the film crew left with her hubby Dr. Flanagan. “Jerry, sorry the HVAC here is still infecting me. I respectfully request further repairs.”
Jerry groaned at the thought of another battle with Bob. Who now in my mind’s eye wore a western black cowboy hat, and had a silver six-shooter he toyed with as Jerry trembled before him explaining why he failed his mission, fearing death any second.
To beat the growing heat as I waited for Jerry’s answer, I ran the swamp cooler wearing a breath mask. I’d turn it on and then I sat on the patio outside working on Patrick’s media on my Ipad as the house cooled. Then I’d put on my breath mask back on, go inside and turn off the HVAC. My eyes still stung from whatever crap was coming out of the duct at high-speed. Seems crazy in retrospect, but Bob was so insistent it was clean up in HVAC system I thought maybe I was having some sort of allergy reaction to chemtrails or pollen getting sucked into the house. Such was my faith in Bob, who though a cranky cuss seemed an honorable man who had even built me a beautiful mailbox when I came here.
Then one May day I found a huge piece of brown filth laying on my kitchen floor and more big hunks of filth in my kitchen fruit bowl! I ran out to the patio and shouted,”BOB! YOU SUCK AS LANDLORD!” As my words echoed into the red rocks of Sedona, I was amazed how little of the old rage that used to burn in my veins I felt despite this travesty. Yes, I was happy to be properly angry. Justified. We need some anger to take care of ourselves. It’s out-of-place old super anger of repressed childhood wrongs that vents out at stressed times that makes fools of us. I thanked Bob for showing me this and went back inside to call Jerry. No answer.
DEADLY DESTRACTIONS
Busied by a crushing work schedule and severe family troubles from my brother who ended up in a Florida jail and who still sits in a cell there as I write, I let Jerry slide for two weeks in getting Bob’s ok to clean the ducts. I finally called one hot day to see why these repairs were not happening. Jerry said nervously, ” Bob stands by his opinion the ducts are clean.”
“Clean?! With all the filthy flying?! Opinion?! There’s no opinion here, Jerry, except mine that you guys are not giving me a livable house. One cannot live in AZ without AC. Fix it,” I said calmly as I could about this self-serving “opinion” of Bob’s.
“I hear you, Ken. I’ve never had as tough a client Bob. But my hands are tied,” said Jerry sadly.
“Bob lives right next door, Jerry. Why doesn’t he just walk over and see this hazardous HVAC for himself?” I groused, blood rushing to my face at this harmful denial of reality. “Does he think I am imagining these chunks of brown filth?”
“Uh, um. Sorry, Ken, you know how Bob is. Ha. Lawyers,” Jerry lamely offered.
“Heck with this BS. What were the estimates to clean the ducts you got for Bob to OK, Jerry?”
“Anywhere from $300 to $350, ” said Jerry.
“$350 max. That’s all and Bob and his trust freaking refuses?” I asked, amazed at Bob’s stupidity given the legal exposure to my health he was racking up, giving me an open and shut case for litigation.
“Yep, ” said Jerry.
To back up, I admit I lost my temper a little with Jerry early in the lease. I blew my top over a fire hazard that was not getting fixed in timely fashion. I realized had sunk to Bob’s level of bullying the gentle Jerry to get things done. A way I’d made millions doing in the 80s and 90s.
But I didn’t go there again today with Jerry, despite weeks of complaining and the family trust run around. Though I am sure the deep indignation I was feeling about Bob’s total lack of disregard for my safety and health was apparent in my calm voice. That’s how I write good screen dialogue. A character seldom directly expresses his thoughts. Here I was a character in my own real-life horror story. Instead of yelling at Jerry as Bob was doing I gently said, “Give me the OK, Jerry, and I’ll call the contractor and have the work done on my nickel. But let Bob know if the contractor finds something up there that’s been making me sick I want an offset on my rent.”
Jerry happily agreed that was a fair thing, I assume given I was suffering so many health issues and this was a way out.
VISIT FROM A BROTHER SON
On Memorial Day weekend Bob’s son came by the house unexpectedly to fix the landscaping. Heavy Sedona winds had almost toppled two large cypress trees. I’d propped these beauties up with a pick axe and shovel. Items I’d bought recently to help my lost mystic housemate bury her little Yorky that had died suddenly of a heart attack in her arms. As we reconnected over the loss of her dog, I brought my former housemate up to date. Something I was required to do as Bob had refused to let her off the lease. This was after the fact overruling Jerry who said it was OK. Yeah, this Bob guy was biting at my peace of mind constantly, like a snake in paradise.
Fromer Housemate and Poor Little Chloe
I told my former housemate how lucky she was to have been intuitive enough to lock herself off from the part of the house with a defective HVAC system and leave. We wondered over lunch recently if her delicate Yorky was killed by some sort of black mold that might be up there. A scary sad thought indeed as the pooch was only seven and so precious.
Bob’s son, I sensed, was afraid of talking to me for fear of backlash from his dad. But I liked the young man. He reminded me of my own son about his age: a big young man with a soft heart that’s estranged from me as I used to be temperamental like Bob. Hey, I did only have a father who was a drill sergeant dad for fathering lessons.
Though I was never psychically abusive to my boy like my alcoholic father who was the bane of my childhood, almost killing me several times with severe beatings, I was far too tough on my boy and his little sis verbally. Indeed, I had no idea words can hurt as much as the belt I was beat with as a kid of the 50s and 60s all too often. I saw this fear of a verbally stern father like I had been in my 20s and 30s, so long ago, reflected anew in Bob’s son’s worried eyes. I am pleased I treated Bob’s grown kid with extra kindness that I hope ripples back to my son in Chicago through earth’s energy field.
After Bob’s son finished with the landscape repair I offered him a bottle of some of Patrick Flanagan’s Megahydrate for he and his cute female companion. She had been coughing in the truck as she waited for Bob’s son to finish. The Sedona Slide Fire had been raging and 20,000 acres were aflame only 4 miles away. My lungs were really having a hard time with the smoke inhalation and chemtrails on top of the HVAC issues. Seeing I was not irate, despite the neglect I was suffering with at his family trust’s house, Bob’s kid accepted when I asked him to take personal look at the HVAC problem and the hunks of filth the swamp cooler was dislodging.
Bob’s son took one shocked look at the filthy duct that his father had been denying was dirty and offered to come back in few weeks to clean out the dirty duct himself. I appreciated young man’s offer but I could not wait that long. I explained it was simply getting too hot for my patio/breath mask routine to work and live in the house without a quick fix. Summer was making an end to my flexibility.
Deeply moved, almost to tears by Bob’s sons offer to clean out the duct, I waved bye from the drive as the big pickup truck left down the rocky road, feeling like this was my own son driving off with his wife and the twins born a few months ago I’ve not been invited to see. Not even on a Father’s day trip I made without any promises of seeing my two kids who became estranged over the tipping point when I began connecting to ET from other galaxies and dimensions in meditation.
HVAC MYSTERY DEEPENS AFTER THE JUMP
Seeking to purify myself to heal my sick body and atone for a brother who had been arrested on charges of animal cruelty for beating up his new Florida puppy, I gave up eating meat at this time. A powerful message from the ET Ohom had come through directing me to do my best to become an enlightened eater and shun the meat of the cruel corporate farms. A sad reality I’d learned about at the Illuminfate Film festival in a film called “Specism” showed me the deep suffering of our fellow creatures of this world.
4 years ago when first meeting Ohom, a 7 foot tall being, who looks like a blue angel might if evolved from an insect race, I would have poo pooed Ohom as a figment of my imagination. But even though I hold the paradox belief that this all still might be part of my amazing imagination, I can’t deny the wisdom it contains. And here I was suffering, like Gaia, at the hands of a landlord operating out of integrity. It all fits.
GESUNDHEIT
A few days later, June 4, the HVAC contractor Jerry has okay-ed, one with the funny name of Gesundheit Duct Cleaning Services, that I had to hire myself to do the landlord’s job, arrived and went to work. No sooner did the three duct cleaning workers get started, however, when the foreman came to me in my office, his tan face drooped in worry, and told me, “Sorry we have to quit.”
“Huh?” was all I could think to say.
He showed me why and my blood went cold as he said,” The photo is of the filth our duct cleaning machine pulled out in mere seconds. Man. when we starting pulling out all this dark junk, could even have some black mold, we had to stop. Sorry, Mr. Sheetz. But I’m knocking $70 off the price for needing to halt the job before it’s clean up there.”
A $70 discount for a health hazard still left behind hardly seemed fair, but I was in shock and wrote a check for $230. Grateful at last this mystery was finally solved of what had been slowly killing me.
The contractor, who I could tell was a total pro, as I’ve built over a million of square feet of construction before becoming a filmmaker, then invited me to take a photo of the inside of the duct work.
“Yikes!” I shouted. “Looks like something out of freaking Freddy Kruger movie up there!” Outraged about Bob telling me the ducts were clean and for my buying it.
To show Bob how wrong he was, I took this other photo with my Iphone as the foreman explained. “The duct runs on the roof outside of the house. So the sun has burnt up the insulation. It’s flaking and rotting to pieces and that’s what’s be flying around your home whenever you turn on the HVAC. It just took the velocity of the swamp cooler to make it freaking obvious. Good thing you kept bitching. Landlord needs to fix this by AZ law or you can vamoose.”
“But I don’t want to vamoose,” I said sadly knowing I might be forced to as I put the foreman on the phone with Jerry. The pro carefully explained to Jerry, as my heart sank, that the entire duct to the kitchen was contaminated.
I excused myself from the Gesundheit foreman to talk to Jerry. “Jesus, this keep getting worse, Ken! Bob assured me those ducts were cleaned just before you moved in. This is all wrong.”
I could hear the fear and panic in Jerry’s voice and tried to calm him, “Jerry, you need to call Bob, stand up to his denial of reality and get him in touch personally with the contractor. This is irrefutable evidence of why I’ve been getting sick. I don’t want a lawsuit. I want this fixed and hopefully I get well. And tell Bob he will need to fix this for the next tenant if not for me.”
MERCURY RETROGRADE MADNESS
The next day, eve of the June Mercury Retrograde, Jerry dropped by and asked to see contaminated duct firsthand. Jerry was determined to to the bottom of this mess. I was excited. My HVAC nightmare was perhaps at an end!! Jerry carefully examined my filthy samples tucked in little clear sandwich bags from the duct, looked at the photos and went up on the roof, When he was satisfied I had a legitimate gripe about this HVAC debacle, Jerry regretfully said, “Bob is still saying there’s no problem with the HVAC in your house rental.”
“What?” I said in a whisper of shock.
Jerry patted me on the shoulder, the way a friend would and said, “I’m sorry. I’m resigning effectively today, Ken. My reputation as a manager of 40 years is at stake.”
I wanted to say, “Hang in there and let’s get this fixed, Jerry.” But I had heard Bob screaming at Jerry over the phone. The amazing artist that Bob is lost out to the lawyer Bob is. He was stonewalling me. Forcing me to leave. He was angry at my justified complaint and being vindictive. Nothing else fit and so I said to Jerry, “I understand. I have the health laws on my side he has to fix this.
Jerry last words as he gave me Bob’s email address was, “I wouldn’t be so sure, Ken.” And then Jerry rode off up the rocky road that led to my rocky life in Sedona and I’ve not heard from him since.
SOS TO BOB
I sent Sam a stern but professional and amicable email. Then I waited to see if Jerry’s resignation over the bad decision to ignore this issue had convinced Bob he was wrong. A few hot days passed. No word at all. The contractors had taped shut the duct to the kitchen. I tried running the house swamp cooler, but it I could tell from how I was sneezing and getting itchy eyes that the air from the contaminated duct was mixing in the ducts, backing up and coming out the cleaner ducts.
My hands were tied. I could not undertake such a major HVAC repair myself, even with the AZ laws allowing me to. It was simply too major a thing since it impacted the roof, which has had leaks. A year after departing I saw the difficult Bob might hold responsible for roof leaks and health issues of the next tenant if the job was not done right to fix the toxic HVAC system. I pondered the mess and thought to myself. This communication is a nightmare. Are we in Mercury Retrograde? Sure enough, I checked and yes we were. Even communicating with the Flanagans was proving a challenge. Nothing like Bob but not the smooth and easy relationship that the norm with Pat and Steph.
I meditated for hours on end about my fate coming to such a lovely city and renting my first house since 1991. How had it all turned to filthy air? What were the lessons my spirit guides were trying to teach me in this Mercury Retrograde that was literally killing me?
THE ANTIDOTE TO NEGELCT
Ohom, the Orion ET who is my closest “imaginary friend” said to me one day as I was atop the summit, one which I have a clear view of from my house, as I panted for five minutes trying to catch my breath from the climb, “Ken, three of the meditations we gave you to do in Antarctica on 12.12.12 were about neglect. Neglect is what’s killing your world. The opposite of neglect is care. Find a way to care for yourself and all this trouble will end happily.”
As I climbed back down the summit I could not find an answer to caring for myself without giving up this house and land I had come to love here in gorgeous Sedona. The Hopi once used the lands of Sedona as a ceremonial sacred place. Their wisdom mixes here with the profound Tibetan energy through the earth. Need proof? Many of their words for the sames things are identical even though the two races only met less than a hundred years ago .
I knew this home was only mine by rental. But I’d done over a billion dollars in rentals for big corporations. And done properly, with a good property manager in place, leases are estates in time. One does not have equity of ownership but one has all the other benefits of ownership and none of the liabilities. It’s why corporations prefer renting. Therefore, what Bob was doing in seeming to force me to make my owner level repairs to the house was against the ethical code of renting I’d made millions back in the 80s and 90s. It went totally against my grain despite Ohom’s advice.
Now that it was June it was getting to be very hot. AZ temps from June through September can easily reach 100 plus daily. Seeing no solution and hearing no answers from Bob , head of the family trust, a great vehicle BTW for Bob to hide behind for litigation, I felt helpless. I could only send Bob a 5 day notice to repair and vacate. I sent Bob a feeble email that I would soon be forced to send this notice and be forced to leave and pleaded for his intervention. Icy silence from Bob filled my email box.
YOU’RE NOT HELPING MOM
Seemed like one more hot day and it was all over for staying in my home. One day, talking about this to my mom, said bitterly, “Funny thing. Your brother’s almsost lost his home after going to jail after fleeing the police and now here you are losing you home too.”
“Yeah, mom. Funny. Very funny. I’m being driven out of my house by a landlord that’s being a dick and Fred lost his house for being a dick,” I said sarcastically.
Mom giggled in the maddening mean-spirited way she can at times when she hurts me. All the pains of her turning her back when my father beat me as kid flared briefly to life. All the times she left home herself, leaving us with an enraged father looking for a scapegoat to her leaving him. Mom was bitter, I said to myself, that I have stepped away from helping my brother Fred in jail and it’s all fallen on her as she stupidly consigned on his mortgage.
“Mom’s anger is seeping its way out in her enabling of Fred,” I coached myself and I instantly healed and kept calm right in the middle of mom’s taunting on the phone. What a meditation on overcoming parental neglect! Still, it was an amazing parallels my psychic Mom so nastily pointed out. So I added more spirit disengaging from Fred and his addiction issues and anti-social behavior to my meditations on neglect.
NEXT MOVES
I began thinking of where I would move next? I worried my large security deposit would be lost. Then one day in the middle of a Pilates class the idea came to me: Install portable air conditioning and ride out my lease and burn off the security deposit!
So I went to the hardware store in Sedona and lo and behold a portable floor rolling swamp cooler was on sale for $500, strong enough to cool the whole house. I bought it, loaded it in my jeep and went to work installing it. Swamp coolers run on cold water from a hose and using my architect and carpentry experience, I set up the water to run through my guest room without making it look like a joke.
I’d learned about portable swamp coolers from filming in a hot warehouse at Patrick Flanagan’s Phi Sciences set and how we used one to cool the set to film Patrick for my hit 50 videos web series. All the pieces were coming together in the middle of the haze of Mercury Retrograde when thinking is hard.
Ah! How sweet the clean fresh cool air felt of my new FU portable swamp cooler. I’d turned neglect into self-care as Ohom had guided me and was ready to stand my ground against Bob’s landlord’s negligence.
Still no word back, I emailed Bob the news I was coping. It was not pretty. The portable unit is big for the little house and noisy. But I was functioning. In the email to Bob I expressed my continued willingness to work this out but that rent would be withheld. I also put all my cards on the table and said if my health damage was permanent I would be forced to seek damages. Making clear my health was separate issue and water under the bridge at this late stage.
PAY NO ATTENTION TO THAT BOB BEHIND THE FAMILY CURTAIN
Two weeks passed. Then one day I finally got an email from Bob explaining he’d not seen my emails all through June. The email amounted to little more than ass covering on his part and still incredibly seeking to paint me as imagining this HVAC thing was such a big dea despite Jerry’s resignation, photos and contractors saying it was mandatory landlord fix the HVAC. Funniest and saddest of all, Bob now claimed he never had anything to do with any decisions concerning the property and that he was only relaying votes of the family trust as to maintenance. He closed this bizarre email by directing me to contact the PO Box of a woman 2 hours away in Phoenix who was handling matters and to where I should send July rent.
Rent when I am running my life on temp HVAC? Fat chance. It took me days to research my rights without dragging lawyers into this epic Mercury Retrograde. But finally I had my amazing assistant Genevieve, going though her own epic landlord retrograde issues here in Sedona that are a whole other blog, proof my 5 page letter. A letter I say in all sincerity could be studied for how a tenant can survive a landlord neglect. Then I sent it registered letter that past Friday to the family trust’s new PO box person.
STAYING POSITIVE TO STAY IN SEDONA
I can only hope the newcomer to this HVAC debacle is more reasonable than Bob. I went to great lengths in the email to point out property management is not for Bob if simple things make him angry. Why? I explained I simply want what I bought here. A real house with real HVAC. I am not very hopeful of not getting dragged into an eviction proceeding I will need to fight. After all a PO Box is not how one gives good service to someone who has been a model tenant like me.
Still, Ohom and my friend and assistant Genevieve say to stay positive and so I am. My lessons from all this are already great. The antidote to other’s neglect is self-care. And hold the light against the darkness. I have faith that learning these lessons I will have a fast and full recovery whatever the landlord does in the end.
AMAZING MERCURY MESS
Lots of conflicting info about when this Mercury Retrograde ends. Some astrologers saying it ended June 30th, others saying July 2nd and others still saying July 6th. So how’s that for the bad communications Mercury Retrograde is famed for, not even the expert astrologers can agree when this mess will end?!
Clever boys. Now the multimillion dollar pressure is on you if when the marble arrives in he states and you don’t like it. Something than happened with one of marbles. But my order was big enough that they Italians flew me back to Italy a second time to select another marble for my lobby. The architect was not available for the second trip and the full burden of choice fell on my shoulders. None of my partners shared in the second trip either. And this time I took my wife with me to see the Vatican on the trip. She was thrilled while I was appalled at the decadence. A few weeks earlier at out Lake Forest church of St. Mary nuns were begging for contributions to care for their old age home. Staring up into the vast cathedral as a cluster of red clad bishops shuffled past I could only think, “This is all so wrong.”
NEGLECT IS DEADLY
Media, Meditations & Musings 