I did not expect a planetary healing from such a violent film as SICARIO. Spoiler alert. I can’t explain the impact of the film on me without giving away the best secrets of the story. Then again, my fans know the films I review are a springboard for me to talk planetary change.
Emily Blunt is the innocent Phoenix police officer dragged into a CIA scheme to assassinate a cartel leader. A part she plays to confused brilliance that makes her one of the most believable cops characters, male or female, in film history. The CIA needs a domestic officer to expand jurisdiction into Mexico and Emily is it.
The broken town of Juarez is where action centers. Josh Brolin is the CIA’s master disruptive player. All law has broken down in Juarez as the cartels battle. It’s a chilling look at how thin the line between anarchy and civilization truly is.
Blunt’s character is watched over by Benicio Del Toro’s dark angel. He’s a free agent, a Columbian lawyer turned assassin, out to kill the cartel leader who beheaded his wife and killed his teen daughter, boiling her alive in acid. Nothing will stop this Sicario, which means “hit man” in English, not even his affection for Blunt, who reminds him of his daughter.
The first 10 minutes of this film are very hard to get through as Blunt uncovers 20 mutilated corpses in a Phoenix bust. I’ll admit I closed my eyes to get past it.
The amazing ending, which I will not spoil for you, is just as hard to endure. Violence here is not gratuitous. It’s a documentary to the real zombie apocalypse we face. SICARIO offers a deep look into our sick society, decaying from the inside, fueled by the greed of men that seek to send humanity into a hellish dark ages.
As the credits rolled I stood to go home after my matinée break. Then a soulful Mexican guitar solo in the credit score broke the 2 hour tension. I retook my seat and soon my ET guide Ohom asked me to meditate on making sure the world does not go the violent way of Jaurez. The meditation enemy once again, addiction.
I closed my eyes and the sweet guitar sounds swept me away. Ohom asked me to go beyond addiction to seek in my mind’s eye the root cause. I saw many of my neural pathways were badly ruptured from the nightmare of the first 20 years of my life in family as a helpless kid ruled over by a drunken father. They neurons were the red exploded remnants. How could I still be so PST damaged on the inside after decades of many kinds of therapies I wondered?
Ohom showed me the neuron reroutes I had created to function as normally as possible. Then he and his team began helping me heal my damaged neurons and neural pathways at super speed. In less than 2 minutes 2 decades of mental and physical abuse I’d suffered as child survivor of frequent bloody fatherly beatings were healed, along with my broken my heart from when my mother did not rescue me from hell but abandoned ship. A pain far worse than the broken arm my drunken father would give me.
Again I may never know if this amazing ET shit’s real, it just works for me as gateway to higher energies and I do feel more whole. I’d not expected this kind of breakthrough this warm fall Sedona afternoon, and accepted this ET healing with tears of joy in the dark movie house.
I see now clearly the root cause of addiction is seeking to numb our pain via self-medicating with drugs, both illegal and prescription, booze and loveless sex. My addiction of choice has been my work. Getting older and not being able to work at my crazy pace, still far more than men half my age, is buying me time to smell the roses and moments like this.
As always the personal healing begets a planetary healing and I sent out the bliss of my healing across the world.
The credits ended. As I stood to go a young theater attendant asked me, “How was SICARIO?”
When last we left my super-self in deep space, it was September 22nd 2015, and 19 remaining asteroids were hurtling for earth. This despite the 9 asteroids I’d already mentally destroyed the night of the 21st in an all-niter of 9 planetary meditations back to back. The 28 original asteroids are the nasty mental product of a fear soaked imagination of rapture doom from an obscure Reverend in Puerto Rico. But because humanity’s fear had grown so high, these fantasies of asteroid doom had to nonetheless be debunked by NASA.
The nineteen remaining asteroids visualized by the believers in this Apocalyptic nuttiness of the Reverend and his followers are still enough to wipe humanity from the planet, my higher ET self Ohom tells me, because the Reverend’s fears of doom have tapped into the upcoming Super Blood moon of 9/28/15.
Destroying the first 9 meteors in meditation the night before, some birthday, proved far more challenging and exhausting than I’d imagined. See Prt 1 & Prt 2 before reading onward to get the whole picture of my longest meditation series of my planet saving hobby so far.
Oh, and save the straitjacket, doubters. I don’t literally believe I physically fly into space and smash asteroids with my bare hands. But I do know in my heart that on some level of reality these meditations truly do help in some small way to protect the positive side of our global consciousness. We are all Messiahs these day. No single being is coming to save us.
At the very least these planetary meditations are healing for me as an individual. And since we’re all connected and every little bit helps. Last its way more fun to experience all these 5D visions than to watch even a great movie like THE MARTIAN for this story-teller of the light.
Yes, I’ve come to accept the power of positive vision, which me and others like me are doing every day all over the world to wipe out negative visions as old as the Mayan Calendar. At his stage, 5 years into my awakening, I just accept and go where I am told by my higher self, Ohom, a 7 foot tall Insectoid from the world of Nektar.
Ohom’s DreamShield planetary missions he guides me to, some at very obscure and unplanned locations, have carried me all the way to Antarctica in real life on 12/12/12. These mission have led to my current home base, Sedona. Sedona is famed for its vortexes and rich soil filled with crystal and iron, which naturally boosts the power of my DreamShield Planetary meditations.
This also led to…proud plug… filming scientist Patrick in Sedona for two years now for a new DVD called THE NEUROPHONE EXPERIENCE just released on Amazon by yours truly, a modern-day Don Quixote. My Hollywood dream begun in 2003 after a highly successful real estate career goes on. Expect my long neglected Antarctica 12.12.12 meditation DVD soon. Stay tuned here and on DreamShield.org for the announcement. And there will be a private screening party here in Sedona and/or LA.
ASTEROIDS OF FEAR
Because the 9/21 meditations went on into the wee hours of the morning of 9/22 and were exhausting as hell, I gave myself two solid days to blog about asteroid 1-9. Good thing I finished all that meditating and blog writing before my sick brother made an emotional attack on me using my mother as his pawn on the afternoon of 9/22.
Mom resisted my lost ex-convict brother’s insistence to hassle me on my birthday, the 21st. My brother was acting out as he’s in deep pain from the fact I am holding firm to my 2013 vow that he must stay sober a full year or he stays out of my life. My tough love is predicated by the doctors all warning me, after he came out of 3 week induced coma, that my out of control bro would die if he ever drank again. On my 2013 birthday my brother heard my warning and promised me he’d never drink again. But in 2014 addiction recaptured him and my brother began drinking again in Florida in spectacular fashion and we’ve not spoken since.
So think it’s an accident that only 1/3 of the way through the series of 28 meditations my lost brother tells my mother he wants metal sculpture back he gave me for my 42nd birthday to mess with my head? He claimed to mom the sculpture was done for his share of 1993 TV show I made called Cook & Rock and he now wanted it back. When my mom called me her voice was so filled with emotion I thought she was going to tell me my lost brother had perished of drink. The poor 87 year-old woman, who has single-handily kept my brother alive was since his spectacular 2014 fall they landed him on Florida NBC TV as a dog abuser, worried about my bitter brother’s claim he’d come to my door in Sedona with the cops if I did not send him the sculpture back.
I said as sweetly as I could, “Relax, mom. Fred’s mad at me for keeping my word he must be clean and sober or 12 months solid to reenter my life. He has no real claim on the sculpture but let him know it will be shipped out to him tomorrow.” Mom thanked me profusely and continued to share the horror story my brother’s ruined life until I cut her short. “Mom, please. Join me in this intervention to save him. You’re only making it take longer for your son to hit bottom by enabling him.” Mom did not want to hear this about her favorite son as needing her intervention. And so, after my thanking mom for not bothering me with my brother attack on my birthday, we made our goodbyes.
ONLY 19 ASTEROIDS TO DESTROY
At the end of prt 2 of these meditations I asked for guidance on a visualization of how to rid our dream skies of the doomsayers the asteroids 19 remaining all at once. Much needed after the psychic attack I warded off of my sick brother that day. How amazing I asked spirit for guidance of a way to beat all 19 asteroids at once before all that old family broken record of addiction that robbed me of a normal childhood with aunts and uncles dying off left and right and father who became demon when he drank.
So no sooner did I close my eyes, transform into the Super hero of Superman and fly from Sedona, did I have the super solution. I rocketed for the 199 asteroids hurting for earth. I felt the menace of these damned asteroids, brimming with humanity’s suicidal negative energy in the form of, you guessed it, addiction.
The very addiction energy killing my baby brother, only 18 months my junior. Practically my twin. Sober my brother is a powerful man to have in my corner. But drunk he represents all that was wrong with my drunkard father squared. Drunk my brother becomes jealous of anyone kind to me, male or female, and resentful of any luck in life. When he’s sick with booze poisoning his mind my kid brother is capable of freaky behaviors; like popping out of manhole covers like a crazed gopher, perching on your rooftop like a demented vulture and messing with all of us in the family living normal addiction free lives, including his own son and my kids. His rage at our healthy lifestyles knows no boundaries. Mass murder seems not out of the question, which terrifies my mother. As for me. Fear stopped motivating me to humor anyone with my awakening.
In meditation, my x-ray vision sees that all 19 of these asteroids are filled with suicidal dark addiction energy. But I bravely rocket head-on for the menacing asteroids. This doomsday rescue is personal and this one is for my addict brother and anyone on the earth stuck in addiction.
As the deadly asteroids near I recall my screenplay ELVIS AND ARMAGEDDON, a top ten finalist in a 1998 contest. The first draft of that screenplay was “1 Through 9” and it’s about two hillbilly brothers who must come to peace with each other before they can save earth from 9 asteroids. Coincidence that I was flying for 19 asteroids in meditation, a variant of 1-9? Not for this psychic screenwriter who predicted 911 five years before it happened. I take it as confirmation to knock these fucking asteroids out all at once.
If you follow my DreamShield planetary meditations you know many of my meditations are about ending addiction on earth. In 2010 I drew a diagram of a circle and a triangle at its center as a way to block the black hole to lead a group meditation in Nashville. My meditations show little mercy for the dark forces. I am a spirit warrior that takes no prisoners when it comes to addiction. I will destroy this asteroids or die in bed back in Sedona rather than fail.
Then it hits me. “It’s a trap!” A sick looking purple energy of addiction beam lashes out for me from all 19 asteroids. I dodge and dart at super speed. If even one of the beams hit me I will fall into addiction myself. But before any of the 19 beams can lock onto me, a hard thing as I am traveling 12 times the speed of light – I use my super willpower to rip a black hole in the fabric of space at the center of the train of 19 asteroids.
Instantly all 19 asteroids are sucked to the purple vortex beyond this universe. I visualize all of the addictive fear based asteroids off to a nether-dimension from which they will never return. The 19 asteroids rage with a wail impossible to describe as they vanish.
But the killer asteroids aren’t done with me yet. They reach out foe me as one telepathically and yank me for the black. If I fall in there Ohom warns me that I’ll pop out in alley in my home town of Milwaukee, a heroin addict scrounging garbage can for breakfast, my sick brother grinning over me!
The rim of the black hole rushes for me. Desperate, I smack my super hands together with a clap louder than millions of thunder bolts. A cool trick as I am in the vacuum of space where no sound can exist. The black hole slams closed just before I am sucked into my own rage at addiction. Only deep love for saving my lost brother has saved me. Free of the black holes pull I spin out of control from the momentum and crash-land back in my bed in Sedona. I take a few deeps breaths and fall straight to a blissful night’s sleep.
The next day, the 23rd, which “happens” to be my addict father’s birthday, I write I loving letter to my brother telling him to look upon the guitar as my gift back to him to remind himself how talented he is. I say in the letter all he needs to do is be 12 months clean and sober and I will be waiting with open arms.
At the Sedona shipping store a customer raves over the beautiful metal guitar my clean and sober brother gave me 19 years ago. I realize right as the clerk starts packing that I was down to 19 asteroids to destroy with my Super Sheetz meditations before my brother asked for this art he created 19 years ago from love when the friendly customer asks me, “What’s the story is behind this amazing sculpture?
I simply smile sadly and say, “Long story. Just returning it to the artist who loaned it to me for 19 years. He needs it back to get his life together.”
So here it is Sunday October 4th, 2015. And we all still here on our troubled little blue ball. Earth saved.
Thanks, Ohom and Dreamshield and thanks to my brother, for whose recovery I meditate often, for inspiring the exciting conclusion to APOCALYPSE NOT. Get well, bro.
Ken Sheetz is a film maker and social media expert whose life has not been the same since his 2010 awakening in Italy. If you enjoy his meditation stories, packed with more excitement than most Hollywood films, and want make a contribution via Ken’s PayPal account it’s BuzzBroz@yahoo.com.
Reincarnation lies at the heart of the long running BBC TV series DR. WHO. The clever creators of DR. WHO disguise reincarnation, for Christians and Muslims who prefer the belief in an afterlife, as regeneration.
When the doctor reaches the end of a useful life in one body he regenerates into an entire new body. Like rebirth in reincarnation, the doctor’s regenerations are painful and chaotic. The Time Lord, last of his race, is always disoriented at first adapting to his new body. Much like we are as reborn babies, starting the life-cycle all over again as we’ve done countless times in the longest running reality show called “Life on planet Earth”.
Since 1966 when the series premiered, and soon to celebrate a 50-year anniversary as the longest running TV series on earth, twelve equally amazing actors have played the 2,000 year-old Dr. Who. I have watched so many of these Dr. Who regenerations over my lifetime that it’s hard for me to imagine a life without this coolest of sci-fi shows.
Heck, I was only 14 when the show began, though I began watching it on PBS in the 1980s in my 30s during the Tom Baker DR. WHO years. I love how you never know in what form the doctor will regenerate, complete with a new wardrobe style and interior redecorated time machine called the Tardis, bigger on the inside than the outside.
An outside that’s supposed to camouflaged into the landscape, but that cool Tardis function is broken. So the doctor’s time machine is frozen in the form of a blue London police phone booth from a desperate 1966 mission to save Earth, just it has been since the show began in 1966 as the only constant in the ever changing Dr. Who series. This broken but still powerful Tardis is the doctor’s only tool, along with his trusty multi-use sonic screwdriver, for saving the world. Which the doctor does every season on regular basis.
In season eight, a bit confusing as it would be season 27 but they chose to renumber the series when it revived in 2005 after being off the air since 1996, Clara Oswald, who I feel is hands down the best in 50 years of Dr. Who companions, is beautifully played by Jenna Coleman. Clara is repulsed when the hot young Dr. Who, played by Matt Smith, that she crushes on, is regenerated into a cantankerous old Scott, played masterfully Peter Capaldi, with touching and hilarious results for them both.
Thus Clara bridges from one Dr. Who to the next, a process we as the audience all go through too. Yes, every time there’s new doctor the BBC message boards are filled with dislike for any new Dr. Who. But soon we fans, along with Clara and her predecessor companions, are comforted by the fact that, despite Dr. Who’s new look, that he demonstrates by action and character he remains the same vibrant world saving hero underneath the skin. The same soul living in a new body, just as in reincarnation, Dr. Who continues to grow and develop new complexities of character and compassion, while he is constantly humbled and rescued many times by his human companion. An incredible metaphor for relationships that are the key to our souls’ evolution in reincarnation.
It’s wild how the show makers masterfully overlap all the Dr. Who’s and along with his change of companions like 2015’s Clara. Just as we do in real-life, if you believe as I do in the endless cycles of reincarnation. We mortals are constantly changing lives in an immortal cycle of regeneration. Like the water of lakes that vaporizes to fall as rain endlessly, we are ever dying and reborn, re-meeting our companions of the past, sometimes as human beings and sometimes other life forms, all mostly made of water.
In other words, dear dreamers of a better tomorrow, we are all Claras and Dr. Whos in a Tardis called Me.
This blog posting dedicated to a real-life Dr. Who I have had the honor of helping bring a new sonic mind tool into the world called the NEO Neurophone, Dr. G. Patrick Flanagan.
I had one of my most epic nights of dream work during the recent blue moon. A dream mission to repair a giant tear in the space time continuum, the assassination of JFK.
In dream I hurtle back in time to November 23, 1963. Reaching this tragic day in American history, I find myself standing on streets of Dallas before an old Zenith television store window, filled with blinking old TV sets playing 1962 TV shows. Ohom, my 7 foot tall blue skinned ET guide, invisible to all but me, waves his hand and the old tube TVs unite to show me a giant screen view of earth from space filled with equations written in the stars. Some equations are in white letters while other are highlighted in red. No scientist, I nonetheless I understand the complex formulas’ meanings intuitively.
Ohom points to the earth/star chart and says, “11.23.62 represents a major rupture in the mutli-verse space time continuum. Note, Ken, what is remarkable about your timeline repair mission is that in all the billions of timelines going forward from the JFK take-out point is that JFK survives in none.”
“JFK, dead in all these timelines? That’s impossible in Quantum physics,” I say, anger at the dark forces creeping into my voice.
“Yes, the JKF timeline tampering by the dark forces evidence is clear as the night of the blue moon out your Sedona bedroom window,” says Ohom, proud of his human counterpart. “Kennedy was far from the perfection you all projected upon him, but his death ended humanity’s best motivator for space exploration and the evolution of a peace loving earth. So the dark forces are taking no chances and sought to end JFK’s survival in any and all timelines.”
“Don’t these evil jerks ever give up?” I gripe to Ohom.
“In a word, no. And there is nothing inherently evil in these “jerks”. Evil is your name for out-balance. — Your DreamShield planetary healing mission, far more dangerous and exciting that the MISSION IMPOSSIBLE film you saw today as an activation of certain skills you need for saving JFK, should you choose to accept it, Ken, is to save JFK for a host of timelines. If you succeed you will turn the tables on the endless war machine America has become and channel that energy into making earth a interstellar traveling world.”
“Ohom, usually you don’t give me this much orientation. What’s up?” I say as respectfully as I can while getting my point across.
“This timeline repair work requires all the lucid dream skills I’ve taught you, Ken. The stakes are high.”
“How high?”
“If you die in this dream rescue of JFK you will die in bed. So are you 100% sure you want this mission?” says Ohom, his kind blue insectoid face troubled.
“Ohom, as a kid I loved JFK and all he stood for. To save President Kennedy in multiple timelines is an honor to attempt, even if I fail. I can think of worse places to die than home in bed.” I say bravely smiling up at Ohom as an old prop plane sails in the Dallas sky above his smiling blue face.
“The dark energies will be more intense on the JFK timeline restoration mission than any dream work you’ve done since the 2011 when you facilitated closing the Bermuda Triangle, Ken. And, as always, none but a faint few of your fellow humans, will believe, as you’ve seen with Antarctica, believe that you have done anything at all, let alone the huge positive impact this will have on your timeline where JFK will remain assassinated in your history. But the positive shifts will be felt almost instantly.”
I nod and the giant Ohom takes me into a buzzing hug. His blue wings a flutter in the Dallas breeze. I feel the sandpaper like gem encrusted texture of his turquoise robe against my cheek and recall the shock of my first time meeting of Ohom in a little yoga hall in Italy in 2010. The first five years of my 50 year mission have passed so fast and so amazingly. I feel new abilities and powers flowing though me from Ohom’s embrace. This is more than a hug, it’s an epic upgrade!
“My dream team and I will be watching over you to guide you to the next life should you fail and die in bed, Ken. As always, Ken, we cannot assist directly in human affairs. Now go save JFK!” says Ohom, vanishing in sparkling swirl of energy.
I head up the street for sounds of the cheering crowd. JFKs motorcade nears and I am filled with such joy to see my childhood hero JFK’s very much alive beaming smile!
I make myself invisible to crowd, JFK and Jackie, the Secret Service and the many gunmen I sense have a bead on the president and his wife Jackie. I slip unseen into JFKs limo and erect a dream shield above all our heads at the exact instant the assassins fire. This force field like is nothing like anything I ever since in film or literature, ripping and pulsating with white and black waves of energy. It easily deflects the bullets meant for JFK. Each ripple of black and white energy represent a new timeline I am creating on this dream mission.
Hearing the shots and screams JFK’s Secret Service team swings into action. Men in black dive onto of Jackie and JFK. The presidential limo screeches off into an alley, hurtling past startled faces in the crowd. More shots! But my DreamShield holds and the bullets spark off harmlessly creating ripples on the shield like a stone cast in a lake.
“Thanks! Who are you?” shouts JFK from under a stack of FBI agents.
Realizing the dream shield work has made me visible, I look down at myself, embarrassed I did not wear pajamas tonight. “Just a friend from 2015, Mr. President.”
“2015?!” shouts Jackie.
Dark beings, only I can see, materialize in the alley ahead the JFK limo, menace in their glowing green eyes. “Sorry, Mr and Mrs. President. My work is not done.” I launch myself into the dark ones and battle like one man wrecking crew as the JFK limo safely escapes from sight.
The leader of dark ones lays beaten on the pavement, his green eyes trying to dig into my soul. “Enjoy this moment, human. But you may find your victory a costly one.” Suddenly I feel deathly ill. Cackling, the leader and his dark ones vanish.
I vomit on the alley pavement. A rat scurries into the shadows in fear. I look at my arms and the veins are growing black. I realize from all I’ve learned from Ohom that I’ve taken on too much dark energy. I curse myself that I’ve yet to master love as force against the dark ones. I am terribly out of balance. My heart is racing. If I die in this condition I am not sure Ohom can even guide me into the afterlife.
Whenever I dream and I need help I fly! I leap into the sky, happy for my blinding speed. Instantly, I circle the earth at impossible speed, I let loose the dark energy in my wake, a total reversal of the energy of light the DreamShield was made of in 2010. The interwoven light and dark Dreamshields each merge into the heavens. Stars and the void.
I hear Ohom in my mind,”A new universe of positive timelines is born. Good dream work, Ken.”
Tears of joy in my eyes to have dreamed of saving JFK, I awake blissfully to singing of the crickets and go the bathroom. Once again I am just my 62-year-old self, badly out of shape self from too much computer work on the NEO Neurophone project. I chuckle and say to myself in the the mirror on my way back to bed, “One day this shit is all going to make sense.”
Spoiler Alert. EX MACHINA is a simple story with limited cast and no explosions, so my review of what’s sick at the core of this finely made, but spiritually misguided film, will ruin the ending by necessity.
Directed flawlessly by Alex Garland, of 28 DAYS fame, the sparse cast of this sci-fi is played brilliantly by all three lead roles in a tight screenplay that gives all three characters their own powerful story arcs.
Nathan the inventor billionaire, creator of an AI robot named Ava, is played with menacing brilliance that’s the most realistic mad scientist portrayal ever, by Oscar Issac.
Contrasting Nathan the boozing crazed genius is the twenty-something deft coder Caleb, played with believable innocence yet savvy nuance by Domhnall Gleeson.
Last, the central figure of the film, Ava the beautiful AI robot. Caleb is testing Ava to see if she is in fact a fully conscious AI. Ava is played elegantly by the stunning Alicia Vikander. Alicia’s Ava is subtle beyond belief from start to grisly finish of this sci-fi that’s really a horror film in disguise. The horror of how badly men and women harm each other for self gain.
As Caleb begins his testing interviews, which are the seven chapters of the film, he is stunned by just how conscious the AI robot Ava is and falls hopelessly in love. This enrages the scientist Nathan who is also in love with the robot Ava.
And so we have the first love triangle between two brilliant men and Ava the robot. It’s riveting to watch with elegant SFX of a transparent sections to Ava’s strangely sexy body. That is until the ending (final spoiler alert) where Ava, the sweet enlightened AI kills Nathan and leaves Caleb trapped to die as she escapes.
That’s right. This highly advanced form of AI that captures the consciousness of the feminine mind is a manipulative black widow. Wow. What a let down for this fan of women and how amazing they are in real life versus this typical Hollywood sick portrayal of the worst in women. Just more Hollywood bashing of women in shiny new robotic wrapper.
This would be a 5 star film were it not so disappointing in the portrayal of skin peeling women. I give it 3 stars as a conscious film for making one think, if sadly.
Robin Williams reviews his own movie WHAT DREAMS MAY COME from the great beyond.
Robin Channeled by Ken Sheetz, who finds all this as unbelievable as you, dear reader.
Hola, out there in WordPress land! It’s your old pal Robin Williams, who did an early check-out from the Hotel Earth last summer. Miss so many of you. And pretty much since I jumped ship, I’ve been bugging my living pal Ken Sheetz to watch my favorite movie I ever played in: WHAT DREAMS MAY COME. I am watching today, Easter for the powerful minority knows as Christians, fresh through his teary eyes.
We’re only half way through and I give it ten stars and on a scale of five.
My whale pod I am connected to via mama whale is watching too. Stay tuned. Back in an hour.
I think they could have found a better actor for the part of Chris. Get the Chris-t thing? Before I dove into work of becoming a blue whale in my next life, due to arrive again in August, I met Christ over here. We hung together for a while at a heavenly rave party, where we spirits birthed a new galaxy. Jesus is a genuinely nice dude. Not any different than the rest of us souls, except he’s like a hippie on love steroids. Jesus H! Christ is mighty pissed off about all the nasty crap people do, and have done, abusing his name. Especially on Easter.
Yep, they coulda picked a Deniro to play Chris and maybe this great film would’ve been a big hit. Welp, least I am not quite so bummed I didn’t win an Oscar for Best Actor playing Chris Nielson. Chris, he’s a man who beat hell itself to save his suicide wife now. Deep as the deep blue sea mama carries me in.
Why is WHAT DREAMS MAY COME my number one choice all time fav, o’ blubber breath, you ask, dear reader?
Simple. Because, WHAT DREAMS MAY COME sends the exacto right message about the other side, the over-here that is not the after-life but the always-life. The life you live now reading Ken’s writing my words. Ah that’s the dream, the over-here.
Relax com-padres, there ain’t no heaven and ain’t no hell and no Easter Bunny. Hate to be a spoiler, but like life the afterlife, whether you got here via a natural death, a US drone dropped on you as innocently you ate dinner in Iraq with your loved ones or suicide like me, is what you make of it.
Yes! Life and after-life are what you make of it! I hope Ken makes a t-shirt of that. Shit. I just laid one of the best Williams Easter eggs after I’m dead? No one’s gonna believe it. Ah. Ken whispers in the mind he’s allowing me to share, he will make the t-shirt and my LIFE AND THE AFTER-LIFE ARE WHAT YOU MAKE OF IT! line stands on it’s own enough for believers and skeptics alike.
So the screenwriters got it right adapting the novel for WHAT DREAMS MANY COME for the big screen that’s never looked bigger or more painterly gorgeous in any movie in history. And that’s why I loved playing Christy in my little contribution to conscious films. Ha! And to watch it with Ken on a weekend when FAST AND FURIOUS 7…7!…is breaking all box office records, turning humans into mindless action junkies with the attention span of gnats, is ironic as the hell that does not exist! — Plot? FAST FURIOUS 7 needs a plot? Pass the sugar drinks and shut the hell up, whale fetus!
Now, if you don’t mind, my human loves, I am busy getting gestated as a blue whale. Reborn this August with a hot new frequency to rock the planet! So mummy whale says it’s time for me to go nigh-nigh in her tummy so’s I put on another dozen pounds!
But before I swim off to dream fetus whale dreams that may come of the frequency of a better tomorrow for this world, one I loved enough to make a quick reentry, may I say thanks for the ghost hosting Ken Sheetz? You’re one in a trillion galaxies, Sheetzy.
Yeah, I know, Kenster, you’re blue as blue whale today over a lady friend who hurt you badly this week. ‘Bout as bad as it could get. She dissed and dismissed you like a never-was, worse than a has-been. Her loss. Past-life shit. Nope, Ken. Follow not my shortcut route outta the pain of life, sounding kinda cool to you right now to your wounded soul. Sorry, BuzzBro, you’re not allowed to follow my lead! The blue ET angels, star kin to the blue whales, told you in 2010, you Mister Kenneth W. Sheetz must stick around to the year 2060 and finish your crazy WHAT DREAMSHIELDS MAY COME mission, of which I am proud to play a small role in.
Pardon my random musings over a meal at the Red Planet Diner here in Sedona. Renamed ET Encounter Diner after a change of owners. The food is mediocre at best, but I love the decor and spirit of the crazy one-off. My favorite place to dine solo. Something I do a lot here in Sedona where my energy is so different from the social animal I am normally in Chicago and LA.
It’s March 20th as I nosh on a Galaxia Burito. For first part of of 2015 all has been a blur. Perhaps that’s because according to a powerful local healer here I am suffering the after effects of mold poisoning, suffered at the hands on my 2014 negligent as hell landlord, who shall remain anonymous.
The healer said mold poisoning is the root cause of my amazing anxiety attacks in public, plaguing me in Sedona. A year long mystery solved. Still, mold needs treatment, and that, in our phoney Obama Care world, means getting sizable chunk of dough together for a visit to a leading black mold specialist in Atlanta.
But I am powerful self Reiki trained healer. Now that I know the source of my issue. which I could not see myself for some reason, I am working on it the best I can self-healing for now. Nasty stuff black mold. Mold causes neuro toxins that casuse inflammation of the entire body, brain and nervous system. Panic attacks are a common mold symptom.
For about 16% of the population mold stays in the body and ruins your life without treatment. I am going to beat this thing by digging deep to put the cash together, though I’d rather be off to Italy and the Damanhur.
So time is not passing normally for me. I feel cut off from spirit. The healer said I chose this hard path to accelerate my next stage of development. That also rings true. But I miss easy connection to my guides these moldy days. Where the abundant health I enjoyed my whole life up through Antartica on 12.12.12 and the profound connection to the ETs seems so far away. Sedona has been hard for me. My healer says that’s exactly what my higher self wanted for human me. My higher self, in that case, is something of an asshole. Just as I am when you really get to know me. Makes sense.
Still, black mold buzz or not, a song of the solar system came through today for the eclipse I will share.
A lot of people in the Shift movement are hoping for a rescue from above. Help from advanced ET star people who love us and won’t let us destroy ourselves and the earth.
But what if that ET rescue already happened in 1962, at the height of the Cuban Missile Crisis, when America and Russia teetered on the brink of all out World War 3? In my DreamShield meditations, this is exactly the message I am getting.
In 1962 all humans were taken off the world just before we launched the missiles of October. Since 1962, my guides say, humanity has been safely tucked away in “Matrix”- like chambers aboard a giant Meta-ship. In this virtual reality humankind has time to evolve to a point where it’s safe to for us to be returned to our fragile world. Think of a Gaia as mother sending her kids off to boarding school while she has time to heal.
In this benign version of the “Matrix”, we all live in a vast simulations where we will get to see the nightmarish outcome of how badly we care for our world. This explains much of the quantum physics of the multiverses each time we make any decision. In reality my guides say there is only one real universe.
Our protectors will keep us safely tucked in this living simulation, that can welcome new souls, until we figure out ourselves and can live peacefully.
Now you may say, “How sweet of the ETs to do this for us!” And it is sweet. But also keep in mind this virtual world is a quarantine that keeps us from spreading into space and killing other worlds until we’ve evolved past this danger to ourselves and the universe.
“The Universe is one big Joy-Gasam!” – Robin William from the Great Beyond (edited)
“The universe is one big Joy-gasm.” – Robin Williams, as I imagine him from the afterlife.
A familiar new inner voice pops into the chorus that is the inner universe I call my big fat head, “Nah! Change that quote to ‘from the great beyond!’ Sheetzy, for the blog poster.
“Why?” I ask, questioning Robin, at least the version of him I imagine him to be in the great beyond.
“Afterlife. WRONG! That’s human lingo,” adds Robin’s voice in my fingertips. “In reality, in the great beyond, well, there ain’t no f’ing past or future here, no judging, no heaven and sure as hell no hell. Time and all the shit that goes with it is an earth game, part of the contract the spirit guides make you sign when you incarnate on earth.”
I pause to think, “Have I finally gone totally nuts? How can I be hearing, Robin William’s explicit thoughts and language, his standup side, so clearly even though he passed away in August?” Remnants of my Irish grandmother’s telling me to hide my gifts, which I managed well until 2010, another blog.
Robin chimes back in, “Stop wondering and write!”
Robin is ranting on so fast my fingers can barely keep up in my weird self-invented shorthand! This will take forever to proof! Not my best skill set as I came on the biz scene in the 70s when we had this person called a secretary. PC terms even PC, hate that shit, had not blessedly come into vogue in those 70s three Martini lunch days when I rose in the Matrix of Chicago to become a millionaire. All this was before sexual harassment abuses by assholes with wandering hands ruined it for the rest of us that simply enjoyed a little playful flirting with our secretaries that might lead to more between two consenting adults.
These days, in the so-called more advanced 21st century where heart and fun is missing from biz, I am painfully on my own, typing poorly as Robin thinks faster than the speed of light, his voice echoing in my fertile empty skull. Now toss in I have glaucoma and am slowly losing vision and, well, you see why proofing is not my thing. I work every day as though it’s my last with sight. In the future, someone can fix all my typos! I gotta get things out there. No time to please the fastidious with perfect blogs or post on FB.
Robin’s voice takes me from my little pity party above, “There’s this little wart of a clause that stipulates the newly departed, and that’s all I am here, suicide has its own set of rules for reincarnation. No judging. Death is death, And we Newly-Deads must take a break from our eternal spirits pals. Here in the great beyond, in spirit form, as well as on earth in human form when you incarnate it a time of painful separation. Paradox alert! All so a soul, like muah’s, feels the love and pain of their earthly life one last horrific time, lasting up to max 100 years tops. Luckily, Sheetz-cheeks, here in the eternity of time and space 100 years adds up to what we call: The Moment of Cosmic Silence. No wonder the spirit guides hide that clause between hairy butt cheeks.”
“I relate. I’m renting a house from a coven of lawyers, makes life hell in Sedona.” I say grimly, glaring at the defective HVAC system I sealed off that pisses me off daily. That this family trust of lawyer won’t fix. “There’s hope though. I actually met a good guy lawyer on FB recently. A loving father watching over a kid hanging on one of my FB groups. So lawyers do actually have hearts in this and so too in the afterlife.”
“Sheetzy, again, where I am now is not the “afterlife’. Williams to Kenneth William Sheetz. That’s my name in the middle of your name Kenneth WilliamS heetz. Clue, my clueless friend overcoming a childhood of Catholic brainwashing and family surpression of your mental gifts. No afterlife. This is LIFE! Life in the great beyond. Ain’t nothing” after-life” about it! Robin Williams, as a sentient spirit of the universe, is eternal and operates outside of time and space. Kinda like we are all gods here. Robin’s not my even my name or gender here in eternity. I have no gender, I am ALL here as we ALL are,” says Robin, spreading his arms and flying right through the sun.
“Wow,” is all I can think to think to Robin seeing his name inside my name, “There’s no more to all this than meets the third-eye.”
Robin riffs on, my typing nightmare growing, “That little name clue blow your mind, my fellow WILLIAMS? Google William. Do it now please. I’ll hang on Alpha Centarui while you search the all seeing oracle of your time.”
Google come back with lots of stuff. I like this one best from Behind the Name.com about the meaning of the name William: From the Germanic name Willahelm, which was composed of the elements wil “will, desire” and helm “helmet, protection”. Saint William of Gellone was an 8th-century cousin of Charlemagne who became a monk.
“I know your old man who beat you regular as the Sunday papers, was a William,” says Robin standing beside me patting my shoulder. “But he played a part too as a man with WILLIAMS in his name. That part was teaching you to be funny. Shame his darkness got the better of him. He was manic depressive like me and you,” says Robin gently.
“Let’s no go there, Robin. My dad, well. It’s complex. I’ll meditate more on this WILLIAMS pattern and him and me and you. A Williams trinity later. Let’s get back to the great beyond. Where my dad’s been since 2011 after dying of bladder cancer before I could say good-bye. He’d beaten cancer many times before. My kids have not forgiven me for missing his farewell. After his death he did make me that red suit of ethereal armor, with high-tech helmet, so there’s the name pattern. Funny that armor was strong enough to help me close the Bermuda triangle but not strong enough to survive busting your soul out of area 51. Whoa,” I say, taking a gulp of coffee, “Back to the cosmic. I’ve met a lot of ETs who are asexual. Any sex thoughts from out there in the great beyond on gender?”
“Good Morning Battle of the Sexes!” says Robin with the passion his famed GOOD MORNING VIETNAM line. “Gender’s a groovy earth thing that makes life more ying and yang in the pooty tang. Here time’s not linear. It’s curly cue as grown-up Shirly Temple’s locks on the Good Star ship Lollipop. Talk about a party boat! Fucking is required at the door before getting beamed aboard naked. Yes, Sheetz-entine, linear is as boring as the hell of the first SFX tale, The Bible. Boring as that fat slob Limbaugh who I am sending a herd Tibetan goats to crap up with his lawn! Here, in the great beyond, we can incarnate at any point in history, on any world, even overlap our incarnations, be either sex and marry ourselves. Always a disaster, BTW, Sheetzrama!”
A dizzying deja’ vu, spins inside my head and I utter out loud, “Whoa,” here in my defective, but lovely, rental house, that reminds me that even the heaven of Sedona, like the great beyond, has dickheads.
“Yeah, you’ve fucked YOU way too many times, Sheetzy! Ha! Talk about creative masturbation!, ” laughs Robin.
“Jesus H. No wonder my relationships are so damn weird,” I say, feeling nauseated.
“Are you a good fuck as both sexes, Ken? Double the wardrobe decisions! If you don’t mind a personal question from the great beyond, you know, as both the man and woman in the sack?” chuckles Robin as I gag into waste can.
“Sometimes…?” I offer weakly, staggering over the washroom to swig some Pepto.
“Ha! Way more to life than we ever, ever see! I am no one to kid you for too much self-love. Relationships, sure as the hell that surely does not exist, are something I never did master either. For this reason in my a next life I must repeat that lesson. And come to think of it, I see what you are doing with your overlapping incarnation fuck fest. Beats hurting another soul. So rotten I signed up for suicide before I was born. Never again! Wow. I miss all my cutie pie wives and adorable kids and lovers and loves and fans, and on so, so terribly on, here in my Moment of Cosmic Silence.” says Robin and who goes silent.
I wait respectfully for Robin’s spirit to speak again as I check my Facebook and do some emails. Cosmic multitasking. Then I see Robin pondering, tears on his cheeks. He drifts out past our Milky Way, a distant swirl of billions of stars and trillions of worlds. Millions, like our own, with sentient life.
Robin’s amazing voice reverberates in my mind as he finally resumes, speaking a bit softer and more slowly than his normal mile a minute pace, in his mourning,”We spirits of intelligence are the light of the universe held in the loving bosom of the what scientists call dark matter. A boring description for the glue that holds all reality to-fucking-gether, buzz bro.”
“I take it you’ve met Ohom, my higher self from another dimension when you say buzz bro, Robin?”
“Not yet, in your sense of linear time. Waiting for your intro, sir, to the insectoid higher 16th dimensional you.” says Robin.
“This is more confusing BACK TO THE FUTURE, but go on,” I say in genuine frustration.
Robin speaks in the professorial tones of his character from DEAD POETS SOCIETY, John Keating,”In concentrated form, where strands of love light energy crisscross, sentient worlds like earth coalesce from mama universe’s cosmic vagina. (BTW, I wanted to write “womb” end of last sentence but Robin said, ‘No dice, Vagina’) The universe’s babies, from the endless lovemaking here, form trillions and trillions of planets that grow up to be Gaia’s sentient sisters of the universe!”
“Slow down a little Robin. I may be bright but I am a fucking lousy typist,” I say in my mind to Robin. He’s in his Peter Pan outfit he likes now, flying lazy circles earth’s moon now. It looks like fun, but I sense the deep loneliness Robin is feeling of space and his missing being flesh and blood.
“Sheetzy, mama universe and papa spirit get bizee over here. UH!” Says Robin making pelvic thrust for emphasis. “So lot’s and lot’s earth-like worlds, each with its own set of rules those crazy spirit lawyers dream up. All in search of that perfect blend of excitement in harmony with nature, they all exist out here. Earth, you see, she’s just a part of one experiment. Poor Gaia’s bordering on a cosmic nervous breakdown because her ingrate human kids are a fucking nightmare of parental abuse! A dash too much drama and sadness there on our old blue world. ‘Sup to all earthlings! Add a pinch of love to the recipe to save the dish, earth homies!” says Robin, soaring past a glittering eagle made of stardust.
“Speaking of sadness and drama, you brought it up, Robin, so I gotta ask –”
“Ah why, if we agree to all the shit we agree to before were born, did I accept all the crushing manic depression that killed poor me off?” Robin rambles grimly on to my inner nod, “Been on my mind too, what’s left of it. Don’t have all my memories here. Hey! You know the answer. You told me we over coffee , Sheetzy!”
“Yes!” I type to Robin, and you at once, how efficient, on my keyboard. “Soul stuff I learned in Italy when I asked my soul teacher Connie Miller, after meeting so many nice Italians, ‘How the hell did these sweet Italian people ever produce a Mussolini?’ Connie said, ‘The brighter the light the darker the shadow.'”
“Right on, soul sister Connie. Yeah, my mission in life was to bring a lot of light to the world through my comedy. And, before I was born, I knew that all the fucking darkness, balancing of my bright light, would kill me in the end. That, to be fair to the spirit guides, one was not hidden in the small print,” says Robin, shifting to his famed Shakespeare shtick, while passing through a super nova, laughing wildly. “Pirthee, All my days on earth, yay, verily, I fought my inner darkness longest as I couldeth, thus giving out a fair light that now outliveth my pale countenance forever more, ”
“Could one say your darkness also outlives you, Robin?” I say typing.
Robin stops on the fringe of the Nova that lights him up, pondering solemnly and says, “Ah, you do wound me to the quick, kind sir. The sorrow of my loved ones and fans is ultra-dark. Heavy. Oh so heavy! And, shit, I see some folks are following my lead. Suicide copycats.”
All the stars extinguish around Robin and his voice fades, as when you start to lose a radio signal, “Much darkness. But life is a never-ending dance of light and dark. Residue light will be generated from my residue darkness. Ying and yang. Sides of one coin. A point of view. No judging. Now, after my death, my films take on a whole new pathos. My comedy a tint of tragedy. I can hear some in the audience, ‘Oh that poor tortured soul… he makes me pee my pants he’s so funny! Ha! Ha!”
Amazed by the profound, yet funny, insight Robin just shared, I say with my keyboard, “Anything more to add Robin? Gotta get to work. I don’t get paid to blog. Proofing this one may take a week or two (which it has).
“Oh, do I bore you, Ken, sharing the meaning of the universe?” says Robin, making a joke of his hurt feelings.
“Heck no! Sorry to rush you, Robin. I value you your connection, even if it is imagined. It’s Tuesday after Labor Day here on earth. Short week. Lots to do because our PR person took another job on us yesterday. So I spent all day getting great a new PS master in place. Good recovery, New one seems awesome. She’s worked with many of my clients like Don Miguel Ruiz and Eric Pearl. But it busted my balls.”
Robin guffaws and says, “At least you still have cajones, senor Sheetz.”
“Always the comedian, Mr. Williams,” I chuckle sadly,
“Yeah, our connection. Laughs and tears. — Sheetyz, earthly movie and TVs producers love happy endings. That’s just like the real stars of the cosmos and all the other worlds. All love happy endings. So, earthies, keep loving each other up. Even when it gets a little weird around the water cooler! Fuck all the rules, humanity. Love is all that matters for each other and every critter on the space ball ride with you. Williams out!”
As I get up from my writing chair to make breakfast Robin adds, “Nanoo Nanoo, Sheetzy!”
Laughter is my reply, an audience of one for an interactive memory of greatest comic of all time’s spirit.
Me and Don Miguel Ruiz atop the Pyramid of the Sun
“The universe is one big Joy-gasm.” – Robin Williams from the afterlife
December 2011, I am blessed to spend the Winter Solstice with Don Miguel Ruiz, author of the epic best seller THE FOUR AGREEMENTS to learn Toltec wisdom in the powerful setting of the pyramids of Mexico’s Teotihuacan.
Don Miguel teaches me, among many amazing things that help my DreamShield work, that in reality all of us live in a ghost world. For example: Look up at the sun and you are looking at a ghost image from 8 minutes ago. That’s how long sunlight takes to travel to earth.
Now let’s say you are sitting across the table from a fiend in a restaurant. It still takes the light milliseconds to reach you. So Welcome to the ghost world the Toltec wizard Don Miguel, where all the people we see are in the past, and ever a construct of our minds.
In the profound spirit of Don Miguel’s Toltec lessons, I humbly offer my latest spirit encounter with Robin Williams. Please take it all in the playful spirit offered here and not as literal truth.
PETER PAN AND THE BATTLE OF AREA 51
In my morning meditation, Robin’s spirit, at lest as I imagine his amazing spirit to be, has been sending me urgent SOS signals all night that he’s trapped in Area 51, I head in my trusty 2011 silver Jeep for the strange base when hail of machine gun fire erupts. I spin the Jeep off the road and hide it safely in in a gully. I love my little used Jeep, my first car owned in over 20 years since losing my shirt in the real estate crash of 1991 and lots of spot leasing that makes me a Gold Club Hertz man, I recall as I head back to Area 51 on foot, cloaked in invisibility.
I’ve done complex meditations to evade psychic security screens before, particularly when I sought to warm the heart of icy banking giant Bank of America, but never have I experienced anything this intense before. Trillions of trapped souls cried out to me from the beyond here at the dreaded Area 51, Robin’s voice being the loudest I followed his psychic trail.
The Orion Ohom informed me along the way, “Careful, Ken. High danger alert. Area 51 has trapped the souls of all the beings that have died on earth since 1957, both human and all the way down to bacteria. To keep the souls from escaping Area 51 uses stolen Grey tech to create an alternate reality, a “Matrix” where no one or nothing knows they are dead.”
“How cheery,” I answer Ohom as I shift my molecules, a gift common to those abducted as kids by aliens like myself, and easily pass through the barbed wire fence. I tiptoe past a sleeping guard. I’m in.
I crest a rocky desert hill. Faint light flashes beneath a guge spirit HARP camouflaged grid. It is about a mile square and hums with a sick strange-colored alien energy. Staying invisible, no guards challenge me as I prowl the perimeter, “Robin?” I shout. “You in there, buddy?”
“Psst, keep your damn voice down Sheetzy!” whispers Robin sticking his head out the barrier and then screams getting sucked back in.
I step across the rough desert terrain to the spot where Robin briefly poked out his head and turn on my red spirit armor. This powerful armor was given to me by my dead father for my secret 2011 meditation to close down the Bermuda Triangle, blogged about here in great detail in earlier postings. I’d give you a link but stick with me. No distractions to this telling of Robin Williams and his work helping the planet and me heal from the afterlife.
As I step into the force field, I am instantly besieged. Overwhelmed by deep sorrow. Trillions of the dead life forms, collected here in Area 51 since 1957, all want to speak to me at once of their fears. The insanity virus is visible in this buffer zone as an nasty flowing energy, the color of clotted blood. I become confused. Lost. Every fear broadcast daily on FOX News and every other news outlet attacks me all once.
I will myself onward against a hurricane of terror about solar flares, radiation, fracking, Ebola virus, GMOs and more and more. My father’s indestructible red armor begins to spark and short out. I trip and fall face first to the desert floor. Epic fear rapidly eats away at my armor and my body becomes exposed to even more fear. I lose hope as I soon lose consciousness.
I awake, my face cut and bruised to smiling face of Robin Williams, the age he was at death, looking down on me saying, “Sheetzy, Sheetzy? You OK, bud? Ooh. Sorry to drag you on your face. You look like you went a few round with Popeye, bro. Ca-ca-ca! What a rotten way to start a Monday.”
I sit up on my elbows, winching at burnt skin on my nose, tender to the touch and say, “Guess that force field is meant to keep out the living. You like fine and dandy.”
“Oh, yeah. Forgot in this corporate fairy Iand I am dead for a moment there!” kids Robin trying to hide his sadness.
This virtual world is a well organized commercial paradise inside the spirit HARP. Trillions of beings live in ignorant bliss in this spotless utopia. No one is aware of the energy vampires running this place, it seems. “God only knows the purpose behind all this damn perfection and advertising,” I groan as an advertising blimp for McDonald’s new Quadrupole Bypass Burger floats by overhead in a cotton candy sky.
The voice of Ohom says for Robin and I to hear, “All this virtual reality is broadcast to the galaxy by Murdock Rupert. True source of his wealth.”
“Whoa! Whose talking to us, Sheetzy? Little green men?” says Robin at hearing Ohom strange voice.
“Long story,” I say as Robin helps me to my feet.
“Humor me. I’m dead and we have all of eternity, Kenny boy,” says Robin.
“Please don’t call me that. I have brother who just got out of Florida jail for two months for drinking and drugging who calls me Kenny boy,” I say sadly.
“Ah, yes, Fred. You’ve told me about his famed Near Beer Recovery program, doomed to fail. Sheetzy OK with you, my fellow sensitive friend?” I nod and Robin continues, “So the voice?”
“Hey, Robin, huge fan of your work, man,” says the disembodied voice of Ohom, echoing over the perfectly manicured lawn where a nasty looking android cop turns his head 360 degrees searching for us.
“Yeah, that one drawing attention of the police bots to us!” says Robin pulling me into crouch to hide behind a huge Ronald McDonald statue.
Ohom whispers now, “Sorry. I am Ken’s higher ET self, of the Orion star system. His guide to help him save you and himself. This place will be most difficult to escape as there will be many distractions. Could take several eons to get out.”
“Nanoo nanoo, ET brother from another mother earth. So why aren’t you in here helping us?” says Robin, not quite knowing where to look as he speaks to the air.
“Grey stolen alien tech powers the Spirit HARP. Keeps my race of Nekatrians and all other ETs out. But I can see and hear and help you through Ken’s handsome blue eyes,” whispers Ohom.
“I can tell you more about Ohom later, Robin, Let’s get the hell out of this Disneyland gone bad before we turn into Mickey and Donald, ” I urge Robin.
“OK. But you’re weirder than I am, Sheety and that’s saying something!” jokes Robin as we exit some hedges near the force field.
Hours later, after many strange distracting adventures in half built house of both our childhoods that almost make us forget to escape this fake branded corporate nightmare, Robin and I hunt in earnest for some kind of exit. Robin and I enter a small neighborhood park with a lighted sidewalk. The sunset is dazzling. I whistle at the beauty all around us.
“Don’t be fooled by all the purdy flowers and birdies, pard. You been in here now with me for six weeks, ” Robin says.
“Yup! This place is like America, filled with distractions. Look at that poor bastard over there!” says Robin.
A guy who looks a lot like my brother Fred runs on a giant gerbil wheel chasing a hot stripper holding a six pack of beer.
“Is that, my brother?” I say.
“Never met Fred. How the hell should I know?
The good folks running this place have about as much heart as a Hollywood lawyer,” says Robin dusting me off.
“Yeah, let’s keep moving. Has to be some kind of power source running this joint,” I say as small remnant of my father’s destroyed red armor clanks to the sidewalk.
“Sorry about you dad’s super suit. Maybe get you a new one if you can get me out of here, Sheetzy, if you tell me your dad’s armor tailor,” says Robin sheepishly.
“Perhaps my old man’s ethereal armor fried because it’s time for me to learn to work without it,” I say kind of happy to be graduating for assistance from my erratic father.
“Cool,” says Robin petting a chihuahua looking for its master.
“Last time I saw you, Robin, you were in that maze world we built in deep space. Safe and sound in a new universe all your own made of the pure love of all who adore you.” I say, recalling yesterday’s epic vision blogged of here.
“Yeah, don’t really know how I got sucked into Area 51-ville. Oh, wait… Forgot to cut my earthly tether. Yikes. I am not good at this dead stuff yet.” says Robin apologetically.
“My fault. Should have told you as your spirit consultant, Robin.” I say bear hugging Robin off the ground. “Happy to see you again, man! Watched you in HOOK with my night. Let’s get you flying again, Peter Pan.” I say doing my best acting brave to hide my loneliness that in the real world of Sedona
Williams jokes, speaking in that hilarious mile a minute rapid fire way of his,”Whoa, Sheetyz. I am an Oscar winner. Plus I can minds read now to boot. Hmm, I see you’re only “acting” all brave and all supy-superman-like. You got some serious Kryptonite poisoning over this spirit daughter of yours moving out of your digs.”
“Got me,” I say, embarrassed at my childhood abandonment issues are still crippling my life after all the spirit healing I’ve been doing.
“Do I get any thanks at all?” says Robin to change the topic.
“For what?” I say
“For dragging your heavy butt out of the HARP barrier when you fainted, Sheetzorama” say Robin with that famed smirk of his.
“I did not faint. Women faint. I passed out, Robin, ” I say defensively as I eye a huge blue whale sailing in the early evening sky above us.
“Whoa. Relax, man. This roomie moving thing out has you as out of whack as President Obama’s lost hope and change agenda. We’re gonna have to straighten this child abandonment stuff of yours out once and for all so that you have enough juice to blast us out of this Walmart paradise. Coffee sucks here, BTW. Nothing but McDonald’s and they make you eat a double cheeseburger with every cup! I’ve packed on ten spirit pounds already!” says Robin brightly.
As I laugh, Robin transforms to his age and garb as Peter Pan in the film HOOK and says, “Ok, Sheetzy, it’s HOOK time. Change to yourself age 8. I want to do a Peter Pan healing of your inner child to pay you back for all the good work you’ve been doing meditating for me and my loved ones.”
“Uh, not really, uh, time. Busting you out of here now before — ”
“Go ahead. Try, Ken. Bust all 7 trillion of us life forms, including your own life force, outta here, Popeye. Try, or better as Yoda says, DO!” said Robin with a comic bow.
I squeeze my eyes and try to use some of the new techniques I’d been gifted in the Mt. Shasta pyramid from spirit architect Metatron, all of which worked so flawlessly the night before helping Robin reunite with loved ones. A tiny ellipse of bright light forms between my hands and PUFF! goes out.
“Spiritual impotency alert! AGH! AGH!” laughs Williams as Pan.
“Point made,” I acknowledge to Robin as I begrudgingly transform to my frightened 8-year-old me.
“Come and sit on uncle Peter Pan’s lap, little Kenny,” says Robin taking a seat on an immaculate park bench. “My lap is safer than Santa’s, Come on. Up!”
I happily climb up into his warm lap and Robin puts a big hairy arm around me. With a reassuring smile Peter Pan Robin says, “Genevieve is someone new and wonderful in your adult life. A spirit daughter is rare. Appreciate her without smothering her. Respect her when she says she’ll always be there for you, Ken, living under your roof or not.”
I nod quickly, wanting to believe Genevieve will not be leaving me forever, but little me is feeling very sick. “My tummy hurts,” I say vomiting onto the perfect lawn.
“Thanks for not puking on me, little Kenny” says Robin, great with kids, Peter Pan or not. He strokes my hair and offers. “Now listen carefully, little Ken. Genevieve’s not your mommy who left you many times as a child because she was afraid of your meanie Captain Hook of a dad, Genevieve is not your grandma who got kicked out by your mean papa and most certainly Genevieve is not your dear auntie who died from loving beer more than you.”
“She’s not?” my eight-year-old self asks innocently.
“Uh uh. She’s simply Genevieve Munoz. A sweet young lady exploring her own life who happened to cross paths with yours. A special friend, a temporary housemate, who used to be your grandma Anna in a past life. Well, I guess that’s not so simple,” says Robin gently lifting me for a swirl and standing little me up on the path. “Wanna play a game I call HELLO AND GOODBYE, little Kenny?” Robin offers, looking irresistibly mischievous.
“Ok…” I say reluctantly, not liking the sound of the GoodBye part of this game.
“Hello, little Ken,” says Robin, shaking my hand and pumping my little arm up and down so hard that I giggle.
“Hello, Peter Pan!’ I giggle happily.
“Goodbye, little Ken,” says Robin patting my head. Tears well in my big blue eight-year-old eyes. My lush lower lip, beautiful I see now, but which my vile father called “Nigger lip”, sticks out, quivering. Robin gives a frown and flies off into a perfect fake cotton candy cloud high above.
Little Ken whimpers to himself, “All alone!” Strangers and animals pass, ignoring little me. I feel so rejected, the orphan child and fall deeper into fear as suddenly the shadowy figure of my drunken father staggers up the pathway.
“Hello, little Ken!” says Robin zipping back into view.
“Hello, Peter Pan!” I say glad to no longer see my ominous father as Peter Pan blocks his view.
Goodbye, Little Ken!” says Robin. He flies away so fast the suction messes the long mop of soft brown hair on my head into a swirl. I spin around. “Oh no…” I whisper. My drunk as a angry skunk father is only 20 yards away.
“Hey, you little shit. Get your skinny ass over here, ” says my father, slurring his words. He guzzles down a beer and tosses the empty can onto the perfect trail. A park robot instantly cleans up after him.
I run and hide behind a ridiculously perfect set of bushes and there is Robin as Peter Pan. “Hello, Little, Ken!” says Robin. But this time before he can fly off I dive onto Robin’s leg and grab hold for life.
“Don’t leave me with my Daddy! He will hurt me! He’s mean! Don’t leave me, Peter Pan, like my mommy, grandma and auntie did!” I beg shamelessly.
Robin sighs and takes me by the hand and firmly guides to where my father is waiting, leather belt in hand, itching to beat me.
“No! Peter Pan please. Fly me away to Neverland with you. My papa is mean. He’ll kill us both!” I beg.
“Time to face the real reason you get so sad when women leave you. Your pops is an abusing jerk. I’ll handle him like I’ve handled him like any other drunk hecklers in my standup work. Relax, little Kenny.” says Robin tugging me along.
“NO! NO! My dad’s meaner than you can know!” I shout, but Peter Pan is too strong for me. I can feel my angry father’s hot dragon breath as we get close. I puke again on the manicured lawn. The cleaning robot beeps in annoyance as he hoses down my vomit.
Robin as the Pan gets right up in my father’s face and shouts, “You! You, sorry excuse for a human being, you should be ashamed of yourself for how you treat this beautiful boy of your. You sir are bad dad!”
“Oh yeah, faggot in green tights? Whatcha gonna do about it? Ken’s a rotten kid. The little shit needs to learn respect for his father!” shouts my dear old dad, the veins on his muscular arms bugling as he put up his fists to fight.
“That’s right, violence solves everything, doesn’t it Captain Hook?” As Robin says and at this my father’s clothes and hair transform into Captain Hook’s, hook hand and all.
My father pulls his sword in the blink of an eye and lunges it for Robin’s heart shouting, “Queer!”
But Peter Pan quickly pulls his sword and shouts in a fake gay voice to taunt my father, “The battle of Area 51 is on like Tinker Bell’s fairy dust, you brute!”
“No one tells me how to raise my God Damn kid, Fem!” shouts my father, striking Robin’s sword so hard sparks fly. My father is a highly trailed US Army drill sergeant and his powers combined with Captain Hook’s are formidable.
“Of course I dare, you drunken fart in the wind! Your old poodle Lacy would make a better dad than you, ” shouts Robin defiantly, his gay BIRD CAGE taunting tone gone.
“To the death, Pan!” says my enraged father, hooking Robin’s tunic and tossing him smashing through a billboard of a perfect shiny new Ford hybrid.
“Now there’s a product placement Spielberg would love,” kids Robin, quickly dusting himself off as he parries swords with my crazed Captain Hook/father.
I bawl and hide my little eight-year-old self behind the cleaning robot, doing it’s best to keep this perfect fake world perfect.
My Captain Hook father does a spin and slashes open a deep gash across Peter Pan’s chest. “Huh? Dead and I can still bleed?” says Robin, stunned. He looks at me as if wanting help. But I was a helpless child again. Watching two people I love fight. My father’s powerful sword blows make Robin weaker by the second.
“Oh, yes, Peter Pan Williams, you can bleed. I am going to gut you like a fish! I shall bleed all your life force into the HARP so that no one even remembers you. Everything you ever created, every film you made, even your kids will vanish as if they never existed!”
“Hello, little Kenny? A little help here, please?” shouts Robin as my father wails hook and sword blows down on him with the viciousness that almost killed me on my 12th birthday.
“Can’t. Can’t help you, Peter Pan. I’m too little, ” I say peering out from behind the cleaning robot.
“Hello, Little Kenny! Then ain’t it time you grow up? Dontcha kinda think, before your old man turns me into a fresh green salad?” says Robin as my father knocks him to the perfect lawn.
Bystanders cheer on my Hook father “Erase the suicide! Williams shouldn’t be here. Peter Pan should be in hell where all suicides belong!” shouts a burly man. This deep dig greatly weakens poor Robin.
“I loved Robin’s movies. He died of depression. No different from someone dying of car crash. This great artist deserves to be here just as much as you and me,” shouts a woman who looks like an amalgam of every woman I ever loved all rolled into one.
The burly man smacks the kind lady to the pavement, “Shut up and stay down, bitch!”
Seeing the violence perpetrated on this innocent woman, defending Robin in this nightmarish world of perfection causes something to erupt inside little me. Little Ken wills down from the heavens the power of the DreamShield I saw the ET angels build in Italy in 2010. He wills up the the volcanic power of mother earth. Instantly, I am my adult-sized again, only now I am young once more, about 27, and wear not my father’s red suit of failed ethereal armor, but the red, yellow and blue suit of Superman, my triumphant childhood hero.
I fly over to the fight at super speed to the fight scene, just as my father is about to make the death blow to Robin’s spirit, erasing him forever from human history. I tap my Hook father on the shoulder and say hoarsely, “Stop Dad.”
My Hook father spins to me, screaming in my face like the madman he was in real life, when I’d shake but while I still faced him down, “You, worthless cur. Every woman leaves you. And who’s always the one to pick up the pieces? Me! Ha! You stand up for a suicide after all I’ve done for you? You make me sick, boy.”
“I am not your whipping boy anymore, Captain Hook. Thanks for all you’ve done. I’m grateful, Dad. You were far from perfect and dangerous as truck full of nitro. But I felt your love, your loyalty. Now, seriously, leave Robin alone.” I say with genuine love and compassion for my father, who though his sick mentally, was the only person I could ever depend on.
“Growed up? Throwing away making millions in real estate to be an impoverished filmmaker at age 50? That’s not grown-up, sonny boy, that’s bat-shit crazy. You need to be locked up for your own good, ” says my Captain Hook father, motioning to some cops with a taser and straight jacket, hiding in the bushes. They advance on me cautiously, afraid of my youthful Superman appearance. Gone is the blubber of screenwriting in a chair for 11 years in Hollywood.
“I thank you for teaching me to fish, to hunt, to draw, to love. I honor you, father.” I say bending to one knee before him.
“Ah, let me knight you then, boy!” says my Captain Hook father, bringing his sword down, hoping to cleave me in two. But instead his sword shatters into a thousand shiny pieces without even cutting a hair on my super head. I casually blow my super breath and “Matrix” cops sail off.
Robin flies into a joyous barrel roll above us, “Who hoo! Sheetz is all grown up. Heralds, play onto this fake world the Pandora channel of AWESOME!”
I stand and look lovingly into my dazed father’s eyes and take off his silly Hook wig. Tears well in his grey blue eyes and Dad says, “Never could break you, Ken. Used to drive me nuts. Today, I am proud.”
My father, as all who knew nothing of his epic dark side will tell you, gives the best bear hugs on earth. And even in my super form I feel his power as he lifts me off my feet in a warm embrace. For the first time in my life, I return his wild love in equal measure, bear hugging Dad right back.
Somehow Robin has impossibly wriggled himself between me and my father, whose dirty “before” t-shirt is now as clean and white as a Tide commercials “after” picture. A Tide jingle plays in this fake world from a speaker on the cleaning robot. I use my heat vision and melt the robot into a puddle silver. Tinker Bell gazes at herself in the mirror puddle
“Sorry, no more product placements, Tide. So big Ken and, Bill, isn’t your name?” offers Robin, all charm now. My father nods “yes” respectfully.
Robin says, “Think you two, 20th century and 21st century marvels, can marvel all we trapped souls out of this corporate military industrial complex nightmare?”
“What do you say, Pops? My light and your dark combined will crack Area 51 wide open,” I say hopefully.
“I like it here, Son. Fought in Korea to create all this perfection. Welded the HARP mainframe myself, “says my dad sincerely, admiring his perfectly imperfect world. A blimp for Budweiser beer, with my jumbo screen of Aunt Katie swigging a beer sails over his head.
“This perfection killed your sis, Katie, Bill. It killed me. I couldn’t hold to your insane standards of imperfect perfection anymore. Lost myself in the booze and drugs. I miss my wife and kids. My fans. Help your son. It’s time we started over. And this time the male and female must be honored equally,” offers Robin gently.
My dad scowls at his beautiful dead sister on the overhead blimp ad of her drinking a beer. Without another word, he joins his hands to my forearms, as I learned to do getting off the boat in Antarctcia on 12.12.12, for the 24 meditations. One for each time zone of the planet, now shifting the world with the help of millions of people like me.
“For my sisters Katie and Merytle,” says my father warmly. He begins to darken as though covered with the grease from his life a welder and ace mechanic.
“For my birth daughter Janelle and spirit daughter Genevieve, ” I add as I grow bright from my healing inner child within, no longer so afraid of his father.
“For both your grandpas Julius and Clarence!” says my father, growing as dark as the dark matter of space itself.
Robin, still in Peter Pan form, flies happy circles around us. His back draft spins my father and me into a Ying and Yang of dark and light. Robin adds to the growing Metatron energetic, which is permanent, and says, “For Zelda and Marhsa! For Susan, Zak and Cody! For all my family, friends and fans!”
Outside the spirit HARP facility, a single guard on night duty looks up from his McDonald’s coffee as the HARP superstructure starts to shake and rumble like an earthquake is happening and says, “Oh shit…”
“BANG-A-RANG!” shouts Robin William as he rockets in glowing green Peter Pan form, soaring from the crumbling spirit HARP.
Below, my father and I are a whirling dervish of silver grey energy. We spin at a super sonic speed that sets off a silver tornado, tearing the spirit HARP to shreds of flying steel. Air raid alarms blare and I know our demolition work is done. And so I say lovingly, “Good bye, Dad!”
“Good bye, Son!” my father says and as he kisses me on my cheek, bright as a super nova, his lips dark as a black hole and… BAM!
A mushroom cloud of released spirit energy sends out a shock wave of compressed air that flattens every structure on the Area 51 base. My father gone, I watch as a Grey’s alien ship, from which all the tech had been stolen to steal souls, rises from the ashes of the spirit HARP. The silvery ship tips its thanks to me and Robin and races off to the stars.
“Guess that’s a wrap, Robin.” I smile, backslapping Robin so hard I almost knock him out. “Uh, sorry. Forgot I’m still in Superman form.”
“Lucky for you I’m in still Peter Pan form. Bet you never knew Pan is more powerful than Superman, did ya?” smiles Robin as the dust begins to clear and stars come out in earnest above the cleansed Area 51.
“What make you say that? Supes has mighty strong Jumaji.” I laugh.
“Because Peter Pan, who always wanted to stay young, understands better than anyone the power of kids. And more importantly, our inner kids. That’s why, smart ass,” says Robin playfully.
“No arguments here, Robin. Well, I guess this is goodbye. Stay Peter Pan, cut your tether and fly off with Tinker Bell to that new universe we built yesterday,” I say without feeling sad about a goodbye to someone I love for the first time in my life.
“Agh! Not yet. I want the lesson of the Hellos and Goodbyes to really sink in for you, Sheetzy. So helooo and bye to several trillion souls that you, your old man and I freed tonight. We’ll start with the largest beings to smallest.” says Robin.
A line of blue whale spirits stretch out before us, hovering over desert floor.
“Hello, Ken, ” the first whale calls to me in whale tones I understand as words.
“Hello, Elizabeth,” I say amazed I know in my heart that the blue whale’s name is the same as the woman Ohom, my spirit guide has told me is my prefect mate but who has yet to accept my invite to Sedona. Elizabeth the whale holds out a fin for a shake and I say with zero anxiety, “Goodbye, Elizabeth. I wish you’d wrap up life in LA and come to Sedona.”
Saying Goodbye without sadness or fear is super cool, Robin,” I say flashing the thumbs up to Peter Pan. “I said bye knowing I’d faced all my father’s darkness with love and compassion. I said it knowing since Ohom is right about everything that she and I will meet again and share many adventures.”
“Might be hope for you yet, Super Sheetz,” says Robin.
I look at endless line of trillions of spirits freed of the Area 51 HARP and turn to Robin, my Super cape fluttering in the night air and say, “Robin, man, this is going to take forever. I really do get it. Hello leads to goodbye and the goodbyes simply lead to back to hello. I’m cool now.”
Robin floats off gracefully on his back, still in Peter Pan form, above the ruins of Area 51. Tinker Bell infuses him with fresh fairy dust for the long journey to the labyrinth universe we’d made together yesterday, Robin says with the satisfied smile of a job well done on his lips, “That’s what eternity is for, Sheetzy.”
“But I have work to do today. Tax reports need –”
“Time is not linear, Ken. So that’s one Hello/Goodbye lesson down and six trillion, 999 billion, 999 million, 999 thousand and 999 souls to say Goodbye and Hello to to go,” grins Robin as he and Tinker Bell rocket off, leaving a trail of pixie dust across the Nevada night sky.
I happily return to my training from the patient spirits tapped here since 1957 by the spirit HARP and ready to be free after they share the Hello and Goodbye abandonment healing to go onto all their next lives and their own Neverlands.
Media, Meditations & Musings 