Category: Uncategorized

Fed Up… America’s Sweet Conspiracy

On By Ken SheetzIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

“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

originalFive 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!

10515210_10152263829232029_2208458233204990333_oNEGLECT 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.

timenewcoke-copyI 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.

Film Review: Gore Vidal – The United States of Amnesia

On By Ken SheetzIn UncategorizedLeave a comment
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.

June 2014’s Nearly Lethal Mercury Retograde

On By Ken SheetzIn Uncategorized2 Comments

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.

903085_10151414597127029_2081500677_oIndeed, 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

DSC00859I 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

4th Poster GenevieveIt 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

Moment of love neurophone panelThe 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.

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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

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_brf8ojuHg8

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

10368973_10152184792677029_1896710833090010273_oA 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 10275581_10152184792672029_3794095424488509829_oother 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?

DSC03796

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.

download-1AMAZING 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?!

DARK AWAKENING: A Mother’s Journey

On By Ken SheetzIn DreamShield, Spirit Recvoery, Uncategorized1 Comment
IMG_0164
Mom age 18

Today my 86-year-old mother sets off on a road trip from her condo in Vegas to try to right the ship of my brother’s wrecked life in Florida.  She’s passing through Sedona about noon today and we’ll have lunch unless my stepfather, also 86, gets on his epic only stopping for restroom breaks binge he falls prey to.  I hope not.  I’d love to hug mom as thanks for her courage in traveling the 6,000 mile round trip.

Followers of my blog and Facebook page know that my brother fell off a 27 year recovery wagon in his retirement journey to Florida.  He wasted his 13 day forced recovery when he almost died last fall of bleeding ulcers and went through two near deaths experiences blogged of here.

Fred’s epic fall from sobriety is all too common these days.  Sadly, even only 10% of AA members stay sober and clean.  And that modest 10% makes them #1 on the planet as the best for a sustained recovery after detox.  Without an AA support group the chance of a relapse is almost 100%. I had studied all this trying to get my brother into recovery when we almost lost him in the fall.  His ego would not permit this help.  Ego really is like an elephant that likes to sit on your house.

I believe, but have no proof, Fred quickly fell into the drug culture that plagues Florida.  All of us in the family that have leaned on Fred as a rock during his 27 year sobriety were shocked how fast my brother fell from grace.  Over only a 90 day period he went from the proud owner of a new home and puppy to be arrested 3 times, one of those times supposedly for animal abuse of his new puppy.

Though she’s making mistakes enabling my brother, I’ve been amazed at the depth my mother’s love in trying to rescue my brother from himself.  I’ve tried to tell her unless he gets into recovery he’ll end up right back in jail again.  Mom does have a financial stake in my brother’s mess he’s made of his life as she co-signed on the mortgage that got him the house of his dreams.   My brother has consented from jail to have the house sold.  There are limits to what mom will do to help Fred.  She’s refused to let him lein the house to bond his freedom.  A wise thing as my brother was arrested fleeing a warrant for his arrest in his dark awakening you can read more about on the blog.  I plan to record this whole chain of events as a cautionary tale to people drinking and drugging too much, and falling prey to today’s overzealous legal system.  Sick people like Fred need treatment not prison.

Mom comes from a generation unfamiliar with the dangers of drugs like crystal meth and crack cocaine and how they can transform a person into a criminal, make them lie and cheat and steal for the drugs of choice.  I’ve been doing my best to educate my mother and explaining why enabling can make things worse in the end for an addict.  The mortgage she co-signed compels her to take action.  Age 86 is not the time to lose your nest egg to a son who fell so low as to be negligent of his duties to care for a house Mom helped him get.

Before I broke off all conversation with my kid brother, he was relishing in a childhood memory of a nasty prank he pulled of disconnecting the transmission on mom’s car.  It totaled her silver blue T-bird and could have killed her.  I was furious that for all these years my brother had gotten away with pinning this evil prank on our drunken father.  Fred got mad at me for placing the blame where it belonged.

I am blessed to have never drank and drugged, aside from some college experiments and the famed 3 martini lunches of the 80s business world.  Addiction has never had a grip on me.  Seeing what my mother must do makes me ever more grateful that I am an addiction fighter.  See my blog about a meditation to end addiction in the world in Nashville in 2011 for more on this.

My brother Fred makes NBC News in Florida for all the wrong reasons.
My brother Fred makes NBC News in Florida for all the wrong reasons.

Someone asked me recently, “Aren’t you worried about sharing such personal stories about your brother’s problems?”

I answered, “Sadly he’s way out there in the public eye.”  My brother has even made the local Florida TV news and is featured for his supposed puppy abuse on a national website.  Fred’s gaunt face in mug shots looks drug induced to my sharp eye serving an addiction radio show as their media adviser.  One day if he wants to be in my life again he is going to have to prove he’s not been on drugs or admit and ask forgiveness for putting the family through his hell.

A powerful Sedona psychic says if Fred gets into recovery his life ahead is especially positive. Recovery treatment, even if this all just alcohol related, is mandatory in Fred’s possible reentry to my life.  After all I said he would be cut off from me to give him incentive to stay clean and sober not to truly give up on him.

My mother said, “Kenneth, aren’t you afraid of making Fred not sending him money in jail?  What if he shows up at your place in Sedona?  He knows where you live.”

“Mom, if I was not afraid of my abusive father why would I be afraid of a brother who has turned abusive.?  If he shows up on my doorstep without recovery plan that’s been in effect a year he’s in for a visit to the Sedona police and the AZ police are even tougher than Florida cops,” I said with a calm that surprised me.

Fear fighting is one of the primary mission of DreamShield.  I won’t live in fear of governments, corporations and certainly not messed up brothers.  I told mom, “I could die crossing the street if it’s my time to go.  If I die at the hands of drug addled brother I surrender to that.  I do not live in fear of anyone or anything and I suggest mom you do the same.”

Addiction is at the heart of much of the world’s issues.  And as a society we are addicted to war, oil, meat consumption and more.  I am proud of Mom and send her a DreamShield ET escort to watch over her for a safe return to Las Vegas, a place she retired to for her love of Keno.  Keno is her pet addiction.  One that’s well under control.  Mom plays with nickels.  Now, she plays in the biggest gamble of her life, saving her son’s life savings and freeing herself from his mortgage.

10467477_10152213797132029_1962029261_oUpdate:  Yay!  Happy to have connected to mom and wish her well on the journey.  My stepfather Nick is like an open book.  He’s not happy about the trip and all the driving ahead. 

Mom held my hand as I walked her to the car after treating her and Nick to lunch and said, “I know we met up on this trip to Florida with you for reason, Kenneth.”

I smiled.  Squeezed her hand and said, “Maybe it was for me to lend you my luck.  Stay focused.  Get yourself off Fred’s mortgage.  Use the police if any of druggy friends show up to cause trouble.  Fred’s the one in jail.  Not you. The law is on your side and you have a right to clean up this mess.”  And I then gave her a big kiss on the cheek for luck and I led them back to the freeway and off to Florida.

 

 

 

 

 

A Litte Boy’s Love at First Sight With Gaia

On By Ken SheetzIn 2012, DreamShield, Uncategorized5 Comments

MENSAJEPARABUENASNOCHESWhen I was almost 5-years-old my parents sent me off for a Labor Day weekend with my favorite aunt Katie, who was only twenty-two.  A striking brunette full of mirth, Katie had been in her teens when she had kids.  So, in many ways, Katie felt as much like a big sister as an aunt.

Katie had a new boyfriend with kids too and we all piled into an old Chevy station wagon and  drove from St. Francis, a quaint blue-collar neighborhood in Milwaukee, for Devil’s Lake.  The way Katie lovingly dealt with her boisterous kids in the crowded station wagon, rather than beatings or harsh words my dad used to create order, was as new and wonderful to me as the alien worlds I would one day as an adult visit on the astral plane in meditation.

Some in the family thought less of the child-mother Katie than me.  Grandma Agnes, in her thick Irish brogue, would often criticize Aunt Katie,”You’re raising these kids like a damn bunch of wild Hooligans!”

Yeah, I was happy to be in this fearless new tribe from the car ride on.  It was the first time I was away from home.  Aunt Katie gave me more hugs and kisses on that 5 hour car ride as I’d had in my whole 5 year life, aside from Grandma’s.  As the Wisconsin countryside flew by the station wagon windows I even daydreamed about Aunt Katie adopting me and freeing me from my abusive father and ice-cold depressed mother.

Labor Day was passing as fast as the pine trees out the car windows, like the whole weekend had been that had seemed to pass like a single day in my stressful home.  I was doing my best to hide how deeply sad I was that this was my last day with Aunt Katie and the happy kids and cousins before returning to my raging father and the frightened mother who let my father hurt me each and every day lest she share my fate.

Every painful day for the 21 years of my home life, it seemed my father’s only joy was hurting me. Lots of therapy would be needed to overcome this tortured life my soul had chosen to strengthen me for the planetary healing work I would do 40 years later. Yes, I accept my father was doing what my soul had chosen him for. Even if he seemed to a bit too good at his job of trying to break me. Indeed, if you are ever in a jam at the end of the world, a zombie apocalypse, financial collapse, I am the calm cool character you want in your corner. I fear nothing as an adult. So as you read take heart for the brave little Ken’s suffering in this story, He’s far more than he appears. He’s an angel that lit up a dark family and no victim at all.

Sometimes, when Dad was away and I kept my mom company, her little accomplice in a conspiracy to hate my father without his catching on, Mom would see my hands trembling like a Parkinson’s victim and she then always say, “Why are your hands shaking, Kenneth?  You look sick and pale.”  I really did not know then.  Now I know the crushing stress of a crazy father was getting expressed by my body, though my mind was in total denial, both consciously and subconsciously.   To my parents, sibs, and friends, except for my tremors, I acted and appeared a happy kid.

It’s part of the reason I am a recovering hypochondriac as an adult.  One who now errors on the other side, ignoring health issues until they become life-threatening.  Right now I am undergoing a nebulizer Abuterol lung therapy for a HVAC poisoning I let get the better of my health.  I got in this 2014 health pickle by ignoring symptoms too long, hating being that sickly young kid staring out the station wagon windows.

DEVIL’S LAKE

Snuggling up to the easy-going Aunt Katie, my hands were steady, my stomach not in a knot. It was bliss for the five-year-old me.   Finally Katie’s boyfriend, Rusty for his red hair, pulled the station wagon the Devil’s Lake parking lot and the kids all piled out and ran for the water.  But I clung to Katie and helped carry what little things I could.  Finally, after this clinging went on for sometime, Katie said, “Kenny, go swim your cousins.  Um, Rusty and I have some grown-up things to talk about.”

I didn’t want to leave Aunt Katie but something in Rusty’s eye told me to go.  The cousins welcomed me into the lake with splashes and giggles.  As I played in the shallow waters of Devil’s Lake, named for steaming springs at certain times of the year, with my now forgotten cousins, I stole some looks at Katie.  She was laughing and drinking a Pabst beer on the beach with her boyfriend Rusty.  A boyfriend who tried to be friends with me, but because of my dad’s abuse I feared adult males at that time and Rusty gave up on me eventually.

Katie made out with the breast-groping Rusty with a sexy abandon I never saw between my mom and dad, who always seemed more like enemies in a truce between battles rather than lovers.  I was, I admit, more than a little jealous of her red-headed boyfriend Rusty, who sported a handlebar mustache.

Some of my cousins and the other kids who were old enough to swim wanted me to go out in the deeper water with them.  I watched in amazement how they windmilled their arms and kicked the water and swam like fish.

DARK SWIM LESSONS

My only swimming lessons up to then had been from Dad in our little backyard pool.  He’d dunk me underwater and the only way he’d let me up to breathe was a deadly game of breath holding; I had to then see how many fingers Daddy dearest was holding out beneath the water’s surface and stick my arm out of the pool, while my little head was held tight under by his massive welder’s hand that wrapped around my skull like an octopus.  Then I’d anxiously wave my arm to Dad, showing how many fingers he was showing me underwater.  Only then was I allowed up from the pool to gasp for breath.  Then he’d jam me back under for more “swim lessons”.

Once my mom finally said tentatively, “Bill, you’re not teaching anything but to see underwater.  What the hell good is this without teaching him to swim?  All you are teaching Kenneth is to hate you.”  That got mom a beating.  She was less helpful after that in questioning my dad’s parenting skills.

To win Katie’s attention back, I imitated what her kids did to swim with the kicking and arm strokes and lo and behold I was swimming!  Of course, with only my father’s mean swim lessons, the first wave took me under before Aunt Katie could see how cool I was.  Swimming went from joy to terror.  I’d only swam far enough to reach the deep water and I sank like a rock.  However, my father’s dark swim lesson did allow me a great underwater view of the bottom of the lake I was sinking for.  In some crazy way my father’s lessons on holding my breath were my only hope.  I kept holding my breath on the bottom of the lake.  I could see the splashing feet and arms of my cousins above, oblivious to my sinking disappearance.  I tried an underwater shout and swallowed some water.

I felt a strange tingle in my fingers and toes.  I knew from my water torture from dad that lying still meant being able to stay under longer and live.  Soon, despite and my aqua-man tricks learned under great pain, my consciousness was fading.  I pushed off the lake bottom, but it was a sandy muck and I sank again, more out of air.  Fear started to leave me as I began to see amazing shapes and colors, like tiny angels and animals in rainbow hues dancing in the sunlight on the lake’s surface above me.

I was fully aware I was dying but no longer afraid.  I even calmly thought, “Well, at least I won’t have to suffer Dad’s beatings anymore.”

I had already run away from home a few months earlier.  Only a kindergartener, I made it just a few blocks away before Dad recaptured me along with my little bit of food wrapped in a handkerchief on a stick like I had seen done in a 50s TV show about hobos.  Dad broke that hobo stick of mine over his knee, like he tried to break my spirit, like the South Koreans he trained for combat as a US Army drill sargeant. “You little fag gook!” he would call me when enraged, forgetting I was a white kid, his kid.  Somehow, even his training by the US army could never break my spirit like his recruits.  And it frustrated him to no end to his dying day of bladder cancer in 2011.

Death lost all it’s sting.  Dad zero to my many victories.  I was ready to die, happy in that knowledge that I’d won as life left me deep beneath Devil’s Lake .

GAIA’S RESCUE

The light of the watery world grew dimmer and dimmer when a beautiful woman appeared over me, lighting up the water.  Her bronze hair shimmered with an inner golden glow as she floated majestically above me, smiling.  As I smiled back she said telepathically, “Ken, do not give up. Help is coming. Hold on, young one.”

I was filled with more love than I can describe at this beautiful face smiling down on me.  More love than I had for aunt Katie or Grandma,”Who are you,?” I said in my 5 year-old mind back to her, as though taking telepathically was a normal as Grandma’s amazing apple pies.

The beauty smiled.  Her glowing gown of green seaweed swirled as a wave passed overhead. I felt cozy now on the sandy bottom of the lake as a shocked fish darted past.  I peacefully began to close my eyes.

The lady of the lake shouted in my mind, “Gaia! I am Gaia! And you must live, little one.”

“Gaia? That’s a pretty name, pretty lady.  Thanks but my father is so mean I don’t mind dying.” I said in shame at betraying my father’s dark secret.  He beat us all in the family, from mom to me.  Beatings were the cost of living in his home where he controlled all through fear and abuse.

“Your poor sick father William knows no better. He truly does love you and the rest of the family,” Gaia said gently taking my little oxygen deprived blue hand and kissing it.  Warmth spread from Gaia’s lips through my little water chilled body when a man’s hand reached right through Gaia and pulled me through her body.  All went black…

cities_at_night_01Gaia became the earth.  I saw her from space long before the astronauts.  I saw galaxies and many of Gaia’s sister worlds. “Come home, little Kenny.” Gaia’s distant voice called to me.

I flew for Gaia’s sweet call back from the galaxies, down to earth and through the clouds.  My spirit hovering above, in the dimming Labor Day sky, I saw my little 5-year-old body slung over a tan man’s shoulder.  He ran like a Greek god for the shore through the shallow water. The young lifeguard tossed me on the sandy beach where my shocked aunt was yelling at my oldest cousin, “Kenny’s only five! You were supposed to watch over him in the water!”

The gathered crowd to watch, locked in fear of losing one so young as me.  I was telepathic to all their sweet concern and it brought me further down from the sky.   This was 1957 and they didn’t do mouth to mouth CPR back then.  The lifeguard pushed down on my abdomen so hard I felt I would explode the way my father tortured me by sitting on my chest until I screamed and often passed out.

“No.  I will not go back to that life!”  I said and my spirit turned and flew for the sun.

Gaia appeared in a cloud, blocking my flight and said this time not telepathically but out loud, “Live, little one.  Please, live.” Her words and voice were so sweet that I flew straight for the beach without a word and dove back into my body.  Water gushed from my mouth and as I choked my first breath. I was back in my 5-year-old body.

REBIRTH

I sat up on the beach and the gathering clapped and hugged each other.  My cousins danced for joy.  I was picked up in the loving embrace of my beautiful aunt Katie. Black haired and blue-eyed like my dad, Katie showered me with kisses instead of punches like her sick brother. “Oh my god you scared us, Ken!”  Then Katie added in shame,  “Please don’t tell you father and mother about this. They’ll have my hide for almost letting you drown.”

Not knowing what a “hide” meant, I nodded agreement just the same, happy not to arouse my father’s wrath at this kind woman I loved. This I see now was my first enabling of an addict’s negligence.  Poor beautiful Aunt Katie would die just after her 40th birthday, her good looks robbed by alcohol and drug addiction.   The fate of many in my family lineage.   Katie’s loss so young, she should still be here, is one I’ve never fully recovered from.  Fighting family addictions that kill people I love is why in 2011 I donated 150 videos, a $50,000 value,  in barter for a $500 a month room for a small room in a grungy North Hollywood home, office to Bradley Quick’s beloved Cool Change Foundation.  Bradley would be the gateway to my opening to my spirit gifts.  It was the best barter I ever made despite the bad deal money-wise it was for me.

Katie was only a 20-something when I nearly drowned that fateful Labor Day and my first meeting with Gaia. Katie and Gaia seemed the same being as Katie wrapped me in beach towels and warmed me with the best hugs of my life.  My relieved cousins went back to swim in Devil’s Lake as Katie warmed me fully back to life.

“Here, Kenny boy, get some food in you,” Aunt Katie offered me fresh peanut and jelly sandwich. I gladly took a bite.  Food never tasted better before or since, despite a little bit of beach sand that had gotten into it in all the commotion.

“I saw angels,” I said innocently to Katie as I enjoyed the sandwich.  The world was more alive than I’d ever tasted or saw before or since. I can still close my eyes and see the sparkle of the sun Devil’s Lake reflected in Katie’s wide blue eyes.

“Angels?” said Katie looking very frightened in a way that frightened me.

“Yeah, Aunt Katie.  Little rainbow-colored ones and a big one named…. Uh, named, um I forget her name. But the lady in the lake was pretty like you, but with golden hair and a seaweed dress,” I said like this was a normal as the sandwich I was loving.

This made Katie look even more afraid.  “All this stays our secret. You can never, ever talk to your mom or dad about angels or you’ll get aunt Katie get in big, big trouble. Your daddy might even hit me.”

“No…,” I whispered in terror.  It was bad enough that I and my brother Fred, who got, I suspect, even worse than my beating by getting sexual abuse, at the greasy mechanics hands of my sick father, were being hurt along with Mom and Grandma.  “Not Katie.  I never wanted to bring daddy’s hitting Aunt Katie.” I thought.  What I was too young to know was this fear was already too late.  As my grandfather had died with my dad was only eleven, he had been the “man” of the family for a long time and was giving out beatings since long before I was born to Katie.  God knows what else.

“So cross you heart and hope to die the angels and the lady in the lake is our secret, Kenneth?” said Katie, tears of shame in her eyes.

I knew when she said Kenneth, something Katie never called me like my mother did when she was mad, this was serious and so I said, “Promise, aunt Katie, a secret, I promise.”

PROMISE TOO BIG TO KEEP

Sadly, this was a promise I was not able to keep. Not because I was broke my word and told.  The near death experience had changed me. I was seeing spirits of dead people and pets and the rainbow of angels everywhere now and talking to them all the time. My parents knew something was very wrong ever since Katie had brought me home.   I was a very different kid now.

Eventually Katie confessed her neglect herself to the family in our little living room in our modest St. Francis home. Tears still burn in my heart recalling my father towering over Katie, “You drunken, bitch! You almost killed my boy with your boozing! Now, he’s seeing freaking angels and ghosts?  Ken’s a retard now! ” My father slapped Katie so hard across the cheek her head spun.

IMG_0542“Stop, Daddy! It was all my fault!  I seen my cousins swim and thought I could too.  I, and I promise to get better. Not to see stuff.” I said getting myself between Katie and my dad.

Mom spoke up, something she seldom did when my father was hurling me around like a broken toy. Dad would break my arm a few years later tossing me across my bedroom into bed as punishment.” Leave Katie alone, Bill.  She’s sorry.”

My father’s rage swung like a spotlight of evil doom upon my mother now. He raised a hand to strike her for speaking up against him.  These family dramas went off like a spark in to firecracker warehouse and went to places no one dreamed.  My father’s rage burned in his eyes, a forest fire ready to kill us all, himself included.

A Korean War drill Sargent my father was far stronger than he knew.  My worst memory is him kicking my mother in the stomach while my mother was pregnant with my brother Fred.  Fred was age two now.  Fred cried loudly as my father kicked over a heavy coffee table like a toothpick hat was separating him from my mother.

“Please, Daddy! I promise never to talk to the angels again!” I shouted and jumped in between Dad to shield Mom from his menacing fists.

“Protecting the ladies, huh?” said my father as he backhanded me so hard I saw angels again dancing before my eyes.  Blood from my cut lip mingled with the heavy carved maroon carpet up against my nose.

“Bill!” shouted my wise Irish grandma Agnes  as she nervously puffed on a cigarette. “Enough is enough, son. I swear to make sure and teach Ken all I learned about the evils of the fairy folk.  This sometimes happens when a soul crosses over. But Kenny is back with us now.  He’s not retarded, Bill.  Your son just needs a wee bit of time and my help to forget the fairies and pixies he’s met.”

Somehow, at Grandma’s profound pledge to break me of seeing visions my father’s rage cooled like an active volcano between eruptions. The women calmed and even my kid brother Fred stopped bawling.

IMG_0164
My beautiful mother in ice blue:)

And due to family repression  worked upon me of an epic nature, all done from Grandma Agnes’ misguided love, so I have no regrets as it allowed me to enjoy an amazing normy life before my awakening, it would take until this very day, a vision on 6.12.14, eve of a full moon in June of 2014 to remember it was Gaia under Devil’s Lake I fell in love with at first sight deep beneath Devil’s Lake.  I keep seeing more and more of mama Gaia since Antarctica 12.12.12 where I share now for the first time she knighted me.  I dedicated my life to helping her save the human species, her proudest creation, that day on the stoney shores of Antarctica.

Namaste,

Ken Sheetz

When he’s not meditating and doing planetary healing work Ken is a Hollywood filmmaker with PBS credits on IMDB and the owner of a socially conscious social media company.

 

 

Chemtrails in Flanagan’s Age of Dichotomy

On By Ken SheetzIn The Shift, Uncategorized2 Comments

Patrick and Deepak on stageThe title of the blog today “The Age of Dichotomy” is an amazing term scientist Patrick Flanagan coined in a brillaint interview with Deepak Chorpra here in Sedona this week. I’ve been filming Dr. Flanagan for over a year in his work accelerating shifting the planet with THE FLANAGAN EXPERIMENTS, nearing 25 million views on YouTube.  And I was honored to be present for the interview with Deepak.

Deepak has called Patrick a gift to humanity who sometimes enjoys playing the fool to get his work out there.  I can vouch for Patrick’s brilliant trickster side.  However, there was nothing humorous in Patrick’s assessment of a world in the Age of Dichotomy where we are being doused by God knows what from our skies from the jet planes making chemical tick tack toes of our skies.  Whether you believe in the Geo-engineering theories of harmful metals getting pumped into our skies, or if this is all plain-old jet fumes, it’s all toxic at the levels we are seeing them.

As for me, I believe it’s secret geo-engineering to combat global warming.  Kept secret as it must cross so many state and country boundaries as to be impossible to do openly on a short time frame.  So we get sprayed for the greater good, supposedly of saving our world.  Problem is these men in black behind geo-engineering have no baseline and could be making things worse for the environment while killing off millions of humans, killing forests and our seas.

I’ve lived near airports in big cities like LA, Chicago and Milwaukee.  Never in my 60 year life, until about 5 years ago, did I see jet trails linger and spread into a sun blocking haze some call chemtrails.  And they make me blue as I sing of here.

I was trying to be funny back in early 2014 but it’s no longer funny.  To film Patrick and to continue helping him use mass media to accelerate the shift, I moved from LA last year to Sedona.  I am based about 20 minutes from his offices in Cottonwood to film on short notice.  I pictured it also as a break from chemtrails that had been bothering me in LA.  I could not have been more wrong.  Chemtrail spraying here, because the sun is so bright, feels ten times as bad in Sedona than LA.

Last week I had to evacuate from a Sedona 20,000 acres fire the AZ firefighters say was human caused.  The pyromaniac who started the Slide Fire, as it’s been called has yet to be caught.  The smoke went on for days.  Finally, as it became so thick you could not see more 100 yards I evacuated to Phoenix for a few days.  I took careful note that no chemtrail spraying was going on during the fire.  Obviously, if this spraying of our skies were only jet air traffic then we’d be seeing a combination of the Slide Fire and jet traffic.  That’s how I caught the sprayers red-handed.  They got lazy.  The heavy smoke of the slide fire was doing their geo-engineering job of blotting out the sun.  Geo-spraying is costly.  The cheapskates showed their hand clearly by stopping.  I see the spraying getting bolder and bolder as people act like nothing happening right over their heads.  Please, people, wake up.  This chemtrail spraying is REAL.

Two days after the smoke cleared I was thrilled to be sleeping again with the windows open.  About 4am Monday morning I felt short of breath, as though the Slide Fire were back.  Soon as the sun was up I stepped outside to see if the Slide Fire had somehow reignited.  To my disgust I saw all this chemtrail spectacle and hence the brand new video, which I hope you’ll share and rate, The Age of Dichotomy was born.

As if all this outdoor air quality was not enough, I was suffering from an indoor air quality problem of filthy duct insulation flying out when I used the cooling system.  The landlord, much like our government was totally unsympathetic and seemed to think I was imagining a problem that was not here.  What is this Sedona assault on my lungs all about I wonder?  A local shaman said lung issues represent grief.  I’ve had plenty of that losing my housemate I had a hopeless crush on and brother who sits in jail as I blog.

Yet I am happy and doing some of the best work of my life and making amazing new friends that are the coolest ever.  Indeed Patrick Flanagan has it right.  This is The Age of Dichotomy.

Dark Awakening – Part two

On By Ken SheetzIn Uncategorized1 Comment

It’s September 11, 2013, about 11 PM.  I’ve made an emergency trip all the way from Arizona where I was filming to my birth state, Wisconsin.  I am deeply stressed and exhausted from the rushed trip after my nephew called in early Sedona AM to tell me my brother might be dying of bleeding ulcers and loss of blood.

I gaze in wonder around the Kenosha ER where my little brother’s life hangs by a thread is a Catholic run hospital.  So I suppose I should not be surprised to see many of the ER staff praying for my brother to pull through.  I am spiritual but no longer a Catholic.  Nonetheless, I am deeply touched and feel the ER staff’s prayers are of great help keeping my brother alive.

800px-Excedrin_Migraine1I am asked by my brother’s surgeon of his first surgery that’s failed as the ulcers are wicked, a Dr. Needle, to be at my brother’s side amidst the sea of crash cart personnel.  Dr. Needle is not a fictitious name, but one so contrived it made me think for a split second that I might be dreaming all this somehow as part of one of my screenplays.  This doctor looks a lot like Kevin Spacey. It’s all freaky.  When writing I often dream of my stories in great detail.  It’s what makes me a unique writer.  I once wrote a story  set on 9/11 about a shut down of all American air space… but that was four years before the fateful disaster.

My brother’s irregular and rapid heartbeats on the clanging monitors snap me back to harsh reality.  A short blonde nurse, who a few minutes ago had been telling me I was worrying over nothing — when suddenly we discovered my brother’s two ulcers had ruptured from his first near death experience in a cauterization, bathing his bed in thick clotted black blood — is in charge.

Dr. Needle warns, even sounding like Kevin Spacey’s no-nonsense manner, “Even if the ER team can stabilize your brother — odds are he’s going to die from lack of blood — he must go straight into surgery for stitches to sew his bleeding ulcers shut.  The ulcers erupted from alcohol addiction combined with Excedrin.  Your brother must have used Excedrin to deal with massive hangovers.”

Dr. Needle went onto warn me further, “If your brother survives this, the surgery, the coma he must never drink again or he’ll end up right back here.  And next time, I doubt we can save him.”

The young nurse shouts, ” We’re losing him!  Where’s the blood?”

My brother’s body racks in a seizure from a near total lack of blood.  Plasma is keeping him alive but he is slipping away as clock keeps ticking away.  I can feel him going to the light.  “Wait!” I say tearfully to my contorting brother straining at his bed restraints in agony, “Stay with us, bro.  Your son is on his way here.  Don’t leave without him getting to say goodbye.”

IV-Therapy-Blood-Withdrawal-Certification-for-LVNsIV Bag of BloodAt last, for what seemed an eternity, the much-needed blood cart arrives.  The blood runner gives the precious red to the short young attending nurse.  She struggles to insert the needle into the feed.  Her gloves are slippery from the plasma work and it’s not happening.  I see all this in a flash and shout to another nurse, “Get her some fresh gloves!”  The staff anxiously complies but now the young nurse struggles to get fresh gloves on.

It’s maddening as my brother’s life force teeters on extinction.  My spirit guides tell me silently, “This is the moment of passing for your brother unless he gets blood now.  Be calm and you will help save him.  He has important work to do.  Save him.”  Time slows as I watch the young nurse fight to get the fresh rubber glove onto her right hand.

My mind flashes back to my brother and I in Vegas to visit our 80-something mother for Thanksgiving 2012.  My brother angrily downs one beer after another in a constant flow.  I worry he’s not even getting high.  This means his tolerance was so high he’s alcoholic mode.  Self-medication is what the recovery experts call this.  We both suffered a horrible childhood at the hand of an abusive father, only I had rejected booze and drugs, choosing therapy and meditation to calm my shot nerves.  My brother barely speaks to me on my brief visit on the way to Antarctica.  He seems jealous of my adventure and does not spare me even a little donation for the expensive trip.  This is not like him at all.

Time snaps back to the real-life ER show as the short young nurse hops up and down trying to get the blood insert into the IV cart.  “Someone, please lower the cart for her!” I bark again, the brotherly visitor now in charge of the panicked ER team.

I need to buy my brother time as my spirit guides have warned me, This blood infusion going very badly.  I don’t want a malpractice lawsuit.  I want my brother back.  My brother, only 18 months my junior, and I were raised like twins.  He has a strange reflection he does of my life, being up while I am down and down when I am up.  I’ve been working for the past year on ending that connection with him.  Telling him my success does not mean his failure or my failure his success.  To let go of all that.  I say to my brother telepathically.  “Alright, brother.  One last time I will reflect you.  I am going to take myself down health-wise to balance you up.  Take my energy.” Instantly my brother begins to stabilize on the monitors.  He lack of blood seizure abates some.  I’ve bought my brother a few extra minutes of life.  I feel drained but happy to have enabled my brother to live.  A few months later I will get sick with walking pneumonia, my first illness in over five years, the price for saving a brother.

At last a taller nurse lowers the IV rack.  Finally the short nurse gets the replacement blood was flowing into my brother.  Life signs instantly improve on the monitors more. We’ve all done it.  He’s rapidly stabilizing the seizure is over.

I see my nephew, my brother son’s worried face in the ER hallway.  I leave the crowded ER room to comfort my horrified nephew.

My nephew’s handsome face is filled with worry as I step into the hall.  I give him the Sheetz family bear hug and tell him, “Your dad’s a fighter but not out of the woods yet.  He’s going straight into surgery for stitches.  The cauterization surgery didn’t hold.”

At that moment my brother’s best pal, local auto repair shop owner and Kenosha alderman joins us.  “Came as fast as I could.”  I repeat the explanation about my brother’s condition.  “Feel like I was just here, ” he says referring to my brother’s first near death and surgery just two days ago.

628x471My brother’s best friend rapidly fills in some gaps, “Your brother was in bad shape when!DB+39 I got him here.  He called me in the middle of the night and said he was bleeding out his ass and it wouldn’t stop.  I got to his apartment and it was a mess.  Empty beer cans, Excedrin, Pepto Bismal everywhere.  He was afraid to go to a hospital because he’s been unemployed so long his insurance ran out.  I told him, fuck that, if the ER room is good enough for the Mexicans and Blacks (he used the N word, still popular in old school racist Wisconsin), it’s good enough for you.  So after some hassle I got him here.  He wasn’t himself in the ER waiting room.  He tossed a water bottle at a freaking nurse!” My brother’s buddy, a tough Italian who carved out a life in a tough town, looked shaken.  He only knew my post 1990 recovery brother, not the abusive character my brother devolves into with the gateway of drugs and booze.

I recall how my brother had been slipping away for a few weeks.  This after he’d been claiming a spirit awakening and speaking to angels and ETs like I do.  Only the spirits he described sounded dark, perhaps even demonic.  His was a dark awakening.  My brother, with no skills at meditation or past therapy, was channeling the dark side of the awakening of humanity. All this dark energy pouring through my brother was ripping him apart.  So the account of my brother’s pal fit.  I had chewed my brother out for calling me drunk in the middle of the night just a few days before his bleeding ulcers sent him to this hospital.

I share my observations about my brother’s dark awakening with my nephew and my brother’s best pal and how I helped him survive long enough for the transfusion with Reiki energy, I am a trained Reiki master who does planetary healing after all, and the pair of Wisconsinites look at me like I may be as crazy as my brother.  “I am not in Sedona anymore, Toto,” I tell myself and make a note to cloak the rest of my talks in Wisconsineese on this healing mission to save a brother.

Now here we all were, a broken family and friends converging on this hospital to encourage my brother to live on.  For the past twenty years of being clean and sober my brother had been the glue holding the family together.  This despite his epic fall into jail and booze and drugs in the 80s.  My brother had regained all of trust of the Sheetz family despite his crazy behaviors that had terrified us all those years ago.  My brother’s 1992 recovery is a thing of the distant past.  The abusive drug crazed brother of the 1980’s was back, mixed with a twisted 21st century dark awakening, is on his way into surgery for two bleeding ulcers.  I find myself wishing there were also a Catholic exorcist on hand.  The smell of evil is as strong as my brother’s clotted blood soaked bed in the air.

END PART TWO

To be continued…

 

 

Heart of the Forest

On By Ken SheetzIn Uncategorized1 Comment

Fire is a way nature renews it’s forests, like a heart renews the body with blood. A local Sedona anthropologist pal of mine, Ed Preston, commented to me on a hike a few weeks ago, that our firefighters do such a good job of putting fires out that we have too many trees, which leads to far worse fires in the end than is natural. Ed’s words echo today.

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Sedona Fire
The heart of the forest goes out to our young firefighters, who are very much like our young soldiers, fighting a war that makes no sense to nature. The heart of the forest mourns for those who may lose their homes and possessions by building in areas best left to our tough mama, nature.

Photo by ABC15: http://www.abc15.com/news/news-photo-gallery/slide-fire-prompts-evacuations-road-closures-near-sedona

Pattern Masters: The Darlings Conformity

On By Ken SheetzIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Conformity is the jailer of freedom and the enemy of growth. – President John F. Kennedy

At breakfast today as I waited in line at the Coffee Pot here in Sedona, I watched, for all I could stand of the boredom, about 3 seconds of a mindless a soccer game.  And a mystery I’ve been pondering fell into place.  I’ve been flabbergasted my whole life, until today’s eggs and pancakes in the magical red rocks of Sedona, by the way society overly honors people who do repetitive things well.  We call them celebs.  I see now that celebs are society’s darlings of conformity!

For boring after boring example:

FirefoxScreenSnapz067Race car driving.  Nothing new is going to happen in any car race.  There will be a crash or two and one heavily branded car and driver will win.

Pro football. After a series injuries one team will win by moving an oval spheroid up and down a set of lines painted on grass.

Hit TV series.  What is a hit TV show like FRIENDS other than the same original performance repeated season after season with only slight variations?

Film.  Oscars given for executing genre patterns well.

Music. I can’t imagine being a member of a band like Kiss and dressing and repeating song and attire patterns for decades.

Golf.  Nough said.

Society rewards Pattern Masters for repeating templates and executing them well.  Be original and creative and you are likely to starve.  Van Gough died penniless as did Nikola Tesla.

Personally, I am not a pattern lover or repeater.  I am a  creative.  I live life more like my favorite art form, abstract.  Each time my life falls into a pattern I tend to bust it up and start over at something new. I will continue to meditate on patterns.  How they suck us into believing our original lives are lacking compared to the darlings of society who are doing nothing original or useful.

I am onto something big here in cracking the matrix of conformity that cripples our future and threatens our world, fame be damned.

Ken is currently in Sedona managing a coming crowd funder for making a smarter world but use of scientist Patrick Flanagan’s Neurophone.  Learn more at NewNeurohone.com

 

 

 

Dark Awakening – Part One

On By Ken SheetzIn Uncategorized6 Comments

Nothing can stop me from loving my brother. – Brandy Norwood

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Me and my little brother with Mom, circa 1959

Normally, I try to report things in my world kind of as they happen.  However, in the case of my brother and his dark awakening, I’ve been slow.  It’s been painful to share given he’s been the person I loved most in my life.  He’s been with me through an abused childhood that we share as a powerful bond. Hard thing is my little brother, middle of three of us Sheetz boys, is not always easy to love.

I’ve pretty much led a boy scout of a life.  Not always.  I am no saint.  I experimented in school with drugs and booze, trying to see if I could master what my dad never could.  Lucky for me, I was rescued by the love of a college sweetheart, a powerful Taurus, who would become my wife.

Later in life, after my divorce, I’m now protected by the good habits learned while married to a good woman for 18 years and most of all my own clear grasp that clean and sober is the only way to live a happy life.  My brother’s harsh life has served as a cautionary tale for me.  Share it with someone you love who is drinking and drugging.  If one person avoids my brother’s fate it will be worth it and is why ultimately I share “Dark Awakening.”

Unlike me, my brother never stopped self-medicating with substance abuse very long his whole life, from teen onward.  While we are together and with family he behaves clean and sober, if always with a beer in hand with a smoke.  The times in between are where his troubles lie.

On or about September 11, 2013, in that dark and disastrous 9/11 energy field, I see now as I write, I got a message from my nephew in the early AM that my brother was in the ICU after emergency surgery in a Kenosha Wisconsin hospital for a bleeding ulcer.  I raced in my rental car, soon as I had my flights and hit the road to Wisconsin and my sick brother.

When my brother’s emergency hit I was on extended assignment for my film business BuzzBroz.com.  There are no major flights into or out of Sedona.  So I drove two anxiety filled hours to the Hertz rental car store at the Phoenix airport to make my connection to Chicago then a drive from Chicago up to Kenosha.

As the Arizona mountains and cactus flew past the rental car’s windows my sad thoughts went back to July 31, 1990 and the pit of despair my brother fell into that harmed my family-life in a profound way.  It was my daughter’s 8th birthday party.  We celebrated my little girl’s big day in our new mansion in Lake Forest, all of us having a wonderful time in the abundance life was showering on me as the sole family breadwinner.

The phone rang as my daughter cut her birthday cake.  My wife answered, happily nibbling on the cake knife’s frosting.  Soon her face went white with shock.  She handed me the phone and said loud enough for everyone at the party to hear, “Ken, it’s your father.  He says your brother has lost his marbles and is coming to the party to kill all of us!”  A silence fell over my daughter’s birthday party.

I took the call, and my father, who was estranged from me at that time, repeated exactly what my wife said; my kid brother was coming to kill me and my entire family.  The fear in my father’s guilt-choked voice sounded real.  So I took action to protect my family from a brother who had gone insane, according to dad.  My brother had not been himself for a solid year.  Calling at all hours of the night.  Bringing a hooker to dinner. So this dire warning fit.

After my call, the police sent quad cars to patrol near our home.  My daughter’s party turned into a nightmare of fear my brother would appear any second with guns, knives or God know what.

My brother in-law grabbed a baseball bat from the garage and threatened to crack open my brother’s skull if he tried to mess with any of us.  Worried how fast my baby’s birthday party was escalating to a killing-free-for-all, I asked my angry brother-in-law try to break my brother’s leg instead, please.  That way we could pin him down for the police to deal with and not sink to his level.  My brother-in-law, a dentist my mother-in-law constantly compared me to as my better, reluctantly agreed.

Meantime, my baby girl, my pride and joy’s sweet little faced turned from joy to fear and sorrow.  “How could my brother do this shit to his sweet niece?” I wondered, infuriated.

The phone rang again and we all almost jumped out of our skin.  I answered this time and the police reported that they had intercepted my brother at a Waukegan bar about half an hour north of Lake Forest.  They said he was carrying no weapons except a legal sized jackknife and so no charges could be brought.  My brother had told the cops he never made the horrible death threat my father claimed.  My brother’s claim was that our father was angry over my brother taking his car without his permission and messing with us all.  This was far more acceptable to my heart even though I did not completely believe my crazed brother.  It was one crazy person, my dad’s word, against another his crazy son’s word.

The cops also said my brother was drunk and he needed a ride home back to Wisconsin to get my father’s car back.  My wife stuck with me, afraid my brother might hurt me, and we left our son and daughter with my wife’s parents, who shot me again looks of disgust.  This in-law duo had their own dark family issues I lovingly dealt with in the past.  Now that it was their turn to return the favor I felt no love at all from them.

I hated to drag my wife from the party and wish I hadn’t.  What a dumb thing to ask of her I see now.  My brother was my mess to clean up.  Ah, there’s the old enabling still in play.  More accurately seen from 2014 my brother’s mess was HIS to clean up.

But this was 1990.  Long before the tons of healing work I’ve done to recover from the many of the same child abuse issues, minus drugs and booze, plaguing my brother.  I’d not yet had a stitch of therapy. Though my great success as a millionaire at only 38 years-old made me appear solid, I was in fact a mess on the inside.  On this fateful birthday I was freaked out and not thinking clear.  My brother and father when they teamed up like this, despite my great successes as Chicago’s #1 real estate broker according to many and some fans in the press, had a way of making me a helpless child again.

When I met my brother at the Waukegan bar where the cops had intercepted him, it was the first time in 2 years I’d seen him.  The drinking and drugging and six months in prison had decimated his good looks.  My love for him usually so strong, now a smoking crater in my heart, as this phantom of my brother staggered into my arms.  He reeked of beer and cigarettes as he told his twisted side of the death threat story of our twisted father’s.

I am no fool.  I only half believed my mess of a brother.  I had seen how crazy he got on these binges many sad times.  He may very well have said what he said to simply mess with our father, I rationalized, not imagining my brother could ever harm me or my family.  Still I was disgusted at the mess he’d made of my daughter’s birthday party.  Despite the disgust I felt at the awful way my poor brother acted, the past shared feelings of an abused childhood, the tears, my love for him got the better of me. So I offered to help him get home with our abusive dad’s car.  At that moment in a way, I can see now I made a poor choice of my brother over my own new family.  I simply couldn’t help myself and my wife was sad I was getting sucked into this mess.

I drove my dad’s beater car while my frightened wife followed in my racing green Jaguar.  I’ll never forget the fear and confusion in her deep brown eyes flecked with gold as I watched her in my dad’s beater car’s review mirror, my ruined brother at my side taking solace in my rescue.  I feel it’s where she lost her love for me.  We’d end up divorced in 1992, but this was the fork in the road.

I shook off the thoughts of the birthday party from hell as I entered the northern suburbs of Phoenix, checking my review mirror to shift lanes to the Phoenix airport exit, on yet another rescue mission of my fragile, crazy brother.

This was my first time using that confusing and poorly laid out Phoenix airport.  I realized in my haste that I accidentally chose to the bus for wrong terminal.  The airport terminal bus driver, a man of eastern decent was making too busy making jokes, jokes none of which we white bread passengers found funny, to notice me trying to catch his attention.  It was like he had a captive audience for his bad comedy routine and he was not present for his real job.  Stupidly, I took his bad joke making thinking his humor made him kind. So I explained to the bus driver, “I got on the wrong bus for catching an American Airlines flight, sir.  I am on a medical emergency to see a brother who might be dying of a bleeding ulcer, losing all the blood in his body and needing 11 bags of blood.  I need to get to the right terminal, please.”

The bus driver’s reaction to my family emergency?  He pulled to bus over to chat up a security guard buddy on the curb at the next stop, thus delaying me further.  After his security guard pal reminded the joker Hertz driver that he had a nervous passenger waiting, the driver only offered to drive me to another terminal waiting area to catch another bus not the right terminal, mind you, just one along his route back to the parking lot.

Shocked at his glib shabby treatment, I again explained again how critical my brother’s condition was.  I pleaded, “Call your supervisor.  Just a short extra ride to the America Air terminal could mean me being able to say good-bye to a dying brother.”

Looking smug, relishing in my pain, the Hertz driver said with almost a giggle, “Not to worry, sir. The transfer bus is right behind me.  See?  You will catch your plane easily.”

Based on that promise I exited the Hertz bus in the 100 plus temp.  But, you guessed it, the Hertz driver was a trickster and the bus behind him raced right past me.  I waited a painful unnecessary 20 minutes for the transfer bus, trying to keep calm as I had visions of my brother dying without me at his side.

Drenched in sweat and badly dehydrating in the dry Phoenix air, I arrived at the American ticket counter to get my boarding pass.  I explained to the young female AA agent about my medical emergency.  The agent simply gave me my boarding pass and warned it was tight and they may  close off the flight before I got to the gate, in which case I’d be wait listed to a later flight.  “Please call the gate and tell them to hold the flight for me,” I asked.

“Sorry, sir.  We can’t do that.” said the AA ticket agent, at least with some heart.  No time to argue, off I ran for the gate.

To their credit the TSA people rushed me through upon hearing my brother’s plight.  Shocker to see TSA behave more kindly than Hertz and AA personnel.  I ran through the terminal for the gate, dodging passengers and baggage.  As fate would have it, my gate was at the end of the big terminal.

Panting and totally covered sweat, I nonetheless arrived at the gate 15 minutes before scheduled departure.  The AA gate agent, a heavy-set blonde woman with ice-cold black eyes, said, “Sorry sir, we have closed the flight.”

I pointed dramatically saying,  “There’s the plane. It’s still at the gate!”  I looked at my watch.  “There’s still 15 minutes until you are scheduled to depart.  Call the pilot.  He can re-extend the gangplank for me.  I have a brother near death, bleeding ulcers, I need to be on this flight, please, ma’am.”

This was not my day.  And so the AA gate agent coldly said, “Sorry, sir.  I will not call the pilot for you.  Against policy.”

Outraged she wouldn’t even make a try, I asked for her name.  At that point the gate agent silently did a comedic about-face worthy of Peter Sellers and escaped into the gangplank without giving me the dignity of obtaining her name.

1264302_10151688559572029_1233339662_o No agent to speak to or comfort me in an hour of family need, I walked to the window in despair and took this still photo of the plane. I also took a video as the plane just sat there for 15 minutes as I watched helplessly.  I posted it to YouTube under the title “Heartless Hertz and American Airlines”  It had 35,000 views before YouTube removed the video with no explanation.  But I can guess the reason.  These two giants are big sponsors on YouTube.  My heartbreaking video where I was emotional about missing the flight was going viral.  Sadly, it was a direct upload and is lost now forever.

I sat in shambles at the airport when my cell phone began to ring in my backpack.  Thinking it might be more about the medical emergency I hastily dumped the entire backpack contents onto the floor and grabbed my phone.

Sure enough it was my brother’s son, my favorite and only nephew.  He reported his father’s condition looked rocky but stable for the moment.  The docs were saying my bother was not out of the woods yet as the two bleeding ulcers were huge.  My nephew explained he’d made arrangements for me to take care of his dad’s apartment and would give me keys at the hospital.

I almost started to cry as I explained to my 28-year-old nephew, who was the host of my 1996 election show that would air on PBS, when he was only 11, his first paying job in life, that I had missed my flight due to not one but two heartless corporations.  I would be lucky to be in Kenosha by 1AM and I told Joe to do what he felt right.  But that if I made it on the next flight out, 5PM that AA had me on a wait list for, note wait list, no guarantees despite all that was going on, that I would grab a hotel for the night and get my brother’s keys the next day.

I made the 5 PM flight and was in Chicago and out of the Hertz store with wheels for the drive to Kenosha by 11:30 PM.  I decided to go straight to the hospital and booked a room on my mobile app from Priceline.  I made it to the hospital at 12:30 AM.  Fortunately, my body was still on west coast time and I was not tired, having napped on the 3 hour flight without the once nice meals.  Not even pretzels anymore!

When I entered the ICU I was struck by how badly bloated my brother looked.  He was on full life support in an induced coma.  They say that people in a coma can hear you and so I said, “Get well, little bro. Your big brother is here.”

Those of you who follow my work know I do planetary scale Reiki healing work called DreamShield.  Now, I had a very personal Reiki healing to do.  As I worked the Rieki I’d learned in LA I saw an angel join their energy to his.  I was told my brother would recover fully and not to worry.

Texts and messages of support on FB balanced out the negative effects to Hertz and American Airlines. It was 2 AM when I collapsed into my bed at the hotel on the Kenosha harbor.  The view of Lake Michigan was gorgeous for the ten seconds it took me to fall asleep.

The next day when I returned to the hospital my brother was off life support.  Though he was still deep in drug induced coma my spirits brightened.  My brother had dodged another bullet and was going to live.  A personable young Indian doctor told me how the two large ulcers had been cauterized and that he was doing well, but that this was not the optimal surgery.  Removing the affected intestines was the preferred surgery.  But he explained that my brother had lost so much blood when he was brought in that they chose the least stressful surgery.  Then his sweet face turned more serious and he said, “You brother is highly addicted to alcohol and is having such severe withdrawal systems he must be kept in this coma or he will burst his surgery.  And if he drinks again the ulcers will kill him next time.  This is his last ride on the recovery merry-go-round”

I nodded somberly, recalling how fast my brother had fallen after his summer awakening.  “Drinking and awakening don’t mix,”I thought to myself.  I could not picture my brother without a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.  How he would ever never take a drink again was a mystery.  I had donated 100 videos to a recovery radio station run by a human angel named Bradley Quick and learned some things about recovery.  In 2011 I had been invited to Nashville to do a DreamShield meditation to end addiction in the world.  But could I do for my brother, getting him to quit drinking and drugging, what I’d never been able along with Mom to get our dad to do.

I had a lot of time to ponder these painful thoughts as I watched over my brother. I thought sadly how he had been planning to see me in Sedona for my birthday on September 21st, just two weeks from when all this was happening.  My brother began awakening from the old world over the summer of 2013.  At first it was exciting to hear him say how amazing it was for him.  The new powers and energies he was feeling.

However, the stress of awakening on him became been enormous for his fragile nature of an abused childhood he had never dealt with, unlike me an explorer of many forms of therapy, from EMDR, to Anger Management, to psychotherapy, and finally spirit work .  Without any of this grounding his awakening turned dark and set him self-medicating with God knows what.  The more I talked to my brother on the phone, as we planned his trip to Sedona for my birthday, the more imbalanced he sounded, and the more anger crept into our talks.  I called our mother to tell her of my worries that my brother was falling back into addictions that had ended him in jail in 1990.  Next call I confronted my brother, who has an epic dark side when he’s drinking and drugging, that I could tell he was off the wagon and he hung up on me.  When he missed our weekly calls twice and was not returning my calls, I worried more.

I recalled the brother who was so unpredictable as a kid, loving to me one moment as my closest pal, then laughing at me behind Dad’s leg as I was beaten to within inches of my life.  My guess is my brother suffers from un-diagnosed bi-polar disorder like I believe our father did.  It was a common bond with my Dad that I happily never shared.

To top off my brother’s dual nature is the fact he is a Gemini. Often I hear stories of terrible things my brother has been doing and, like my mom, because of his amazing sweet side and sadness, I tended to repress them in the past.  Now, I was no longer fooling myself and I could feel something awful was going to happen to my brother, perhaps jail again as in 1990.  Perhaps something worse with this new energy of the awakening distorted within.

So when my nephew called about the ulcers and the near death I was not surprised.  I did not hesitate on coming.  My guides said he needed my healing gifts if he was to live.  Now, instead, of a birthday visit to Sedona, here I was on what would become a 1o day visit to help him heal from ulcers predicated by a stressful life under an abusive father, who passed in 2011 while I was in transit on a meditation to Nashville to combat addiction in Nashville.  My brother and I had made peace with our father after a heart transplant literally changed him into a better person and gave him an extra 10 years of life.

But the wounds of a childhood of constant 24/7 abuse for 18 years of PST that he’d never faced and lost in booze in drugs were, I could see reading my brother’s comatose face as he moaned and groaned like a ghost, literally ripping him apart.  I spoke words of encouragement to my unconscious brother to let go of the past, hoping in his dream like state my words my get past his barriers for dealing with his dark childhood.

My nephew joined the coma-watch after his work day ended.  As we sat among the beeping monitors we talked about his father’s painful past.  How this rage must be drained if he ever recovered.  How meditation and lots of therapy had been my solution and would work for him.  My nephew thinks I am little crazy, like my two absentee kids, with all my visions and meditations I do for healing the planet, like the big one that took me all the way to Antarctica for 12.12.12.  Now, I could see hope and respect on his handsome young face.

My brother loved his beer but it gave him a headaches.  Combined with Excedrin he took to relive those headache the doctor, who said Excedrin should be an illegal drug, explained it had burned two holes in my brother’s stomach. Once again, I saw the pattern of heartless corporations again at work, bleeding ulcers, brought to you by the makers of Excedrin and Miller Light Beer.

A doctor was working for a giant medical corporation called Aurora Healthcare.  However, I read the energy of the ER staff.  All angelic and caring luckily.  My brother was in as good of hands as one can expect today.  The virus of corporations hiring heartless workers had not spread here in this ER in Kenosha near the shores of Lake Michigan where my brother and I played each day as kids on the beach to escape our crazy home life.

My nephew said good night and I continued on watching over my coma-brother.  Though he was off life support now, he was restless all day.  Shortly after his son left my brother became highly agitated in his coma.  I closed my Mac, where I was doing my best to continue doing my work for PhiSciences and the hit web series I’d created with Patrick Flanagan.  The great scientist had been looking forward to meeting my brother in Sedona. I slowly walked over the ICU bed, where nearly a dozen IV bottles filled him with drugs to keep my brother under and healing the delicate surgery on his ulcers as if in a nightmare where you have that feeling some monster lurks in the dark.  My brother was supper stressed looking, gagging suddenly.

Worried, I walked out to the nursing station and told the nurse that something was wrong with my brother.  The sweet little nurse a stocky young woman, no taller than 5 feet, humored me and reluctantly came into Fred’s ICU.  “Look up there, Mr. Sheetz, ” she said to me like she was talking to a ninny, “That’s a camera. We see all that’s going on.  Relax.”

Relax I could not and said, “Look at his breathing. He choking on his tongue.  See how he’s straining to breathe?  Can’t be good for the cauterization surgery.” I get amazingly calm in tough spots.  A survival skill I had to develop when my father lost his marbles every few days.  It was a bad sign I was so calm.  Big trouble had to be on the way.  My body knows these things before my brain.

My brother gagged on his tongue again as if on cue for the young nurse.  The veins on his neck showed how difficult a time he was having getting air.

“Look at the oxygen levels, Mr. Sheetz.  Your brother blood oxygen is 90%.  That’s very good for someone in his condition of losing so much blood a few days ago.” the young nurse said.

“My brother is an amazing swimmer.  He is simply breathing deep when he can in the coma and battling the tongue.  Maybe you should have left him on full life support.” I said, surprised how clearly I could see this with no medical training while this nurse was in some kind of denial.  I did not give a crap about her feelings.  My brother’s life was at stake and his agitation was growing worse.

“OK.  We will look into it, Mr. Sheetz.” the nurse said finally seeing how the situation looked worse by second.  He was sweating now and pale as a ghost.

I stroked his forehead and said, “Take it easy, bro.  They’re getting the doctor now.  You gotta relax, buddy, or the surgery won’t hold.”

Just then the nurse and I noticed at the same time a tiny dot of blood on the sheet covering Fred, between his legs.  The nurse pulled back the sheet… black clotted blood filled the entire bed area from lower torso to his toes!

“On my god!” I shouted.  The words pouring out of me like a single word “OHMYGOD!”

“You have to leave the room, Mr. Sheetz!” said the nurse.

I agreed but watched on from the hall as every life support alarm on my brother blared now.

I couldn’t look.  My brother was dying.  I felt it so profoundly.  I walked up the hall and called his son.  “The surgery ruptured. Your father is in grave danger.”

“I just got home.  Are you sure, Uncle Ken?” said my nephew, in shock having gone through near death with his father 2 days ago for the same ulcers.

As if on cue the PA blared.  “Medical emergency room 116.  Crash cart team room 116!”

“I’m on my way!” said my nephew, knowing his father’s ICU room number.

“Speed, Joe.  If a cop pulls you over, make them escort you.  He may not last much longer!”

As I ended the call I began seeing flashes of the good times my bother and I had shared as kids.  How he reached his hand across the nightstand to comfort me as our drunken father stumbled through the house after waking us all with his rantings to God.  How my brother ran for our father’s help when I fell through the ice in the forest behind our St. Francis backyard.

Then I realized the POVs of these memories were not mine but my brother’s.  I spun and saw the glowing spirit of my little brother, age 8.  “Get back in your body!” I commanded my brother’s confused little spirit.  Weeping, I thrust out my hand.  “Here!  Take my hand.  Let me lead you back.”  The dazed spirit of my little brother took my hand and I walked it him up the long hallways and back to the ICU where his 59 year-old body lay near death.

A doctor walked up to me as I watched his little boy self’s spirit slip back into my brother’s body as he convulsed in racking seizures.  The doctor looked like a cousin of Kevin Spacey and has the same no-nonsense manner.  We eyed each other up in a nanosecond and knew we liked each other. “I’m Dr. Needle — yeah, don’t laugh — the surgeon on this case.  You’re the patient’s brother?” To my handshake and nod Dr. Needle added. “Looks grim.  Your brother’s odds of living are slim at best. Prepare yourself for him to go into cardiac arrest any second now from.  He’s lost almost all the blood in his body.  The cauterization I did Tuesday has all ruptured.  He’s bled into his intestines and evacuated it out his anus in one gush.  Do you give consent to revive him if he flatlines?”

“I give consent for you to do anything and everything to save my brother.  I can’t think of a doctor with a better name to be his surgeon than Dr. Needle.  You radiate competence.  You’ll save my brother.  I have 100% faith in you.” I said.  I am a huge fan of book called BLINK.  BLINK tells of how we form complete assessments of character in the time it takes to blink.  It’s in second guessing ourselves that we go wrong.

Dr. Needle smiled at may calm nature and asked, “Would you like to be in the room while we try to stabilize him?”

“Yes.” I said without hesitation despite the horrors I knew I’d be in for.

“OK, wait here.  I’ll give you the signal when you can come in.

Soon, Dr. Needle waved me into my brother’s, now crowded, ICU room.  I’ve seen ER shows on TV.  Now I realized what bad “acting” all that was.  Here were a group of nurses, doctors and orderlies, some literally praying with folded hands and closed eyes, for my brother to survive.

TO BE CONTINUED…