“Everyone is an abused child when you think about what governments do.” – Tim Roth

DreamBlogger – Ken Sheetz

Before I start, I want to warn those sensitive to family abuse stories that this is not a blog post for you.  I share this true and very personal family story for only one reason, to encourage people who wish to be part of DreamShield’s mission to heal our planet to know that you might be healed personally as a reward as I have.

I share so that you might understand just how powerful the healing of this work is to take the darkest thing that ever happened in my dark childhood and to heal me when I was not even looking for that. These miracles of DreamShield have a life of their own.

l love my father who passed just 6 weeks ago.  I love him for all the good he did despite a lot of the nasty stuff.  Because no matter how many times he faltered I always knew he loved me.  I am amazed to report to you that I speak with his spirit from the afterlife.  In fact I’d go so far as to say Dad and I have talked a lot more in the 6 weeks since he died than any similar stretch of time when he was alive.

But I ask, dear reader, that you realize my father was a blue-collar man born of the early 20th century, a man without a father growing up to teach him any better, a man whose Irish temper got the better of him when it came to drink, and that you not please judge but learn from his mistakes.  Mistakes for which he is telling me as  write that he is deeply sorry to all in our family.  I admire his wanting me to share this.  Very like Dad, a Korean War vet, who never lacked courage.


I was home at last in LA, back from the Nashville’s planetary meditation at Lee McCormick’s amazing Spirit Recovery Ranch where we did a DreamShield to free the earth from addiction by 2012.  I was beyond exhausted from dozens of DreamShield meditations, the travel and my father’s recent funeral back in my home state of Wisconsin.  So I slept like a log that cold February night, cold that is by LA standards.

As the early morning sun tugged at the blinds I lay on my stomach in bed in a half-slumber. My face was buried in my pillow and I felt happy to be back in the city of angels, home base on this world for the work of a gentle 2012.  Still tired even after a good night’s sleep, I started to wonder if I wanted to do another mediation again for a long time.  Maybe never.  My inner cynic rambled on in my head, “None of this vision stuff real.  You can’t monetize this crazy stuff.  What’s the point?  Wake up and smell the coffee, dreamer.”

I was about to get out of bed and start my day with a “Quick Workout” that client, pal, roomie, radio talk show host and fitness guru Bradley Quick had personally designed for me, when I felt icy fingers on my back!

“Lay still.” The voice of my recently passed father groused, “Let me do this.”

In my mind’s eye I clearly saw a glowing blue gel spread into deep wide crevices that laced my back.  Lash marks that shocked me they were so infected and wicked looking.  But wherever Dad spread the magical blue gel the wounds closed up and healed perfectly, giving off a light puff of vapor.

How’d my back get like this?

September 21, 1966

It all started when my baby brother Bruce, mommy’s favorite who she called “Dolly”, teased me about getting a savings bond for my 13th birthday instead of a space station toy I wanted.  I smacked Bruce, only 6 at the time, square in the jaw with a fist full of rage.

Dad, full of beer from the excuse to drink for my birthday dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant Di Marini’s, set to teach me a lesson in brotherly love with the back with his leather belt.  “Tell Bruce you’re sorry you hit him!” he shouted, whipping me ever harder when I refused.

To my horror, my mother, holding Bruce sobbing in her arms from his cut bloody lip, cheered my father on.  Snap, snap, snap, the thick brown leather belt cracked as it dug deep into my back and, worse, my soul.  Bruce jeered dad on too, “Hit him, Daddy!  Hit him!”

I turned from the beating and shot my mother and Bruce a look of pure hate that shut both of them up.  My brother Fred, who most of the time got it worse from Dad watched from the sidelines in paralyzed terror, not knowing if it was safe to even cry.

Blood began to soak through my paisley 60s style dress shirt.  Mom shoved Bruce out of the room and begged for Dad to stop.  But Dad was no longer in control.  He shoved her backward, knocking her onto the bed. “You want this belt?!  You want it, bicth?”

“Fuck you!” I heard myself say.  Dad spun from Mom.  I’d drawn the demon back to me to save her.  SNAP!  SNAP!  SNAP!  The belt came down on me releasing an explosion of pain that made me see stars.

Every demon in every bottle of booze Dad had ever drank took possession of this normally sweet man.  “Say your sorry for hurting you brother, you little shit, and this will stop.”‘

“Fuck you!” I shouted into the rug.  He tried to whip the belt at my face but I curled into a ball, face to the floor.

I refused to cry and he picked up the power and intensity of the beating.  I began to lose consciousness.

If I died under the lash it would be fine with me.  Anything to escape this crazy drunk who could beat me like this on my own birthday.  This kind of rocket sled ride from happiness to hell on earth was nothing new on any birthday or holiday in my nutty childhood.

My Grandparents

Grandma gave up yelling at Dad to stop and dove on to my father’s back and pulled at his curly black hair.  Dad shook the old woman off him like he was a wild bucking bronco and the poor thing fell onto footstool breaking it.  It was Grandma’s sobbing in pain that snapped dad out of beating me.  When he stooped to take care of her mom whisked me off to my room and closed me in.

My back was on fire.  I could feel blood pouring all the way down the backs of my legs.  Sometime during the night when I was asleep, or maybe I just blacked out, I was bandaged up.  I don’t recall who did the job.  All is a blur here in my sad story.  To this day it’s hard for me to celebrate my birthday or any holiday.  You can’t know how crazy these happy dates became in my life.  It seemed at times like Dad was on a mission to rob my childhood of any joy.

Next morning, after what thankfully would be the last and worst beating of my life as I would soon grow tall and strong and not to ever be messed with, I was still in shock.  I remember standing, head poking out between the opening of the two swinging  garage doors to the alley, drooling like the village idiot to the shock of passing neighbors.  Dad got a call from one of the worried families, the “normal” families, and he yanked me from the garage and tossed me in my bedroom.  I must have I spent half my childhood locked in that bedroom.  I started to like it after while and became a loner in the relative safety of my room, living in comic books and my drawings.

Dad pulled off his belt and shouted he was ready to go beat some sense into my thick hide.  But seeing what a drooling mess he’d made of his handsome son his heart was not in it.  No, Dad was sober and he could see his rough handling had torn open the bandages on my back.  I was bleeding again.

He spun to leave my bedroom in disgust and I dove and grabbed hold of his leg, “I’m sorry, Dad. I had got what I deserved. Bruce is little I should never have hit him like that.  I’m sorry,” I whimpered like one of the many dogs my Dad had taken his rage out on in my childhood.  Dad softened with his sober shame and left me in my bedroom without another word.

Grandma snuck in a little later as it was getting dark with some balm for my re-opened back wounds.  “We need to get this boy to hospital!” she shouted, tears running down her chubby Irish cheeks.  No reply from Mom or Dad.

Grandlma hugged me to her ample bosom and cooed in her soft Irish accent, “You poor, poor thing.  Kenny, don’t you tell my idiot son he was right to beat you like some dog.  No!  Your Pa was wrong to beat you like that.  Wrong!”  My icy heart thawed and I wept in Grandma’s arms.  Wept for the first time since the beating had started.

My father had been listening at the door.  The birthday from hell ended with him evicting my grandmother for her kind words to me.  I looked down from my second floor window as he literally tossed her into the street.

By Monday for school I was mostly coherent but still deep in shock, barley able to speak.  In gym class the teacher noticed blood soaking through my white T-shirt.  I was sent to the Principal’s office.

“Take off your shirt, please,” the bald-headed gentleman, who did not fit into our blue-collar neighborhood, but who was nonetheless our principal asked.  I tried but the blood was stuck to the shirt and I could not get it off.  The school nurse came in and managed to soak the shirt with a sponge enough to get it off.

“Dear, God.” They both said in unison looking at my scabbed and oozing back covered in welts.

I quickly made up a story that bullies in gym class had toweled me.  “Bastards!  Who? Which students?” the Principal demanded. And I knew he’d bought it.  A great liar was born.  Heck, I almost believed the tale myself.  When asked for names of the students who did this to me I refused.  I was no rat.

It shows the power of the fear of the unknown.  I’d chosen at that moment the knowing of my crazy family life over being put in a foster home.


All these memories of 40 some years ago shot through my mind as Dad’s spirit applied the magic healing gel to my back in LA some 45 years later here in 2011, the gateway to 2012.  The angelic blue balm I thought must have come from the blue ET angels I met in Italy as soaked deep into my psychic after-wounds.

Gaps in my energetic field began to close as my father kept working in the heavenly healing lotion.  I seldom saw my father cry in life except when he was drunk.  But I could tell even though my father was invisible to me for this work, from the tremble I felt through his coarse welder’s fingertips, that he was silently crying.  Crying out of shame for how deep the wounds he gave me were over all the pain he had caused for all of us with his drinking binges and rages.

My father’s spirit, now calm gentle and wise, here in my humble LA bedroom I rent with social media work, was personally healing these terrible old back wounds.  This is my greatest gift so far for the work of DreamShield.  And my father’s greatest gift for the bad karma he has undone for his next life or his ticket to be in heaven, reunited with Grandma.

DreamShield planetary meditation work is not easy, folks.  This spiritual work is new and uncertain for me and at times makes me feel like I am going insane.  It’s taken me from my filmmaking career and social media company BuzzBroz.  But I do it all gladly because I somehow know this is vital work for humankind and we will get it done with your help and millions upon millions more amazing people like you reading this painful blog post, the most painful I will ever write.

One by one we can heal and manifest a gentle 2012.  After this healing miracle of my back, this cynic is slowly becoming a believer.

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Volcanic Visions at Mt. Shasta

I like dreams of the future better than the history of the past. – Thomas Jefferson

Dream Blogger – Ken Sheetz

Our successful angel-powered earthquake meditation, facilitated by our tiny three person dream team working beside the gurgling Soda Creek, still buzzes in my head.   I bounce in the back seat as Cali navigates the SUV up the bumpy dirt road, shaken to my core about the majestic planetary scale of the angels’ work growing giant white trees all the along the San Andreas fault to save the planet from the tectonic 2012 nightmares.  I am so honored to be doing this work that I fight back tears of joy.

Despite the urgency of reaching the volcano meditation site, we have yet to scout, by 1 PM I cannot resit asking Cali to make a quick stop to take pics of a gorgeous temple beside the pot-holed dirt road.  The small stone temple dazzles with a fountain at it’s core. But the temple is fenced off so we must take our pics through the chain links.  I notice one of the fence posts is the stump of a once mighty pine.  It’s bark is crushed by rusty cables.  I gather Cali and Chris to take my hands and we take a minute to pay our respects to this once mighty pine.  Then we are off.

Back on I-5 a cloud formation that looks remarkably like an atomic bomb’s mushroom cloud rises above the mountains.  I’ve never see anything so perfectly like the mushroom clouds that haunted my 1950’s childhood when it seemed life could be snuffed out at the sound of an air raid siren.  The night before leaving I was sent a fantastically paranoid sounding article about a nuclear bomb getting planted this very day on the San Andreas fault by extremists to launch a massive earthquake and I share the story with Chris and Cali.

The couple looks a bit shaken at this nuclear fear, fear that sounds too much like Lex Luthor’s battle with Superman in the first Superman film for me to take seriously.  Work with the angels allows me to let go of fears of a nuclear war that have troubled me since The Cuban Missile Crisis.  I blessedly know now that the angels will only let us go just so far before they step in.

And perhaps this angels work about saving us from nuclear war has already happened.  As we search for a road to get us to the volcano I tell the Rossens the amazing true story how for six months President Clinton simply had lost the nuclear launch codes.  Imagine that, the most powerful nuclear power on earth unable to make nuclear war for six months because the launch codes were lost.

Could anything show how simple it would be for mischievous angels, who seem to love misplacing my house keys for fun sometimes, to stop a nuclear war?

Sure enough when I would return home from Mt. Shasta there would be the 24/7 fear machine of our modern media speculating on the North Korea tensions escalating into a nuclear war with China.  Seriously?  China nuke the biggest consumer of their products, America?  I sigh as I type this, glad to know the angels don’t even need to handle something this silly.

The white SUV finally reaches a road that looks promising at the base of a dump and I feel this is the route to reach the planetary meditation spot.  But Cali stops to ask an old Native America man for directions.

“Does that road lead up to the volcano?” Cali asks.

The old Native American gazes at the road downhill from the dump and seems to take forever to say…

“No.  That road is a dead end.”

It seems to me the old fellow is a trickster spirit but I hold my tongue in the backseat.

The old Native American squints into the sloping winter sun, past the dormant volcano, points and speaks very slowly,

“Get back onto the I-5 and take the first exit, there are some tourist viewing spots on that side.”

I check my watch it’s 12:50 PM. If these directions are wrong I worry we’ll be late for the 1 PM meditation.  Despite my better instincts I keep my mouth shut as Cali heads onto the 5.

Sure enough, as I suspected, we seem to be on a road to nowhere.  There are no tourist spots apparent to us.  We try backtracking to a rainbow of multi-colored semi trucks beside the road at the midpoint between the exit to the dump and the north side of the mountain.

Tension rises in the SUV as 1 PM comes and goes and we not getting any closer to the volcano.

“Back to the dump! ” I instruct Cali a bit harshly, angry with myself for not checking that road myself for this important volcanic meditation.

As we reach the exit for the dump it’s 1:11 and we are all stressed.  Just then a rainbow appears leading to the dump.  A sure sign my instincts had been right.  I’d done my homework and as it turns out there is a low level turf war going on between the New Agers and Native Americans over the very spiritual Mt. Shasta.  Perhaps this is why we were sent on a wild goose chase.

I am annoyed as Cali stops the SUV to take a picture of the rainbow.  Cali is trying to get the perfect photo when I tell her time is running out.

I shout to be heard over the whipping wind,”We have to roll!  Angels have no concept of time and they need these binary dates and times to synch up with us. We might miss them!”  Soon as I say it I laugh out loud and add, “Man, if you’d have told me I’d be worrying about angels making appointments 6 months ago I’d have said you were nuts!”

Cali still resists moving on, trying for the perfect photo of the dazzling rainbow.

“Cali, let’s go!” I shout to no avail as Cali seems transfixed trying to photo the rainbow.  Looking back on my own diversion at the stone temple I begin to think we are all being blocked somehow.

Chris finally coaxes his wife back into the car with a simple, “Cali…”

Finally we’re off, racing for the rainbow above the dump, not knowing if the untested road is going to get us there.   I’ve never been late for a planetary meditation with angels before and I feel me blood pressure pound in my ears.

I point to a road.  “There, that’s the road leads to the dump!”

“No it’s not.  The we want’s road’s further up, ” says Cali, still sounding peeved about my rushing her rainbow shot.

“Humor me.  I’m willing to bet you 100 bucks this is the right road.” I grouse, starting to sound like a grumpy Larry David.

Cali sweetly complies.  I should have kept my mouth shut and let Cali drive as we are shortly in a dusty rock quarry.  Another dead end.  My watch shows 1:20 as I groan, “You were right, Cali. I don’t get what’s holding us back.  I never get lost!  I owe you a hundo.  Take us to the dump your way.”

Cali cracks a victorious smile to Chris and takes the SUV up the correct road.  The old Native American is long gone as we head through the dump for the back road I wish I would have tested a half an hour earlier.

I look up at the majestic volcano we can’t seem to get closer to, like an invisible force field is holding us back from the work.

This sleeping giant is one of 4 dormant volcanoes in the area.  The inn keeper where we are staying, The Dream Inn, explained over breakfast that the volcano blows every 1,000 years or so.  And since it blew about 100 years ago we are safe.  That last blast was so powerful it was seen by ships out on the Pacific a hundred miles away.

Turns out the old Native American was both right and wrong about the road.  It does dead end about half a mile above the dump for car travel, but there’s a path I spot that can be easily hiked on foot to the volcano.

I check my watch as I hop from the SUV.  We are late but still within the binary 1 PM hour.  I scurry over the buckled lost road, well ahead of Chris and Cali who are unsure about all this.   I reach a plateau at the base of the volcano, topped with reddish purple asphalt, as if perhaps a vast long forgotten tourist attraction parking lot once stood here beneath the volcano.

Chris and Cali hurry now, close behind at my excited shout, “Whoo hoo!  We’re in business!”

But before we can meditate with the angels we mortals all need a rest stop.  So we each head into the brush in 3 directions.  I am zipping up as I hear Cali’s squeal from the brush.

“Chris, Ken!  You guys have to see this!”

Chris and I hunt for where Cali’s excited shouts are coming from, and lo and behold there stands a grinning Cali beside an abandoned ’91 Saab.  Cali’s bullet riddled discovery has been here forever from the rust. It sits upside down on it’s roof, trunk pointing at the volcano.

Cali, who has been remarkable this whole trip with her insights, has brought amazing stones with her that she found in Italy 10 years ago when she saw miniature angels in a wrestling match with dark spirits.  We quickly place the amazing stones around the wasted Saab along with some sacred objects I’ve brought along of my own; a small glass paperweight of the world, the only object I took from my home in the divorce for reasons I did not understand at the time, and a palm print of my daughter’s hand that her grandfather carved for her from a 200 year-old oak plank.

We invite in the angels.  They are laughing, happy we made it in time.

Well, let’s let the video do the rest of the talking.

Read about the vision we saw at ANGEL DRILL TEAM AT MT. SHASTA!

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If you can imagine it, it’s real. – Pablo Picasso

Dream Blogger – Ken Sheetz

Hey fellow DreamShielders.  I’m back from the New Age mecca of Mt. Shasta with lots of visions and dreams to report.

I am delightfully exhausted after the busiest day of DreamShield 2012 work so far this 11/10/10 evening. Today, with the help of angels, our small dream team of 3 from Hollywood, Cali and Chris Rossen and me, all three of us filmmakers, meditated at Mt. Shasta on countering 2012 fear to: #1 Reduce Earthquakes and Tsunamis, #2 Reduce Volcanic Activity and #3 Invite First contact with a tiny race ETs known as Nanonites to seek their help protecting us from asteroids and comets.

Yes, a very big day.  So I am ready for a great night’s sleep and more gentle 2012 dreams.  Cali, a superb actor/producer, found the team a charming bed and breakfast for the mission’s 2 night stay, named appropriately the Dream Inn.  My cozy room a short distance from Cali and her writer/web guru hubby Chris’ room, where their two adorable, if rambunctious, dogs, Emmy and Ricki,are also nestled in for the night,  has a breathtaking view of the volcano north of the town. A volcano that last went off in 1840 with enough explosive force to be viewed by ships in the Pacific over a hundred miles away.

I thank the angels for the great work our dream team facilitated today and I begin a sleep meditation to reach the Galactic council beneath Mt. Shasta.  I visualize myself as Superman, my hero since childhood, boring through the earth with ease.


There’s a security field around the secret base 3 miles beneath Mt. Shasta.  But I’ve been told in advance by an ET expert from Arkansas who prepared me for all this important 2012 dream work to dispel fears of Earth’s destruction, that I will be allowed to enter the secret base by holding positive thoughts. I am buffeted by mild current surges designed to disrupt my dream field, but I shake them off moving deeper in to the earth along the 3 miles journey deep beneath Mt. Shasta to confer about with the ETs about DreamShield’s important mission.

Soon, I am deep in a conscious dream state.  My secret alien self slips from sleeping my 58-year-old human body.  I tiptoe for the closet, careful not to wake my human self.  Invisible until I touch it, I gather a boring standard-wear Galactic Council tunic from hiding and slip into it.

The veil of forgetfulness lifts like a cloud from my alien mind.  I am Ohom.  Sneaking from the Dream Inn, I am happy no humans are outside at this hour.  No need to hide the fact I am over 7 feet tall and blue, not unlike the creatures director James Cameron channeled in the movie AVATAR.  Except we Telosians have wings that cause primitives like my human self to often describe us as angels.  With a graceful leap I soar into the starry night sky over the peaceful little town of Mt. Shasta City.

As I fly for Mt. Shasta I recall that it is one of the last volcanic remnants of Atlantis, back when there  was but one continent and my people, the Telosians as we are sometimes called, first started visiting Earth.  Unfortunately, we were not the first ETs to find this blue world, already teaming with primitive life.  The Reptilians, clever to a fault, sent a robot ship here about a million years before us to plant their flag.

After countless years of bickering and threats of war that almost tore the fragile new Galactic Federation apart, the council caved in and deeded Earth to the Reptilians as a farm and gold mining world.  Modifying the DNA of apes, the Reptilians created a sentient aggressive gold driven worker species that remains to this day unaware they are but slaves.  Lizards love war and strife, so that was also tossed into human genetic engineering.

I check my star watch as I glide the cool night sky.  It’s 2:59 AM Pacific Earth Time: 11/11/10.  Unless there’s an emergency, our Galactic Council meetings take place on binary code dates on this world for the 49 of us who comprise the Earth Supervisory Sub-Group.

I land in the marsh at the base of the mountain.  A startled heron flaps off into the night.  Pressing stones and twigs in a secret sequence I activate a hidden stairway.

Hurrying down the granite stairs I hear the secret passage ratchet closed behind me.  Reaching the crystal tram that leads the 3 miles beneath Mt. Shasta, I am greeted with a hiss by GRAK, ambassador for the Reptilians,

“Ohom, what nonsense waits tonight’s council?”

“The welfare of billions of life forms, ‘nonsense’?” I say, realizing talking to this snake, with a Cobra-like head, is foolish of me. But our rivalry runs too deep for better judgment to prevail.

“Life forms my people own!” The Reptilian spits in my face, a slimy hand slithering for his holstered ray gun.

Cara, a pale green Illumion of great beauty, enters the tram car with a greeting, “Morning, Ohom, Grak.” Cara’s beautiful voice is music enough to calm even Grak and we settle in for a truce on the short ride on the super fast tram.

A short while later in the council room,  I chuckle to myself how unspectacular this place is compared to imaginings for such settings in earth’s film world.  There are countless such secret meeting places across the galaxy and no budget for fancy facilities except at the vast and ornate giant meeting hall at the galactic core, headquarters to the Galactic Federation.

The officious Aquas, a fish person who wears a space helmet filled with water to breathe, drops the gavel. “Agent Ohom, you psycho-texted for the floor.”

I stand to gaze over the eclectic group of races from 49 worlds.

Before I can say a word Grak leaps from his seat, “I move this meeting be adjourned.”

“Again, Grak?” groans Aquas.

“Aquas, with all due respect, it serves no purpose to rehash a million years of Ohom’s bleeding heart for our supposed cruelty to these human creatures!  Creatures the Reptilian’s created and own free and clear!” blusters Grak.

“I am here to call an end to your “free and clear” domination of this world, Grak.” It’s my calmness that most disturbs Grak.

Aquas pounds the gavel, “Make your case, agent Ohom, and none of your usual showmanship.  My helmet water needs changing.”

“To the point then, Chairman Aquas. ” I click a remote and a projector rises from the table that throws a section of words on the screen.

“What fine print are we looking at, Ohom?  Your human self’s bankruptcy papers?” clucks Grak as a few of the council laugh along.

“Magnify,” I say and the words become crystal clear.  “Sub-paragraph 2012: Earth treaty of the Pangean Era.”

Grak says putting his ugly feet up on the the conference table as he tries his best to look in charge, “Fool.  The treaty reads clearly: Any Worker Species created through genetic engineering by a Master Species of the Galactic Federation for any purpose, such as planetary mining or experiential enjoyment, are the complete and total property of such Master Species.

“Yes,” I say with a grin, happy Grak has taken the bait, “But further on paragraph iii B. also clearly states: However, when a Worker Species evolves to harness the power of positive visualization on a planetary scale, then such Worker Species reaches Protected Status as a “Developing Intelligence.”

“Humans, a “Developing Intelligience?” chides the lovely Cara to the admiring looks of all.  “Do you have any idea how destructive the humans would be if Grak and the Reptilians did not keep them confined to Earth.”

“You honor me, Princess Cara,” bows Grak.

I feel the sting of jealousy.  “Human spillover emotion!” I worry to myself that my human form and Telosian form are merging.  I quickly say before my thoughts are read,”That’s changing.  I’ve been testing to see if the human mind can access Telosian thought technology.”

“Not only dangerous, but Impossible for a Worker Species,” laughs Grak.

“Not dangerous. Not impossible.” I say.

The group murmurs with excitement.

“With only a small sample of 17 humans, myself and three other Telosians we activated a planetary DreamShield in Italy.” I exclaim as a view of the Earth protected by the DreamShield spins on screen.

“Trickery!” shouts Grak, needing to be restrained by our giant security robot that looks a lot like a black bear.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Galactic Council’s Earth Supervisory Sub-Group, I assure you this planetary DreamShield, which appeared first as a giant cross of energy bands on May 6th 2010 over Puglia Italy, is 100% genuine.”

Brainwave charts appear over the faces of the humans in a yoga hall in Italy.

“Wait!” shouts Grak.  “Back one human.”  The view on screen slides back one human to me, Ken Sheetz.

“Is that not your human form, Ohom?” chides Cara.

“Changes nothing.” I say feeling the loss of Cara and the group’s confidence.

“Your findings are tainted, Ohom,” adds Cara.

Grak’s reptile teeth flash me a triumphant grin.

“Cara, how many times have I’ve pleaded with the council to lift the Veil of Forgetfulness for Earth?”

Aquas checks his monitor screen with a watery chuckle, “Over the past 5,000 years alone, the longest we keep records on file, there are 20,000 requests you’ve made to remove the Veil.”

“None of which have been accepted, my brothers and sisters.  I was in pure unaware veiled human form in Italy. — See?  My brain activity is no different that the other humans until my three Telosinan brothers and sisters fill in the empty yoga mats.”

Nods and smiles become applause as the group watches the Italy footage.

Cara sings as she dances for joy, “Incredible.  A Worker species evolving to Developing Intelligence status has no precedent!”

I add, riveting in the good news of hope for humanity, “Paragraph 11.11.10 concludes: Such Developing Intelligence through planetary visualization wins total sovereignty and complete freedom from said Master Species and the full protection of the Galactic Federation.”

Grak storms for the door and shouts without a gaze back, “You’ve not won Earth’s freedom yet, Ohom.  This requires a 2/3’s vote of a Special Meeting  of the Galactic Council.  All the worlds of the Reptilian Quandrant will side with us!”

“Sound like you’ll only have 25% of the vote to me, Grak,” I gloat gathering a disgusted look from Aquas.

Outside in the marsh, as the sun begins to tug at the horizon, Grak hides in the reeds as I exit the portal arm in arm with Cara.

Cara caresses my cheek, “Sorry I was opposed you all these eons, Ohom. How can I make it up to you?”

“A kiss?” I say with a coy smile.

Cara leans her head for a kiss.  I move a tentacle from her forehead when a green beam from the reeds blazes.  Cara’s people have super speed and she takes the shot meant for me.

“Cara!” I sob as she slumps in my arms.

“Save the humans…”  Cara’s beautiful golden eyes close.

My rage makes the marsh lands tremble as I race for Grak.  A saucer beams Grak away before I can reach the evil Reptilian.

I leap from the marsh and soar after the ship when…

I awake back in human form, in my bed at The Dream Inn in Mt. Shasta, vowing to never let the Veil of Forgetfulness fall again.

But as I lay in bed, heart pounding and unable to get back to sleep it all begins to seem like a dream.  Then Cara’s musical voice assures me,

“You are not the mortal you seem to be.  Awaken the planet.  The DreamShield cannot fail…”


I am off to see SKYLINE tomorrow.  The premise of the movie is that SETI contact brings a hostile alien race to capture us.  Yet another of the 2012 doomsday film visions that are an increasing part the media’s unwitting participation in manipulating humanity into visualizing its own destruction.  A loophole in the Galactic Federation treaty?  And just look at this ad’s negative message “Don’t Look Up”.

But fear not!  DO LOOK UP to your rightful place among the stars!  The DreamShield dream team is on the job for positive planetary meditations leading to an assured gentle 2012.  And we hope you’ll join our website DreamShield.org and Like us on Facebook to learn of Gentle 2012 meditations coming to your part of the world.  Join us as we become a one billion member planetary dream team by 12/12/12.


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Finding Amelia Erhart

Better never to have met you in my dream than to wake and reach for hands that are not there. – Otomo Yakamaochi

Dream Blogger – Ken Sheetz

I was all set to do a phone interview with Shaman Isabella Stoloff last week about our amazing global 10/10/10 event, when computer troubles with my usually rock dependable MacBook Pro threw me for a loop.  So much so that I ended up missing the call time.  To make up for messing up I offered to buy the shaman from the O.C. lunch and film an interview with her in Tujunga Park near the restaurant.

Isabella suggested 11/01/10 to meet for lunch.  And then it hit me…  Another binary code date!  “Had angels messed with the computer to make this meeting date happen?” I asked Isabella.  She giggled, “I bet.”

And so we took the accidental choice of date as a powerful sign and decided to invite other DreamShield members to our little lunch and make it DreamShield’s next important meditation event.


The subject, the first time I was guided to have a focus to the meditations this specific other than a gentle 2012, came to me when I made the connection that Tujunga Park, nestled along the 170 freeway in North Hollywood California, besides lost Amelia Erhart’s monument, holds a 9/11 monument for those lost on flight 11 bound for California.  The number 11 was popping up everywhere in significant ways that could not be mere coincidence.

Isabella generously agreed to co-host and we got cracking as we only had a few days to pull this event together.  But we had a lot of momentum from 10/10/10 and a great group on Facebook and in no time at all we had group of enlightened people ready help with the important 9/11 work.

Angels don’t mess around once they are on the job.  They began to feed me a constant stream of instruction and inspiration, right down to music selection.  Yeah, if you told this agnostic-grounded business man that I’d talking to angels 6 months ago I’d have laughed you out of my studio.  Not so today.  Today I happily share all this with you openly.  In fact, I have been told it is a big part of my job to give you hope, and to share the sheer joy of knowing there’s more to life than meets the eye.


The half mile bike ride from the modest studio I rent in North Hollywood, paid for with social media work I donate to an anti-drug charity, passes quickly.  Today is Halloween and kids in costumes scurry along the sidewalks.


I shade my eyes from the late afternoon sun’s glare as I arrive at the park and start to check over the 9/11 monument site for tomorrow’s important DreamShield work.  A passenger jet roars past overhead.  I worry perhaps this site is too noisy a site for a meditation that will bring in the angels.  But then I realize that the jets above, like the jets that so many perished aboard on 9/11, are a vital part of this meditation.

Next, I am struck by the nearby presence of a giant 200 foot tall tree, located about 33 yards behind the monument and fronting the the 170 freeway.  Patting the bark of this vortex tree, I grin, satisfied that this is a perfect transmitter tree for the 11/01/10 meditation.

A triangle of three young trees sway gently in the breeze between the 9/11 monument and the vortex tree.  This I decide is where our group should stand to join hands tomorrow.  Having an architectural background is a handy skill for vision planning.

It’s then it hits me that for the vision in Italy, that first activated the DreamShield back in May of this year, the group was formed in a rectangle, on 10/10/10 the group work at Rancho De Las Palmas was formed as a circle and now, for tomorrow, the group would be formed as a triangle.


“Sacred geometry is clearly at work with the binary codes of 1s and 0s to power to these amazing meditations,” I say to myself in awe.  A blind man with his elderly mother are feeding a squirrel nearby.  When the old lady looks up and smiles at me I realize I should stop thinking out loud.

I notice a tissue, at the center of the trio of little trees and bend to pick it up, to clean the site.  But I stop myself, realizing this is maybe a sign to bring tissues for the group for the tears that might be shed.  As I look closer, I am amazed to see the used tissue is wadded up in the shape of an angel wing.  There’s the pic to the right,  A gentle breeze lifts the angel tissue to the center of the tree triangle and so I happily leave it be.  It’s meant to be here.

And, to skip ahead in this story a bit, the next morning at the 11/01/10 meditation the little tissue is still there, but soaked from dew which realize are angel tears for 9/11.

Returning to the monument on Halloween, I take a seat and pray that all the stone benches will be filled with angels tomorrow. But my prayer is interrupted when I sadly notice the bronze 9/11 monument is splattered with mud and pigeon waste.  I am told by a voice softer than a whisper that I must honor the dead by washing the monument on 11/01/10.

Gazing through my tears over the tarnished bronze list of lost Californians I see the top two names at the head of the list are David and Lynn Angell.  Now I weep in earnest, not just from sadness and amazement, but from gratitude that I was guided by higher powers to pick the right spot and date for the work of a bringing about a gentle 2012.


Relaxing on the stone bench, I breathe deep, meditating on how screenwriting sometimes puts me in a trance-like state.  The very first screenplay I wrote a dozen years ago, put aside to be produced after the pain of 9/11 has passed, is based in large part on the shut down of the air space over North America on 9/11.  But what’s amazing having 9/11 as the date the screenplay’s story takes place is that THE DIVA, THE DRIVER, THE REAPER, THE PIPER was written three whole years before the attacks of 9/11 in 1998.

After the 9/11 attacks, this screenplay, a hilarious action/comedy, was transformed into an action/horror tale of American rage against a host of Muslim villains.  In early pre-9/11 drafts the main antagonist, simply a silly Frenchman originally, became now, in the most painful rewrite of my life that used up many boxed of tissues, an evil lost double for Saddam Hussein and eventually a vast dragon spirit.

The title changed to WHEN EVIL STRUCK.  But what I did not realize was that I was in fact the one struck by evil.  The evil of hate and fear fostered by 24/7 media coverage showing the towers falling over and over and over for days on end.

It was not until I wrote the gentle family tale SUMMER RULES some years after 9/11, a romantic comedy about a sweet family healing from 9/11, set Montana and New York  in the summer of 2002, that my fierce rage began to cool.  Watch the short film ZACK’ MACHINE that inspired the feature SUMMER RULES below.  It stars the great Ed Asner of Pixar’s UP and my beautiful dog Sophia who I gave up for adoption when I lost my car and was evicted in the Great Depression 2 before I began BuzzBroz and was still running on investor money that dried up unexpectedly.  And the hit the little film has been to 8 film festivals so far. It shows my deep empathy for the pain of 9/11.  Even though I lost no one personally there I am somehow connected.  A mystery that will be revealed to be before this 2012 work is over.

Years later, as I watched Bush 2’s invasion of Iraq on CNN Live to finish dad’s mission, I’ll admit that at first I was thrilled by the Shock and Awe campaign  But sure enough, even with Saddam eventually gone, the two wars still dragged on.

Why, I began to wonder, are we not moving on from 9/11?  Through study of the work of many bloggers and enlightened filmmakers like Michael Moore and the great political humorist of our time, Jon Stewart, came the answer… oil.  Saddam was gone but the underlying battle for an ever dwindling oil supply remained.

As I listened to the roar of the 170 freeway I realized with 100% clarity that road rage, which can transform the sweetest person on the freeway into a dangerous jackass, is in fact caused by the negative energy of tainted oil flowing from the engine itno the driver’s though the steering wheel.  Perhaps this is why I choose still ride a bike to get around rather than drive in LA when I could afford a beater.  No, I want my first car after the recovery to be an electric car.  No road rage for me ever again.

And, yes, I’ve tossed out the title for my oil wars inspired action/horror tale WHEN EVIL STRUCK.  It is the action/comedy THE DIVA, THE DRIVER, THE REAPER, THE PIPER, with some more rewriting, that I will produce after my Gentle 2012 work is done.  No time for movie making for me now.  More important to do the light work than the film work.  But somehow this is all part of the same spiritual journey as I write about in my other blog 7YearsInHollywood.


I finish meditating at the 9/11 monument with a prayer for success in tomorrow’s work.  And my prayer is answered instantly and the energetic angels go to work a day early…

Listening to Ennio Moriccon’s THE TRIO I am now gloriously surrounded, part of a multitude of  angels who sing along to the music.

Angels gather around the monument and off as far as I can see  into the park in a great wedge that fans out through the many churches and temples that front the park and deep into the valley.

A cluster of smaller cherub Angels hold hands in the tree triangle smile and wave to me with giggles at what must be the look on my face.

Landing, like great eagles in the branches of the vortex tree, are the seven foot tall blue celestial angels I met in Italy.

As I gape, an angel taps me on the shoulder, “No fear, Sheetzo.  Let’s get this party started.”

“Now?  But the ceremony is tomorrow,” I say with relief that this angel is so human looking compared to the blue celestial angels perched in the vortex tree.

“Relax.  We just wanna get this started for you kids.  We’ll be here for you guys tomorrow. Big time!”

“Lots to do,” a radiant female angel chimes in.

“Are you the Angells?” I ask timidly to the pair of angels.

“Look at the wings, of course we’re freaking angels!”  Both the angels laugh, it’s part of the healing of this 9/11 monument I realize. I thought this was all going to be so serious.  The kidding relaxes me.

“No. I mean are you David and Lynn Angell, top names there on the plaque,” I say pointing.

“Yeah, well, good guess. I am, or was, David Angell.  Nice meeting you, Sheetzy” he says, clasping a strong hand to my shoulder.

“And you’re, Lynn?” I say to the beautiful female angel next to David.  She answers with a giggling shake of her head so robust she has to straighten her halo after.

David explains, “This is Marta.  My, ah, Lynn, well, she’s back again.  New life, in China.  Might take another spin at the life thing myself after we finish this job.”

Before I can ask another question David holds up a hand, “Enough chit-chat, kid.  Those big guys with harps been waiting in the vortex tree before you was a twinkle.”

“Are they extra-terrestials?”

“Been here way too long to be extras.  Tick tock,” says David pointing to heavenly Rolex on his wrist.

A watch is unusual for angels, I think to myself, since I’ve been taught by famed DreamShield light-worker and famed palmist Dr. Sarah Larsen, that time is meaningless.  It is our calling them for help that brings angels to us in the present.  Maybe I am hallucinating all this I worry about getting locked up.

Angel Marta reads my doubts, “Our watches are a gift from the angels in the tree, to help us do this work at the precise times needed.”

“Showtime, gang.  Hold out your hands.  Like this!” says David as he hold his hands palms outward towards the monument.  Blue light shoots out in twin beams from each of his palms.  I do my best to copy the action but my light can barely be seen.  I’m still only human.

Blue energy from David and the other angels pours forth and the cool afternoon air shimmers.  Golden light from the angels feet lights up the gravel covered clearing of the monument.  The rough hewn boulders of the monument begin to glow red.

“Hot,” I worry out loud.

“Keep cool.  Gonna get a hotter.  Lotsa crap to move on here,” says David.

Along with the angels, along with the dead — now appearing from 70 nations who perished on the planes and WTC Towers, at the Pentagon, in the field in Pennsylvania — along with American soldiers lost in the wars that followed, along with lost innocent civilians and soldiers of the Muslim world, we send the powerful red energy from the boulders forth through to the triangle of the three little trees before the 200 foot tall vortex tree.

The trio of little trees glow blue with the angels gathered there.  I see the three trees joined by a golden thread of energy. The gold thread intertwines with the golden roots of the vortex tree.

The bark of the vortex tree starts to churn slowly, like a tornado in slow motion, glowing white.  Angels in the Vortex tree gather the energy into fruit-like orbs and harvest it all into satchels.  Bark rustles and crackles with energy that rises off the golden glowing leaves to the DreamShield as a blue steam.

The stone gently returns to its normal beige tone as the day’s advance work winds down.  I watch in awe as my brothers and sisters of the spirit world fade.

“See ya tomorrow, rookie, ” says David, flashing me a thumbs up as he soars off and vanishes into the sunset in a blink.


Exhausted, but happy, I reach home and park my bike.  But I decide to walk up the tree-lined street and enjoy the last of the fading sun.  I am listening on my new Ipod to THE GOOD, BAD AND THE UGLY, the album that the angels have guided me to select songs from for tomorrow’s meditation.

A gust of wind shakes the leaves overhead and I hear David say, ‘You earned this one, kid.  Enjoy.”

I nearly fall to my knees as a vision appears in the canopy of leaves.  But unlike the muddled way I see the future writing screenplays I am gifted with a crystal clear look into 5,000 years into the future.

It’s the year 7010, to be exact, near the end of the next Mayan cycle.  The hills around LA are filled, not with the energy sucking single family homes of today, but with great villages of white, teaming communal life where even the word “poverty” is forgotten. The white villages reach high above the hills and valleys because earthquakes are in ancient history, along with hunger and abuse of the earth and our fellow creatures. LA’s architecture and society has soared to breathtaking new heights.

Every building in the valleys of LA has been leveled, replaced by vast green agricultural farms that feed the white villages of the hills.  Beneath the lush valley farm land lies hidden below an industrial complex many levels deep.  All the industry is powered by the sun  through the roots of the crops.  Anything anyone in the villages can wish for comes not from wastefully from overseas but right from the vast clean factories below.

A James Bond-like spaceport, opens in a crop circle and a spaceship rockets off for the  moon, now a vacation paradise fitted with artificial gravity and an atmosphere.  And at the controls of that spaceship is a greatest female aviator of all time herself… Amelia Erhart.

PS – Did I really see David Angell?  I mean no disrespect for the real David or Lynn or anyone in my vision.  But I did some research after all this stuff and it turns out David was a talented creator of the hit FRAISER which fits with how funny his angel was in my visions.  And David was born in Rhode Island, so the east coast accent fits too.  I’m just saying!  Namaste, Ken Sheetz


And this was just the day before the event.  Subscribe to our blog to stay tuned to what miracles we saw on 11/01/10.  Check out video from some of past global events at DreamShield.org and please donate there if you like what we are doing.

Join our global group of earth angels on Facebook to learn of events coming to a sacred spot on the planet near you or how to create and event of your own for the next in the binary series of gentle 2012 meditations.


Next up for DreamShield, Ken Sheetz travels from LA with Sarah Larsen and others to Mt. Shasta from 11/08 to 11/13 to join Lee McCormick’s SpiritRecovery retreat.  If you’d like to join our Dream Team for what promises to be an experience of a lifetime go to SpiritRecovery.com and please reserve your spot while you still can.

DreamShield will hold binary meditations on Mt. Shasta in the 11AM and and 10PM on 11/10/10 and 11/11/10 an, next in the binary sequence of dates.  We will also be filming our talks with American Shaman Lee McCormick.

Writes Ken on Facebook to Lee McCormick: “I can’t wait for this trip to Mt. Shasta. Some amazing stuff will happen. The angels will attend in huge numbers! I can already see them perched along the the mountain ridges and peaks. Sunset streams through their magnificent wings in the frosty air.”

When you sign up at SpritRecovery, enter the password DREAMSHIELD, all in caps, to get an angelic 10% discount.

And if you live in Germany and Greece watch for events coming soon to those important places too.

Here’s the score to our meditation if you’d like some music while you read about the angels’ amazing work.

This heavenly post is dedicated to all who lost a loved one on or as a result of 9/11.