None us have ever witnessed a mid-term election like 2022. Our country’s future as a place of peace and freedom, one we all too often take for granted, is on the line as the GOP seeks to end the vote, women’s rights and Social Security all in one fell swoop. American society’s historic challenge is to keep it all in perspective while not being drawn into hate fostered by our mass media. A media motivated to make our politics appear even worse than they really are in a grab for bigger ratings. Simply because bigger ratings mean more jobs and, you guessed it, money.
My two cents, if you’re an independent like me, try not to be too hard on the people who are getting taken down a dark path by MAGA influences. Republicans leaders are lost. But the average MAGA person did not get lost on their own.
Desperate to hold power, GOP leaders succumbed to Trump’s lure of cheating to win at all cost. And one of those ways of cheating was, since 2015 and still is, to use Social Media to unleash all out weapons-grade psychological operations on their own people. It’s beyond cruel and unfair for the GOP to subject their base, and the rest of us withstanding the constant assault 24/7, to unbridled propaganda led by Fox. in order to enslave ordinary MAGAs as a standing civilian army. IMHO, GOP leaders should be tried as war criminals for this horrific action against MAGA and all of America.
Shaming MAGA individuals will not bring them back to the fold. The danger to us all is that unless Merrick Garland has the courage to make arrest Trump and his enablers like Cruz, Greene and the rest, is that the MAGA cult will be pushed to greater and greater levels of violent action. One only need witness last week’s attack on the Pelosi family by a MAGA follower, high on the addictive adrenaline rush of hate. The GOP leaders and Tuckers types making light of this and weaving disgusting conspiracy theories only makes the case stronger for prosecution of war crimes waged on their own people.
I get angry with MAGA sometimes, I confess. Angry they’re so easily swayed by fears of the other to hate on the rest of us. But so far they’ve yet to cross the violent like where we cannot show compassion to ordinary MAGAs when we recognize that conservative society has bred them to be malleable through poor diet, rotten media and intentionally lousy education to dumb them down.
Indeed, we have to work harder to go high when MAGAs go low, as Michelle Obama teaches. It’s not easy. Not easy by a long shot. But try love anyways because love is always stronger than hate.
Now get out and vote. And may the best reality win.
Can you feel it? America is at the global epicenter of a low tide for the forces of good. It came to full light today in the bankruptcy filing of The Boy Scouts of America in the maelstrom of the horror that over 100,000 Boy Scouts may have been sexually molested by Boy Scout leaders.
The Boy Scouts are following the lead of many Catholic Archdioceses that have filed for bankruptcy protection from similar sexual misconduct against unsuspecting youth. Sadly, if this betrayal of basic human rights is happening in our upper echelon social and religious establishments we must conclude this is the tip of the iceberg in a plague of sexual abuse happening across America and the world.
This low tide for the good is also evidenced in a lawless corporatacracy running our world off the climate change cliff, cheered on by the followers of the poster boy of greed and power gone mad after his tragically farcical Senate trial.
Elizabeth and I enjoy C-Span as a way to avoid the filters of the media’s slanted coverage. But to our horror we saw a Congressional hearing this week about the rise of White Nationalism in the armed services. Incredibly, we learned, along with the shell-shocked bipartisan panel, that there is no provision to reject a card carrying member of the Nazi party from joining the military!
At this low point I offer the blog over to my spirit guide Ohom for wisdom on how we climb out of this black hole in our ethics field. Ohom…?
OHOM’S (OPEN HEART OPEN MIND) ADVICE
Hello, Ken and friends of Ken. I am ready to share some observations as a frequent ET thought travel visitor to your beautiful world.
Know in your heart of hearts that the sickness you are seeing has been in America’s soul from its inception. So rejoice in darkness coming to light. For a wound cannot heal unless the sickness is drained. And although this experience is most unpleasant it is the first step in true healing.
Know that all happens in divine order. It is inevitable that the darkest night becomes the new dawn.
Stay positive. Relish in meditation, song and laughter as it makes you ready for the beautiful global awakening growing up to overtake the ugly establishment.
Be a beacon of positivity to those in despair.
Visualize the world you’d like to see manifested rather than focusing on the death of the old ways.
Love each day and love each other. Your future is bright and cosmic. High tide is coming with more freshness and vitality than you can imagine.
I first learned the potent force of positive thinking — a skill set that paid my college tuition and as an adult allowed to me to raise hundreds of millions of dollars for everything from building skyscrapers to making movies — quite by accident back in 1971.
Here’s some 70s music to enjoy while you read this personal tale that will eventually wind it’s way to my thoughts on how our current president is breaking the laws of positive thinking laid out by Norman Vincent Peale in his groundbreaking book THE POWER OF POSITIVE THINKING.
It’s the fall of 1971. As the autumn leaves sparkle in the sunset I am worrying how I am going to make tuition for the second semester. Back in high school I only got average grades except for English and Art, and barely squeaked by in anything math related. So Art college is all I can get accepted into. Layton School of Art & Design to be precise. Conveniently, Layton is only about a mile’s walk from the new home my parents bought in ’69 on the banks of the Milwaukee River.
But after almost flunking out in my freshman year, in part because working night jobs to make tuition leaves me no time to study, this year’s grades and finances are looking no better. I am a nervous wreck, because if don’t stay in college it’s straight to Vietnam for my sorry ass, stuck with a lousy #15 draft lottery number.
Born 17 months after me, my kid brother Fred lucks out and pulls a draft # 265 in the lottery. He promptly drops out of college and starts apprenticing in the trades as a welder, our dad’s lucrative job. But for draft #15 me, it’s a matter of survival I keep my butt in college. A lot of us Boomers have Uncle Sam’s terrible war with Vietnam to thank for being the first in their families to graduate college.
One Tuesday night, fed up with cleaning bed pans at a local nursing home on the graveyard shift — the latest in a succession of lousy night jobs like bottle inspector at a Pepsi plant, pizza chef, window display artist, and more I’ve chosen to forget — I’m pouting in my parent’s beat up recliner that faces the Milwaukee river.
I’m still cooling off from a bad phone argument with my girlfriend from South Milwaukee. She’s away attending the University of Wisconsin Madison to learn to be a physical therapist. Her help correcting spelling and grammar on my term papers is raising my grades, but it’s a helluva lot to ask of her when she has her own schoolwork. I don’t blame my straight A student lover for listening to her mother that maybe she should dump me. Our relationship, like everything these Nixonian days, hangs by a thread.
Desperate to make tuition, I decide to put up with the inevitable mind numbing grief of hitting Dad up again for a small loan, but he’s been gone a week. I ask Mom, sitting mesmerized by a cartoon black bear paddling a canoe in a Hamm’s Beer commercial, where Daddy dearest might be. She shrugs and says in a hoarse whisper. “Off on another of his damned benders.”
Anxiously, flipping through the Help Wanted ads in the Milwaukee Journal I spot a winner: “PART-TIME WEEKEND DISPLAY WORK, EARN UP TO $1500 A MONTH. I hop from the easy chair, revealing a cigarette burn my Dad left behind after passing out in the middle of his third six pack, and dash for the phone. I dial, my fingers so shaky I’m barely able to spin my family’s dirty yellow rotary wall phone. Dad’s a mechanic plus a welder and his grime coats everything in the house in a thin black film.
A man with a buttery voice answers my desperate call. I blurt out my experience doing window display work at Des Forges Book Store on Wisconsin Avenue. The soothingly confident voice on the grimy phone tells me, “Come on in for an interview Thursday night, Ken.”
I holler for joy startling Mom. When I explain my thrill about the interview she says dryly, “Kenneth,” as she always does when lecturing me, “There’s no part-time job on earth that pays $1500 a month to do display work. It’s a scam, hon. Don’t go.”
I not so politely remind my Mom, “Well, I am over 18 now and I’ll decide what jobs to check out. That is unless you and Dad want to help me make tuition.” Desperation makes me sound whiny. Chastened, Mom returns to watching BEWITCHED in silence.
It seems like forever until Thursday night. As the big interview approaches all I can think of is, “Mom’s right. How the hell can I earn $1500 a month just doing part-time display work on weekends? I’m an idiot.”
The day before the interview my, lovable half the time and hateful the other half, father returns to home base. Thankfully he’s backed off beating mom on his frequent reinsertions into our lives. He’s stopped taking his self-hatred on out on Mom ever since I tossed his drunk abusive ass down the basement stairs a few months ago. I’m both ashamed and amazed I’m still alive after getting away with that angry stunt. A shrink will later explain my father was happy he forced me to sink to his level and confirm his claims I am a bad son.
Dad pops a Pabst Blue Ribbon and chortles, “Your ma tells me about this dumb ass interview you’ve set yourself up for. Ha. This how you think you’re going to make tuition? Get real. You’re on your own, Kenny boy, and I hope you flunk out. Maybe the Army can make man of you.” I storm out of the elegant north shore house that my blue-collar house poor family is over their heads owning.
His stinging words echoing in my head, I listen to my dad, except in the reverse. His disdain for the job is a huge endorsement for me. A challenge. I shout to the stars, “Fuck you, old man!”
Damn, I’m such a punk to think a man in his 40s is old.
Thursday comes at last. The glass entrance door emblazoned with gold letter reads: RAINBOW GREAT LAKES DIVISION. I am stoked. This feels like it’s the real deal, even though when I turn a corner I am taken down a set of grungy narrow stairs to the basement.
I open a flimsy hollow-core door labeled reception. My heart sinks to my shoes at the sight of a dozen other young people jammed into the dingy room built for 6 people max. I take a seat next to a kid my age and whisper, “Any idea what this job’s about?”
He shrugs and whispers back, “Fuck if I know.”
I wisecrack, “$1500 a month on weekends? Hey, maybe they’re looking for male strippers.” I get nervous laughs from the gang of applicants, but I wonder in my fevered brain, “Am I willing to turn male stripper to stay out of Vietnam?”
Before I can answer, “Hell yes!” a roguishly handsome blonde haired man, not much older than we anxious job candidates, spins into the room. Dressed in a cheap looking plaid suit, the toothy dude wisecracks, “Any of you gents wanna to learn how you can make $1500 a month or even more working part-time follow me.” He herds our bewildered clan into a crummy classroom adorned in fake wood paneling, and I grow ever more anxious.
The man in the plaid polyester suit vigorously writes his name on the chalkboard, like a teacher on crack:
Now Tom asks for our first names and rapidly jots them all on the chalkboard one at a time with intense stares that seem to be some kind of memorization thing. When my turn comes I’m tempted to give a fake name but decide, “What the heck do I have to lose?” and answer, “Ken.”
Tom tells us with broad smile that never leaves his mustached puss, which does not make him look older, “Hi. I’m Tom Deere, Branch manager for Glendale’s Wisconsin Rainbow office. I’m 24 and I make seventy grand a year. More on that later. For now there’s some questionnaires for you guys to fill out before we get rollin’.”
After hearing the fantastic five figure income Tom makes, we’re all ears.
As Tom hands out questionnaires he coyly adds, “Don’t answer the last question until I give the OK.”
The questions are super easy to answer, written at 6th grade level, but give no indication whatsoever of what the hell this job is. I eye the door ready to bolt, thinking, “This dork makes 70K a year? Right. For once Dad and Mom are right. I’m outta here.”
Seeming to read my mind Tom pats me on the shoulder and says, “Relax. You’re gonna love this, Ken.” The shock Tom remembers my first name feels kinda magical and his warm hand on my shoulder quells some of my anxiety. I settle into the cheap folding chair.
A gruff Italian guy in a dried-blood-colored leather jacket slinks into the room through a half opened door. Now my overactive imagination starts to concoct a Mafia story of us all being candidates for stripper hit men when Tom speaks up, “Everybody meet Antony. — Tony, tell the guys how much you cleared working part time for Rainbow this month.”
Tony’s grimace shows he’s not loving the idea of sharing. “Tony?” says Tom, asserting some will Tony’s way.
Tony bows his head a little. After a brief internal struggle, he finally fesses up in a barely audible mutter, “Almost two K.”
“Thanks, Tony. You know, guys, Antony was a Milwaukee public bus driver before he started raking in the dough. Wanna hear how he did it and how you can make big bucks too?”
Tom cups a hand to his ear and about half of us all quickly say, “Yeah.”
Tom shouts, “Can’t hear you!”
Now we all shout back, “YEAH!” in unison. The group energy changes. We’re all in the palm of Tom’s hands. Soft hands I can see have never seen hard labor. I look at the fresh scar from a serious wound on my left index finger, a lifelong souvenir of my bottle inspecting night job at the Pepsi plant.
Tom pulls a little machine out of a box. It’s about the size of beauty parlor’s hair dryer bonnet with a chrome dome. An air slot is mounted over a brass colored base. It all sits atop clear plexiglass basin filled with water. The damed thing looks like an astronaut from a B sci-fi movie.
Tom flicks the switch and a gentle breeze flows from the noisy gizmo, stirring the stagnant basement air. Pollution is a huge issue in 1971. Tom demonstrates this air cleaner is dubbed the Rainbow because it filters out particulates through water. I’m sold.
Tom draws a line down the center of the chalkboard. He labels one column SALARY and the other COMMISSION. On the salary side Tom writes “$500 a month”. On the other Tom takes his time to diagram how by selling 30 $399 Rainbow air cleaners a month we can make $1500 a month in commissions.
He casually adds, “It’s easy to sell Rainbows because we do all the hard work of making the appointments. You simply visit potential customers and display what this beauty can do. The Rainbow has been around since the 1930s. Stellar reputation. Gents, I promise you it sells itself.”
I wonder, “How the hell has a company I’ve never heard ’til now been selling air cleaners since the 1930s; way before air pollution was a thing?”
Then Tom adds pine scent to the water. I have a pitiful sense of smell, so the fragrance of this forest scent is magic. A memory of a happy family visit to Whispering Pines State Park, when I was two and Mom and Dad were still in love, warms my heart. My worries vanish in the piney fresh smelling air.
“Ok,” Tom instructs we eager applicants, “Time to fill out the last question. Write S if you wanna work for Rainbow on a monthly salary of $500. Or write C top have the chance to make 3 times that much on commission. Ah, but wait! Hold your pens. Almost forgot to show you why the Rainbow is even more of a synch to display.”
Tom takes the grill off the Rainbow, whips a hose out of the box, and proceeds to vacuum the cheap carpet. “That’s right. The Rainbow not only cleans your air… drum roll please… it cleans the carpet.” Tom displays away, and now I finally get this ain’t window display work! I almost say “Fuck!” out loud but manage to hold it all in with a giggle internally at my dense take on the help wanted ad for “display work” that brought me here.
“Now fill out the last question, S for salary, C for commission. Tony will grab your questionnaires on the way out the door. Night and thanks for coming, gents,” says Tom bowing out the door, not giving us a chance to ask questions.
My Bic pen hovers over the questionnaire. I’m pretty shy and I think, “Better $500 a month than nothing on commission.”
I am about to write S when Tony pipes up, “Guys, I ain’t never sold nothin’ before. But if a freakin’ bus-driver-dego-whop like me can sell 40 of these Rainbows a month and knock down a legit 2 K you can too. My advice? Check C for commission.”
Feeling a little nauseous, I check C. First to make the big decision I head for Tony at the door. As I hand him the questionnaire I ask, “When will I know if I got the job?”
“Mr. Deere will hit you up quick if you’re in. If you don’t hear nothin’ in the next 48 hours, well, you’re toast,” says Tony with a mischievous grin.
When I get home Mom barely notices me slip in. She’s glued to BONANZA on her new color TV.
Recently, after a terrible fight, one that ended up with a visit from the cops, cops who always let Dad off easy even after my Mom is left black and blue — a thing still going on today in domestic abuse cases all too often — I ask her, my voice ash, “Ma, why don’t you divorce Dad? He’s going to kill you or me if this shit goes on much longer.”
Her terse answer, “Can’t afford to leave your father. He’s a good provider.”
Mom spots me pouring a milk at the fridge and asks, “How’d the interview go, Kenny?”
The dirty yellow wall phone rings before I can answer her. I’ve just gotten home so I don’t expect it to be Tom Deere on the line when I say, “Hello?”
“Tom please. Ha. You make me feel like I’m fifty. Congrats! You got the job.”
I cover the receiver and holler for joy, “I got the job, Mom!”
“What kind of job?” says Mom dryly.
“Selling home air cleaners,” I quickly tell Mom, leaving out the vacuum cleaner part of the Rainbow out.
“Sales? You get a salary?” Mom asks, her mouth full of potato chips.
In an instant the risk I am taking sinks in. It’s sell or off to ‘Nam and good chance I’ll die or be fucked up like the students I meet coming back the States after a tour of duty. The poor vets remind me of zombies. I shake off my fear and get back to Tom on the phone, dodging Mom’s fateful question, “What’s next?”
“Come in Saturday 9AM for training.”
The training is surprisingly good. My shriveled self esteem begins to blossom. I’m clumsy at first but soon I’m stunned to discover that I’m a natural born salesman. Thanks to my mother’s well-off side of the family buying machines as I train, in a matter of weeks I am the #1 part time Rainbow salesmen in Glendale. A title I never give up. It’s my first win-win experience of my life as my many aunts and uncles all love their Rainbows. I learn the lesson to offer customers advice on the best products and let stuff from vacs to skyscrapers sell themselves.
Even my hard case father is begrudgingly proud of the fact I’m learning to be a good provider like him. Tuition becomes a breeze and I even have enough money left over to, I shit you not, own a classic Lincoln Continental on campus.
My kid brother Fred seems to down on my selling to earn my way through college. A jealousy takes seed in his mind that contributes to killing him one day as he drowns his rage of never making big money in drugging and drinking. Fred never copes well with my entrepreneurial successes compared to his playing it safe as a master welder on salary plus overtime. Also, he never sought therapy to heal from Dad’s epic physical and mental abuse like I did. Hell, I had a fleet of therapist help me rise from the ashes when my $162 million skyscraper project ruined me and my marriage.
My offer to set my little brother Fred up in business, him welding sculptures I’d design fell on deaf ears. Sad. He was so talented. I really regret not pushing my Gemini brother to do that. He simply was not prepared for the Obama years when America’s jobs left for China. Being laid off finished him off.
Back to 1971. My girlfriend hates my Lincoln’s big sidewalls, but she loves our expensive dates. She will become my wife over the objections over her mother. And one day my ex-wife to her mother’s delight.
So weird my wife’s mom hated me one for not being a doctor, like she said it right to my shocked face. A constant thorn in my side, even my becoming Chicago’s #1 commercial real estate broker according to the Chicago Times 15 years later and making her baby rich, never earns my mother-in-law-from-hell’s respect.
As part of my Rainbow sales training I am given some wonderful books to read by Mr. Deere. All of which add to my successes in life, including the building of Oprah’s Harpo Studios and developing a $162 million dollar skyscraper. Sadly, I lost touch with Tom after I graduated college and no longer wanted to sell Rainbows. He took it kinda hard I left to be an interior architect. But the most amazing of these books is Norman Vincent Peale’s THE POWER OF POSITIVE THINKING.
By the way, later as I become the number one part-time sales person on the Great Lakes region for Rainbow, I learn from Tom the only question he ever checks is C. If an applicant is willing to work on commission. Applications checked S for salary are placed in the circular file.
TRUMP’S ABUSE OF THE POWER OF POSITIVE THINKING
Now, I don’t know if Trump’s father was even half as abusive as my messed up drill sergeant dad, but it’s well known Trump’s father Fred was a hard-case father. So much so I think Fred Trump may have shattered Donald’s self worth. In fact, as junior shrink after so much therapy, I theorize the Don’s daddy issues made him the crazed narcissist we all either love or hate today.
As for me, it will be my “accidental” introduction to the power of positive thinking that serves to rescue me from the bone crushing barrage of mental negativity that my father subjected me to from birth. I remember reading these words at age 19 of Peale’s and feeling it a godsend, a life raft that saved me from a life depression and anxiety like my brother’s:
“Believe in yourself! Have faith in your abilities! Without a humble but reasonable confidence in your own powers you cannot be successful or happy.” ― Norman Vincent Peale
Note that I italicized humble but reasonable. Assuming Trump read the same book, a bit of stretch given his dislike for reading, and like me he learned how to rebuild his self worth from an abusive father through the power of positive thinking, it’s obvious Trump has either forgotten or intentionally ignored that self-belief has to be humble and reasonable.
Now, this might not sound like big deal, but without the restraints of being humble and reasonable in one’s confidence, positive thinking has a dark side. Indeed, without tempering, someone with the gift of charisma can literally become a confidence gamer or a con man, as Trump has.
My friends, there’s a simple reason conning people is illegal: It works all to well. So don’t be hard on a loved one or pal who has been taken in by Trump’s abuse of the power of positive thinking. You see, humans are conditioned by millions of years to trust our tribal leaders.
Especially, leaders who act with great confidence, as to having the greater welfare of the tribe at heart. Trump, unfortunately, is far from humble. To me he comes off as a compulsive liar. It’s sickness. I worked for one who shall remain anonymous as he’s as vindictive as Trump. “Buh-lieve me,” as Trump likes to say. Yep. These kind of mind fuckers lie for sport.
How disgustingly different the modern world that rewards lying leaders with wealth and fame is from the caveman days when the tribe stoned or hung bad leaders. Leaders today who are truthful are as rare as the 1 million endangered species Trump could give a shit about.
Lest you think Trump’s our first unethical leader, well, please read some history. To my heightened sensitivity as an abuse survivor, Obama, the drone president, the oil president, the surveillance president, was not much a more truthful a leader than the Cheet-oh Jesus as he being called, Trump. Nope. Pretty boy Barrack was just way smoother at his political con game. Still is. Though he has nothing on Bill Clinton for being a charming liar. Reagan? Don’t get me started. What a mess we’ve been in for decades.
Folks, and I am sure you know, Super liars are in charge of our world and it must change. Humanity can no longer function this way. We, the stable clan of geniuses who have created so many endangered species are now on our own endangered list. So thank your lucky stars the clumsy buffoonery of Trump has ruined lying for all future leaders. That’s where I see some hope.
The Amazon is on fire. The vast majority of scientists and his fellow G7 leaders are telling Trump that the environment is in crisis. But “the chosen one” prefers to proclaim that it’s all a Chinese hoax. He tells his followers to support fossil fuels, avoid solar power, avoid “cancer causing” wind power. He joyfully invites his loyal followers, a loyalty he does not deserve as he’s sticking it to most of them, to think positive as he proclaims global warming is liberal lie. “No biggie, so keep on gas guzzling, everyone!”
Trump’s irresponsible lack of humble leadership is a horror show on a scale never witnessed before in human history. And sadly it comes at a time when we can least afford it. The clock is running out fast on humanity’s ability to shirk off its responsibility to Gaia.
Take it from a man who worked his way through college selling Rainbows to stay out of a war he did not believe in, versus the one in DC who gamed the system with a fake story about bone spurs: We need a total reset in 2020 with young people taking the reigns from the old who cannot fully grasp that our very existence is at stake. Sorry Joe and Bernie/
As the right and left media roils for ratings in this strange era’s, love him or hate him, craziest presidency ever, I just received some surprising insights from my ET spirit guide Ohom (Open Heart Open Mind) as to what our meditations in 2017 at the Trump inauguration looked like on spirit plane.
It’s January 20, 2017 again. Elizabeth and I nervously stand amongst the mostly MAGA hat wearing crowd, sporting instead our CME penguin hats. Each time Hillary appears on camera the crowd jeers, “Lock her up!”
Two grizzled beer drinkers jeer each time Obama or Michelle appear on the Jumbo-tron nearby. It’s an ugly scene. Neither Elizabeth or I really want to be here. This is not the America we grew up in. And it is especially not the one Elizabeth served 17 years in the military to defend.
But we have dutifully followed Ohom’s simple instructions to go to this “largest ever” inauguration, and hold space of love for Trump in this power intoxicated crowd. We do our best to bless Trump’s presidency; that it ultimately be good for the planet, or to at very least do as little harm as possible.
Oddly, I sense this crowd, one that should be elated on this first day of the Trump administration, is deeply defensive. They literally can’t seem to believe their man Trump really won, even though he’s up on the big stage getting sworn in; Melania frowning behind his back on the Jumbo-tron screen perched atop scaffolding.
But there something’s very different in this particular meditation replay of the inauguration. A mental replay I’ve run countless times for over 2 years now, trying to make sense of what our crazy mission accomplished in the light of destructive programs for the environment and humanism rolling out almost daily from Trump via Twitter.
THE INAGURARTION TRANSMUTATION MEDITATION
Today Ohom is finally showing me what really happened energetically that fateful day, sealed within the scared Masonic geometry layout of DC. Deep within the low vibrational inaugural crowd, cozy in our own bubble of bliss, sweet Elizabeth and I hold a space of love; just as Ohom guided.
Our loving meditation crystalizes moisture from the light rain that begins to fall. Our love meditation becomes a diamond-seed that burrows into the wet grass beneath our cold feet. Soon a translucent white energy tree rapidly grows beneath Elizabeth and me. The rapidly growing energy tree sweeps us high above the bristling Trump clan.
My view to the dais greatly improved, I gaze towards the red-faced Donald J. Trump giving a speech former president Bush later observed, “That was some weird shit.”
Agreed. To me this all feels like the birth of the apocalyptic era right out of FALLOUT THREE; a video game that takes place in a mutated and ruined Washington DC 200 years after World War III.
I flinch as Trump’s weird shit “America First” address deeply disrespects Obama’s legacy. Trump behaves as though he’s not inheriting a booming economy but a “smocking” wasteland.
Looking ahead to the dais, I see two other white energy trees carrying other pairs of meditators high above the oddly fidgety crowd. I wonder to myself, “Maybe the Trump fans are nervous they elected a thin-skinned guy with his trigger finger on the largest nuclear arsenal in history?”
Amazed by this new feeling compassion towards the desperate-for-change Trump’s base, I look back towards the Washington monument. Nine other white trees carrying meditation pairs grow rapidly. The procession of 12 inner lighted white trees leads all the way from the dais to the Lincoln Memorial.
The wise Ohom never let any of our teams know we are working as a meditation group of 12 tree riding pairs until now. I may never know their names, but Ohom tells me the dozen meditation teams represent all races, male and female, and sexual orientation.
Soon, all twelve energy trees are large enough to join their rapidly leafing branches above us the meditation teams. Loving energy pulses through the umbrella of white trees, downloading into the anxious crowd below.
Now all of our teams of meditators hold space for one thing: that the Trump presidency, messy as its likely to be, never result in a launch of World War III.
Ohom tells me telepathically as I write, “Take heart, Ken. All of Trump’s many disconcerting acts he has and is yet to commit during his presidency are in actuality a sacrifice to your planetary conscious. The Mars energy of war that has dominated your world since the fall of Atlantis is dying. Trump is but a servant to accelerate its end.”
Even knowing I’ll fail to recall all this and fall at times into anger at Trump’s efforts to get our collective goat, I feel blessed to finally have this gorgeous vision to wrap my head around as to Trump’s higher purpose and hope you do too. This has been a tough two years for we moderates, plus liberals and many conservatives alike.
But whether it’s 2 or 6 years until the Trump era finally ends, the blink of an eye in the cosmic grand scheme, look for an overnight flip to the next era. One that will make the loving 60s look passe!
And as the barrage of negative news and policies continues 24/7, I suggest you tune out to the ratings driven chatter and join with us in meditation for a better tomorrow. Vote when the time comes but don’t obsess over all this until November 3, 2020 is closer. Advice to myself as much as you, dear reader.
Wow. It’s only been handful of days since I almost left the planet. My 3rd March NDE (what’s my issue with March?) happened this past Wednesday. A Wednesday like any other. Elizabeth and I had gotten up and off to hike with our rescue dog Lincoln shortly after sunrise. We were back home before 8 AM and making breakfast.
I like to take my supplements before I eat so I gathered them up from the many bottles under our counter and did what I’ve done many times; popped a bunch of them in my mouth at once. Then it happened. I began violently gagging.
I staggered over to the sink to try to barf them up. My stomach wretched deeply but no luck getting the logjam of supplements free. Elizabeth asked if I was OK and next thing I knew I was on the hard tile kitchen floor face down; blood dripping from my mouth and nose.
I tried to get up but both my arms were numb. Elizabeth shouted, “Stay down, Ken! You passed out and smashed your head! Are you OK?” I was confused because the last thing I remembered was choking on supplements by the sink.
Soon a team of 6 paramedics were crammed in our Sedona kitchen. As they began strapping me into a stretcher, the lead paramedic examined my eyes with a small flashlight. “Normal contraction in both eyes,” he told his clan of rescuers. Elizabeth gave a grateful sigh of relief as he asked, “What happened?”
After I recounted my stupidity of taking too many supplements at once I was told I’d suffered a hard lesson about a part of my body I’d never heard of before, the Vagus nerve. Pronounced like Vegas, but not as much fun. It wraps around the esophagus and choking can trigger it. It’s used by wrestlers to induce a sleep hold.
For a guy who had a vision in a past near death as kid this 2019 NED was nothing like that. It feels more like reboot. I simply was here one minute, gone briefly, and then back with no visions of where I went.
The paramedic asked me as blood dripped from my mouth and nose, “Who is our president?”
“Sadly Trump,” I responded. My gallows humor got a few smiles according to Elizabeth and showed them I was going to be OK but they still insisted I go to the ER for Xrays and a CT scan. My heart was acting up a bit with what they hoped was a trauma induced an atrial fibrillation.
Each day I am recuperating rapidly. The outreach of love and support on Facebook and in real life has been deeply touching and began while I was briefly in the ER. Thankfully all the tests were good, nothing was broken and I did not suffer ever a concussion. And with all the healing energy that came my way my heart happily returned to its normal beat in a matter of hours.
Man, I remember chuckling when George Bush passed out choking on a pretzel that triggered his Vagus nerve back in 2002. Well, it’s not so funny now when I feel the pain in my neck head and shoulders from the fall, a lot better each day, that makes it a challenge to type right now.
The painful lesson I happily pass on: Take your supplements one at a time or end up like me and W.
During my stay at Malibu’s Great Spirits Ranch, hosting events and running social media for the bulk of 2012, I was blessed to meet many amazing stars of the LA spirit community. One of those LA stars is now my partner in love, biz and life, Elizabeth England. We’ve been living in bliss together now for three years, nestled in a lovely home in Sedona.
As we work round the clock to get the word out about an amazing line of EMF protection devices that literally save lives on our new CoolestTechEver.com e-commerce site, it can be easy to actually forget that magical time. A time when all of us in the yoga and meditation community across the planet were looking forward to the end of the Mayan calendar with hope for a new era in human awareness.
In that heady time, there was lovely woman named Annelise (Annalisa) Balfour who visited the Malibu ranch a few times for GSR events. Her mega-watt smile and contagious positive attitude made her a stand-out from the crowds who visited the 14 acres ranch, perched high above the city of Malibu in the Santa Monica mountains. Annelise was curious about my ET spirit guide Ohom and we had great conversation about the mission of the DreamShield to assist in gently elevating human consciousness through meditation.
Yesterday, amidst all the hype on FB surrounding the mid-term elections, which gratefully succeeded in the Dems taking the house to put some check on 45, I was shocked to learn that sweet Annelise had passed away from breast cancer. It instantly put all the nonsense surrounding Trump and our crazy-making politics into perspective.
Monday, at Ross Pittman’s of ConsciousLifeNews.com’s weekly power of eight meditation event, I asked the group to help Annelise on her journey. Everyone eagerly agreed. As soon as we all closed our eyes and dropped into our heart space I connected to my dear spirit guide Robin Williams; now enjoying an oceanic afterlife as a killer whale, after short reincarnations as a blue whale and a blue dolphin. Robin, who calls himself Nanu these days, volunteered to help in the group meditation.
Robin found Annelise’s spirit wandering the beach in Malibu. When she spotted Robin they connected telepathically and he playfully invited Annelise to swim out and climb aboard his back and hang onto his dorsal fin. Annelise happily accepted Robin’s invitation and soon they were off!
Annelise gleefully clung to Robin the killer whale like a mermaid born for this. Robin dove deep and soared up, flying from from wave to wave. Annelise laughed with carefree joy as the duo glided on the wind and waves.
Now Robin dove deep. Deeper and deeper, down to the bottom of the ocean he raced. At first Annelise worried about air but then chuckled she no longer had the need for mortal breathing. She gasped as up ahead a small portal of golden light opened, a glittering beacon on the dark ocean floor.
Robin told Annelise, “Sorry. Too small for me. This is as far as I can take you, babe. Enjoy your journey to the center for the earth!”
I watched the vision from the Sedona meditation circle with a giddy smile as Annelise’s spirit accepted Nanu’s whale of an invite and dove into the golden portal. Her spirit easily glided though the layers of the earth, gaining in power. Soon she arrived at the planetary core. But instead of hot magma she was amazed the earth’s core swirled in molten gold.
A large golden lever that stuck out from a golden column beckoned to Annelise. Free of mortal hesitation, she pulled the golden lever sharply down. To her joy a wave of golden energy sailed from the earth’s core rocketing out to the surface and kept right on going throughout the solar system and the whole universe.
The vision ended and I shared the story with our Sedona meditation group. Others shared visions too of her powerful presence. And I felt immense gratitude for the abundant health of my love Elizabeth and the mutual support we give each other as we continue to grow and develop as leaders of the conscious community.
Today, America awoke to a renewed Congress, blessed with 100 women of many races and creeds who, to record turnouts, were elected yesterday. Thanks for helping make that happen, Annelise and my coolest ever mediation Sedona pals! Safe journeys on whatever you are up to next on the other side, Annalisa. I have a feeling your part of your work will be helping heal the idiotic divides between the people.
Oh, and I’ll pass your thanks onto spirit guide and killer whale Nanu, AKA Robin Williams.
Place them side by side and the philosophies of Mr. Rogers and President Trump are nothing less than the forces love versus hate.
Nice guys versus tough guys are heavy on my mind today because last night my love Elizabeth wanted, well more like demanded, we watch a documentary about the life and work of Mr. Fred Rogers, host of the beloved PBS show MISTER ROGERS NEIGHBORHOOD, now on Amazon.
I was reluctant to watch it because I am 50s kid. So Mr. Rogers’ PBS show was not part of my childhood. Digging deeper in my reluctance, I recalled a lot of rumors back in the Nixon years of Mr. Rogers being a Gay. Worse, a pedophile.
Finally, after some gentle scolding from Elizabeth for buying into the rumor mill, I watched WON’T YOU BE MY NEIGHBOR. The film erased decades of horrible Matrix programming. In the masterful film I simply saw a gentle family man with children and wife who dedicated himself to teaching kids that love and kindness is a powerful way to live.
The Sun-Times called it the feel good film of the year. But I’d call WON’T YOU BE MY NEIGHBOR one of the most important films my lifetime. Why? You see, my Dad was a blue collar welder who came to maturity as a US Army drill sergeant. Dad never understood the fact I could be an an artist and nice person and not be Gay, much like Fred Rogers.
I can’t help but wonder what he would have thought of Trump’s disrespect of a man far his moral superior, Senator John McCain, this past week.
As devoted Christian, Mr. Rodgers had to be rolling over in his grave this week as the ever self-serving Donald Trump, fearing impeachment, told a gathering evangelical leaders that there will be violence if the Democrats retake the House and Senate come November 2018. Violence? Only if he’s the one making it happen by continuing to demonize Democrats.
If Trump lasts in office until 2020, it’s going to be the three generations of the WON’T YOU BE MY NEIGHBOR students of love and kindness of Mister Rogers that sweep him from office.
Thanks for the 5 star Mister Rogers enlightenment Elizabeth. As always, you lift me higher.
It was not as easy as thought it would be, but I have succeeded in my goal for one week of abstaining from Trump news.
Good news, the fate of the world has not changed during my week of freedom from reading Trump news or watching Trump related media.
Even more interesting, because Trump is so omnipresent in the fixated media’s headlines and in my friends social media postings, I did not miss any important Trump news by ignoring the master agitator.
Most interesting of all, a lot of my accidental addiction to the endless cycle of anger filled Trump news has been released. I cried for half an hour today, day 7 of my #TrumpCleanse, and I do not cry as a habit very much.
I cried for the pain in both political camps, conservative and liberal. Both trapped in a cycle of mutual hatred.
I cried for my hero Tom Hanks getting smeared with the phony pedophile brush used by the extreme right to attack those who disagree with Trump.
I cried for the victims of school shootings getting accused by the extreme right of being actors.
I cried for lost friends from both ends of the political spectrum as I continue to hold the center, at least as I see it, between the true left and true right.
I cried for the left brain oriented people who love the world of illusion versus reality. The left side of the brain is numbers and analysis. So my theory, gained in the free time dropping Trump news gave me to meditate, is that left brained people are so starved for the fanciful they are prone to political brainwashing.
I cried for the rising Q movement that plays into a left-brained fever dream that Trump is some kind of genius secretly working with Mueller to draw out darkness Trump alone can solve in America’s soul. Now that’s one “sad” delusion.
I cried for great comedians of today who are raking up Trump schtick everyday.
I cried for our free press under constant attack by Trump and his followers.
I cried for a GOP in tatters and for the lost Dems, who serve the same corporate masters, who have yet to offer any real change I can discern.
I cried about the endless Russia investigation and the web of lies surrounding it on both sides.
I cried for the families of World War Two soldiers who died fighting the Nazi’s only to see Nazi-like racism rise on our own shores.
I cried for our allies who’ve been so badly mistreated by Trump.
I cried for all the people who serve and lie for Trump at the peril of the reputations and souls.
I cried for the constant devise bombardment of Russian trolls and their unchecked hacking of our democracy.
I cried for a lot more things wrong in our lives right now that have nothing to do with Trump, who serves as diversion while fat cats mess with our lives.
But most of all I cried at last for the loss of my brother Fred 8 months ago. Fred and I used to discuss politics for hours on end. I realize I’ve been using Trump news to avoid thinking of Fred.
My kid brother Fred was one of the smartest most insightful people I’ve ever known. Sadly, Fred was a perfectionist who fell into depression about our imperfect world. He escaped his pain through drugs and alcohol. And at only 62 Fred escaped this world for good, ending his life in a nursing home alone and estranged from me and our whole family.
Farewell, dear brother. I hope you’ll help us through these Trumpy times from the other side.
I am happy to report that after abstaining from Trump news for a full week I truly feel like a new man. That’s a lot of emotional gain from simply tuning out the most famous man in the world.
Don’t believe me when I say Trump is the most famous person in the world? Well, a company called mediaQuant, which measures the value of free media exposure if it had to be bought, estimated in the month of January of 2017 that Trump got more media attention than the other top 1,000 celebrities in the world combined. No wonder Trump’s so hard to ignore.
So feel no shame if you too are a Trump news junkie. Liberal or conservative, please consider giving yourself a Trump anger toxin free week. You will still know what’s happening without reading the slanted stories and video I assure you.
Again, tears are an emotional detox. So after a week, or longer if needed, of freedom from Trump’s circus be sure to have a box tissues ready because Trump’s angry America is a real tearjerker.
Please share this idea of doing a #Trumpcleanse.
And be sure to check out a new cool tool for detoxing yourself of EMF radiation we are proud to present at CoolestTechEver.com
That’s right. Heart attack by overeating. And not just for Trump, but I get ahead of myself.
Trump’s dangling a cabinet spot before Dr. Ronnie Jackson’s nose smells of coercion for the rigging of the POTUS’s annual physical. No way Trump tips the scales at a hilarious 239 pounds. Lying about health is not healthy for Donald Trump nor America.
Karma, in The Donald’s obese case, could lead to… sing it Billy!
Not wishful thinking on my part. I actually want Trump to live out his term or, God forbid, impeachment. I say “God forbid” because can you imagine the wave of conspiracy theories and hard feelings his impeachment would result in? Seriously, it’s not worth booting Trump IMHO if it reboots The Civil War.
Guys, take it from a man who’s meditated far too long on the meaning of Trump showing up so prominently in our lives, it’s pointless to stress over Trump and his childish antics. Even if he lasts 2 full terms, likely at this point if the economy Obama rebuilt he’s coasting on holds. Heck, that’s less than a blink of an eye in the planet’s 5 billion year life so far. All the drama in the 24/7 news cycle every time he tweets some idiocy is just a big old ratings gimmick.
Let’s take a fear that pops up in various forms in liberal media: “Trump and his “deplorables”( according Trump arch nemesis Hilary) followers are taking us down the road to an American-Nazi regime!” Hello. America practically invented genocide, wiping out millions of Native Americans long before the Nazis were even a twinkle in Hitler’s evil eye.
Look on the bright side: Trump looks to be here to ring out the old and stimulate the new into action. That’s if he does not commit suicide by Mac Attack. Give him this, he’s shinning the light, albeit unintentionally, in dark place of the American psyche that needs healing, all the way back to the founding fathers; many of whom were slave owners.
And speaking of liberal overkill on outrage, shame on Samantha Bee for calling Ivanka the C word. Liberals, since the other side of the political family, currently the bad boys, must lead by example, not play in the same mud as Trump. Bee should be fired IMHO.
And while we are getting real, let’s give equal time to conservative mania in the media. Sorry Trump fans, Jared is not bringing peace to the Middle East, Ivanka is not a champion of women’s rights and no way Trump is to going bully his way to a Nobel in North Korea peace talks. Off as of this post.
Yeah. Let’s all get really real: Liberals and their Trumped up outrage, and Conservatives, placing Trump on a shaky pedestal founded in wishful thinking, are both wrong! I am lucky enough to call a few billionaires friends and I assure you, all are quite mortal and petty at times. Money does not make anyone smart, which Trump exhibits for us daily.
Why on earth would anyone want to emulate Trump in the first place? I mean, the overeating, and oversexed old guy is miserable. And it shows from the Michael Cohen clean up reports that Donald all too often pays big time for his sexcapades. The sad result? Trump’s marriage to Melania is a train wreck.
Cue Melania hand swat video!
Off attacks of the heart and back onto heart attacks. Coronaries are simple eating physics: Fatty foods + lack of exercise = stroke or death by clogged arteries. Next, for good measure, toss in Trump’s severe anger issues (a sad sign of the onset of dementia) into the equation and you wonder why the Don’s not already stroked out and drooling in a presidential wheelchair.
Read more at WebMD about the link of anger to heart attacks.
Heck, want proof Dr. Jackson is likely a big fat liar about Trump’s odds of buying the farm before he can undo all of Obama’s legacy? Look no further than Trump’s 2016 doctor, the eccentric Dr. Bornstein. Currently on the outs with Trump for blabbing about the POTUS using propecia for his bald spot(s). Cosmic justice for letting Trump dictate his own 2016 checkup for the enabling Bornstein.
Now let’s talk about the dozen diet Cokes Trump reportedly drinks daily. Studies show diet drink are bad for the brain and may even cause cancer. Steady use of diet pop can leads to dementia; as this AARP story outlines. The same disorder that killed Regan, Mr. President, if you’re reading. Yeah, right. As if. LOL.
My theory is Trump’s cannot start his workday until 11AM because his health is so feeble that he spends mornings as a couch potato, watching of the GMO of mind control Fox & Friends, while he drifts in and out of slumber. Here’s a short film on Trump’s shortness of breath example that will leave you breathless.
Now that’s a SAD video. Unfortunately, I am something of an expert heart failure symptoms because I landed in the hospital for my wakeup call just 10 weeks ago. All brought on by an overeating contest with my love’s millennial. Still what I downed was organic, nothing approaching Trump’s crazy GMO diet.
Just saying, my recent horrors of the heart give me an edge seeing Trump is on the road to ruin. Let me tell you, dear reader, it’s weird as hell to feel your life’s flame get so low in heart failure that a puff of air could blow out your candle. After my wakeup call, complete with an ER visit, my doctor suggested, along with putting me on 6 medications, that I drop 40 pounds to get in optimal cardio shape. My current weight? I am down to 239 pounds from 247. How’s that for a weird coincidence? Difference is I am a real 239, Trump is not.
Scaling up with how I currently look, fatter than I’ve ever been in my life, just as fat as Trump at 239 pounds, but given he’s 3 inches taller than me, my guess is Trump’s true weight is more like 270- 280. Make your guess in comments below as to #Trumpsrealweight. If we ever learn the truth I’ll send the closest guesser a free CoolestMeditationEver.com t-shirt.
We all know Trump has ego issues. That’s why he’s not seeing he is being bad role model for we already obese Americans. His eating habits are toxic. Here’s great video here of two people feeling ill effects after just one day of eating like Trump.
Urp! Now, fans of my planetary meditations, where I delve deep into the real and imagined worlds, might not know that I’ve earned a living from time to time as a paid political humorist. And I have a hit 2000 PBS show that led into the Bush/Gore debates plus a #1 in it’s niche 2008 Amazon DVD to prove it.
But please take me deadly serious when I warn Trump’s bad eating will, by bad example, kill more Americans than anything else he bumbles or blusters his way through during his troubled presidency, short of nuclear war with the equally out of shape Kim Jong Un. Please, fans and friends, especailly ME!, don’t eat like Trump!
So, what do you think? Should the GOP seek to reign in Trump’s horrible eating habits to save American lives and to preserve their chance for an 8 year run for their man?
OK. I hear you, dear readers, “Get real, Sheetz. Do you really believe a man who must always have two scoops of ice cream with his desert will ever listen to anything but his own stomach?
I’ll lead off this blog with a message from my ET spirit guide:
“Every living being in the universe experiences immortality in the 5D quantum field.” Love, Ohom
Ohom’s coolest ever message came to me in the aftermath of a March 9, 2018 heart scare. Since I’ve been blessed by near perfect health my whole life this came totally out of left field.
But a prefect storm of stress, combined with a 60 day 25 pound weight gain, brought on by entertaining a food-loving future 23-year-old son-in-law for three months, had raised my blood pressure to twice normal levels.
Thanks to my awareness that something was very wrong, my love drove me to the ER where they took one look at me and rushed me to an ICU for treatment. It was a close call this heart failure did not escalate to a heart attack or stroke. I feel deeply blessed to still be here blogging to you.
BTW, I taught my 88 year-old mom what the word blog means the other day. “Blog? What a weird word!”she complained.
On March 11th I told the hospital doctors, determined to scare me into better self-care, that they’d find my heart was in decent shape when they examined me. I knew this not just because am I blessed with being pretty psychic, but because I had just hiked the Grand Canyon 6 months earlier with zero heart trouble.
The angiogram, which I had to wait two and a half days to have done, determined my heart, as I predicted, was not permanently damaged by my freak spike in blood pressure. (BP health tip. Avoid using baking soda for heartburn. Too high in sodium!) As well, my arteries checked out unclogged and my heart valves were working great. That happy Monday after my angiogram I was the “good news patient” in the ICU. The outright joy of the nurses and doctors over my groovy angiogram still warms my healing heart.
But it was not all roses for my heart reports. An echogram revealed that the part of my heart that pumps the blood, called the ventricles, was enlarged and my normally dependable heart operating at only half normal pumping power. No wonder I had become weak as kitten, short of breath went into heart failure.
Nine weeks into my heart recovery program at this posting, I am on a lot of expensive meds to rebuild my heart. One prescription, Entresto, costs $2500 for 60 tablets. That’s $41.60 a freaking pill! Thank god for my Medicare which just began last fall.
Good news, as I make this post, I have graduated from 6 weeks of cardio training, gone on a diet and joined a gym. I’m well on way to fulfilling my heart doctor’s rare prediction of 100% recovery. Heck, I’m going for 200% recovery. No rules against that!
Indeed, the heart pros have called my recovery “remarkable”. So far so good. Echogram again in June and then I’ll confirm if my heart is back to full pumping power. I feel it is a month ahead of schedule. Fingers crossed.
I have some theories on why my recovery has been so strong, besides the incredible outpouring of love, prayer and good intentions from family, friends and fans, that I want to share with you.
Ohom’s message on the nature of what immortality actually is all about, 5D -wise, came to me a little before my heart scare, but without my getting it at first. When I get massive visions like the one of ET healing the earth in 2010, which ended me up meditating to help heal humanity on 12.12.12 in Antarctica, it can take me years to figure epic visions out.
Ironically, it was the four days on my back in the Verde Valley Hospital that gave me the unexpected free time to understand an ET vision I’d had early this year. And I am just now finding the time to blog about it!
Looking back on my own multi-dimensional ET self as I lay in the air-pressurized as hell ICU bed, hooked up to IVs and monitors, was that what I had seen a few months earlier in the ET vision Ohom sent me is reality is in fact is a 5D Fibonacci sfield of trillions of universes. Think of sunflower face, but as sphere, where each seed is one of an infinite number of realities.
On this timeline, on which I am happily still writing to you, and on most other timelines, there exists an infinite range of my realities; from my being dead or good as a dead, as a stroked out man in a wheelchair, to my life as a space traveling ever-youthful immortal running marathons on other worlds that humanity is colonizing in other galaxies. And all these infinite realities are ruled by one master soul that we call God.
HOW MY HEART FAILURE HELPED ME UNDERSTAND DR. FLANAGAN’S IMMORTALITY CHAMBER
Looking deeper down the quantum rabbit hole of my heart scare, I see this 5D quantum immortality I have had its origins in a 2013 2D filming super scientist Patrick Flanagan, founder of PhiSciences.com.
One hot summer 2013 day, I was editing in the sweltering closet that was my makeshift edit suite off a humble attic room, tucked above a dusty little B&B we rented for my visit from LA to film super scientist Dr. Flanagan, when my cell rang. It was Pat on the line. Excited he said, “Hi, Ken. Want to be immortal?”
Without hesitation I shouted, “Of course!” As I raced my rental car to Pat’s Cornville estate, which doubled then as his home lab, I felt blessed to have to this amazing genius in my life.
A gentle desert breeze blew through the screen of open front door of the great inventor’s white adobe home, perched above the Verde River with a commanding view. Pat spotted me at the entrance and called me out onto the patio. I passed through the spacious living room filled with scared objects that he and his wife Stephanie have gathered from around the world, mixed with Pat’s half finished experiments that occupied every horizontal surface.
Arriving on the deck overlooking the Verde Valley and Mingus Mountains I gasped at the sight of the world renowned scientist’s prototype made of plywood and 2X4’s you see in this video. Seeing a new invention is this early stage of development is a rare treat I am honored to have filmed. Enjoy the video before reading on.
After I finished filming I got my turn to bathe in the energies of Pat’s immortality chamber prototype. When I came out Pat said with his famous mischievous smile, “Congratulation, Ken. You’re immortal now. You will only die if someone chops your head off, like in THE HIGHLANDER.” We all had a good laugh at Pat’s joke.
How cool to finally understand what this modern-day Tesla, Dr. Flanagan, meant. I am grateful for my heart troubles as it’s allowed me to see what Pat meant on 5D form here in 2018. I also love Patrick’s brilliant and beautiful wife’s message in the video. BTW, she’s an absolute human angel who adores Donald Trump as president. Her high opinion of the Donald, despite my own grave reservations on Trump that often get the better on me, gives me hope there is a deeper value to his presidency than I’ve yet to see.
Stephanie’s line at the end of the Immortality Chamber video, “Isn’t it wild?” sums up a lot of the 5D fibonacci of the immortality vision for me to live with courage and to feel love for all realities. Good and bad are human labels.
Shameless and proud plug, visit the Coolest Meditation Ever (CME) page for Dr. Flanagan’s amazing Sensor v medallion. On the sales page you’ll hear the doctor explain it’s a portable pyramidal abundance field generator. I can tell you in the five years of abundance that I’ve had my Sensor V since he gifted me one is that it is the gift that keeps on giving. It’s flat out worked miracles in my life, including a return to abundant health.
I had to buy one for my love Elizabeth, pictured below. The Sensor V has worked just as great for her too. In fact she is away right now on abundant trip to the Bahamas for yoga intensive training!