Friday, April 19, 2019

PARALLEL LIVES REVISITED ~ AND HEALED! (repost)

MANY TIMES I’ve experimented with breathing exercises - only to find that, like Bill Clinton, I had trouble inhaling. Years ago when I was practising pranayama, a yogic breath control technique, I had to give up after a few weeks because my nostrils kept getting blocked.

Recently I came across a powerful Spherical Breathing Technique to activate the Light Body (taught by Drunvalo Melchizedek in his ‘Flower of Life’ Seminars): once again I was frustrated by the difficulty I had trying to breathe rhythmically. How was I ever going to master the didgeridoo - not to mention quickening my Merkaba vehicle of Ascension (by which means one may achieve full mobility through all the dimensions)?

And not too long ago a holistic healer friend had given me a deep massage, after which she had diagnosed a congestion in my diaphragm area possibly linked to a "past life" trauma. So you can understand why I was very keen to see if Pritamo* could help. She was staying at a mutual friend’s apartment, having just arrived from her native Italy via Pune, India - where she had trained for years at the Osho International Academy of Healing Arts.

Pritamo showed me a computer-generated leaflet listing the various therapies she was practising, and my attention was instantly drawn to a section headed: “HYPNOSIS FOR SELF-HEALING - a soft technique that induces deep relaxation, so that you can access your own unconscious.” Among the benefits of this particular therapy, Pritamo mentioned “exploring and healing past lives to improve this present life.”

Ha! This was precisely what I had been seeking for some time. Being the “new healer in town” Pritamo was only too willing to barter a 90-minute session for a fair report to anyone interested. Not that I minded paying the RM90 (US$25) fee, which I thought totally reasonable.

The next morning I showed up, prepared for anything. Pritamo said we would begin with a 45-minute Chakra Breathing exercise to open up and relax my cellular and etheric bodies. The vigorous process would also serve to clear my memory circuits of last week’s or last year’s debris. She put on a cassette and a quiet, authoritative voice requested that I focus attention on my Root Chakra while hyperventilating through the mouth.

"Don’t be inhibited," Pritamo advised, "and make as much noise as you like. Just keep your feet comfortably apart and grounded, freeing the rest of your body to move with the energy currents."

The dervish-like rhythms and calm, friendly voice guided me through each Chakra, as Pritamo accompanied me in the exercise. At the end of 45 minutes we had completed three Chakra Breathing cycles. I felt totally relaxed, even euphoric, open to and trusting of whatever would happen next.

After a short rest Pritamo settled me comfortably on a mattress, and proceeded to ease me into even deeper relaxation with her voice. In effect she guided me through a visualization wherein I “saw” myself lying peacefully in a pleasant meadow. Soon, she suggested, a beautiful, ethereal Guide will appear and beckon me to follow her on a journey down the corridors of incarnate time...

THROUGH A GOLDEN ARCHWAY we strolled, my Angelic Guide and I, along a paved path that stretched on indefinitely ahead. I could hear Pritamo’s gentle, accented voice, saying: “Keep walking until something appears, then pause and let the image form more clearly. Trust that it will have a special message for you, to help you accept and release whatever feelings arise.” Or something to that effect.

Without any effort the first image shifted into focus: I was looking at a very old and frustrated English gentleman, bent over in his rocking chair, experiencing the last moments of his life. A dull, heavy sensation hung over his chest: was it bronchial congestion? Or sheer heavy-heartedness, the fatigue of a soul worn out by struggle? I could feel his profound bitterness and pain, his terrible sense of despair and futility; above all, his sense of utter failure and isolation.

Details flitted in and out of my mind’s purview: he had been a swashbuckling, dashing Colonial Officer in British Malaya, a veritable Tuan in every respect. He had lived like a king and felt like a mythical hero. But then something had gone very wrong, and he found himself recalled to England in his prime: end of illustrious career, end of glorious freedom and unfettered adventure. He was treated with coldblooded, efficient formality and forced to retire with a handsome pension.

He could write his memoirs - and he did, but it left him dissatisfied and hollow. He had been so close to some incredible breakthrough... so very close to cracking the Mystery of the Ages and returning home in triumph, exalted and divine. His domestic life was a tragic farce. Friends and family had drifted further and further away - till at this final hour he felt completely bereft of warmth or hope or even the faintest memory of happiness. True, he had been a stalwart member of a Masonic Lodge - a lot of good that did him now. Nothing had value or meaning, nothing whatsoever, not even the prospect of oblivion.

My chest was heaving with the effort of dying. My angel gently put her hand in mine and led me further down the corridor of ghostly memories.

“Where are you now?” I heard Pritamo as from a great distance. “What do you see?”

“I’m a little girl of three or four. European, I think. Alone in a room, holding a toy. No one knows my thoughts. I am dying of a disease, I don’t know what. Asthma? Tuberculosis? There’s a light in my heart region. I feel totally calm and self-contained. Not sad, no self-pity. I know things other people don’t. I know I shall soon be free again, there’s great power and wisdom in my spirit self...”

My angelic guide and I move on, leaving the little girl with her dreamy thoughts and her very brief span on earth.

I see a white-haired, portly gentleman at the kitchen table, puffing on his pipe. Retired merchant, Italian, living somewhere in Greece. He has outlived his wife, and two of his five children. The others are living far abroad. He isn’t sad or afraid of death, which he knows is approaching very soon. He’s had a good life, good friends, good meals, and satisfactory family bonds. But somehow he feels cheated, disillusioned, abandoned by God. His private life as a mystic and scholar is known only to his colleagues in a secret fraternity. He has seen the group splinter into bitter factions, torn asunder by petty ambitions and betrayals. All the lofty principles of the ancient creed, the solemn oaths of loyal and faithful service to humanity... what a load of crap!

Is there hope for human beings on this earth? Probably not, but what the hell, que sera, sera and so on. Still, it’s very hurtful that life can play such dirty tricks on us benighted souls. What is left? Not much. A favorite pipe, dusty shelves of once so-precious books in a concealed library no one will inherit. Hello, Big G... where the hell are YOU?. He sighs and feels a black hole where his heart once was.

MY HEART! I can feel Pritamo’s energy soothing my etheric body as my chest convulses into a tight knot. Heart attack? Can’t breathe. A sour taste... no, a bilious, horrid, shattering sense of deep betrayal and broken dreams. I’m seated on my throne, clutching my belly in acute agony.

They have poisoned me. How? It can’t be... impossible! My queen, could she...? NO! Death, take me swiftly upon thy wings... I can see the carved pillars of my palace, barely a few years old, the patterns on the polished tiles. Pharaoh of the New Aeon, you have failed in your mission. What can save us now? Ha, I’m out of the crumpled fleshly body in my ka - my etheric double - floating above the earth, where my vision penetrates the future... please, 0 Great Ones, spare me this dreary sight! The darkness stretches before me without end: age upon age of tragedy and horror, a ceaseless nightmare of evil piled on evil. Massacres, famines, plagues, catastrophe... no light at the tunnel’s end! Spare me this accursed foresight... WHY? WHY?? WHY???

My ka has swooned with the impact of the ugly truth revealed: no Golden Dawn for humanity, not yet, not for a very, very, very long time. Hundreds, possibly thousands of years from now, perhaps... but two golden, shining beings have come to take me to a distant sanctuary, where my soul can heal. This place is not on planet Earth.

MY EYES SNAP OPEN in surprise. Pritamo waves her hands over my face, whispering that I should keep my eyes closed for a while longer - as my angelic guide takes me back along the corridor, past the events shown before, through the golden archway, and back into the green, sunny meadow where my physical body lies.

“Count after me,” Pritamo murmurs, “Ten-a, nine-a, eight-a, seven-a, six-a...” By the time I get to “one” she’s already up and out the door. “You take-a your time-a,” she says. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Thank you, Pritamo,” I say quietly, as we give each other a long, strong hug. The healing is accomplished. But it may take some time to filter through the molecular levels of my being.

-------
*The name Pritamo means 'Beloved.' Pritamo is a healer and therapist at the Osho Ashram in Pune, India.

NOTE: I prefer the term "parallel lives" to "past lives" since the linearity of time is essentially illusory. I'm more inclined to view "flashbacks" and "flashforwards" as crosstalk from different time-tracks occurring simultaneously and accessible from the core of one's being.

[First published in the New Straits Times, July 9, 1996, posted 14 April 2013 & reposted 2 May 2017]

Tuesday, April 16, 2019

THE ERROR OF YOUR TERROR (revisited)



BOMBS GO OFF. A bunch of people blown to bits. Everybody else terrified. Not a jolly time to be in Baghdad - especially if you tan well, tend to overdress, and look Iraqi. The Dalai Lama says war is already obsolete and every sane soul agrees. Except a cabal of well-connected fraternity bozos hell-bent on establishing a planetary empire founded on perpetual war.

We’re dealing with desperadoes heavily armed with WMDs. No blow too low for this mob. Human sacrifice is standard practice in their warlike cult. The end always justifies any means. If a “better” world calls for a drastic cull, unleash the radioactive weaponry, the earthquake and hurricane machines and laboratory-manufactured epidemics... three thousand casualties or three hundred thousand, what’s the difference? Collateral damage!

Those who wage war, whether by obvious or subtle means, are the true terrorists. After all, what is war if not a crude excuse to eliminate the perceived enemy by brute force. And since when did brute force ever accomplish anything constructive? The only effect of brute force is to intimidate, terrorize, abuse, disempower and enslave.

And the only real enemy is our own unacknowledged and unbefriended shadow selves. Just as the shadow aspect of greed is lack, the shadow side of militant self-righteousness is cruelty, intolerance, and fanaticism.

Fear is a very effective means of mass mind control. Fear as a primary response implanted in the hypothalamus to retard our evolution. My maternal great-grandfather carried a strong negative emotional charge, which passed down the genetic track to my late mother and one of my brothers. Both see the world as dangerous and hostile, and invest a great deal of energy on “security” – arming themselves against bacterial and viral attacks with a huge arsenal of prescription drugs; living within a self-created prison behind steel bars, high fencing, and heavy-duty padlocks; and never trusting strangers (thereby never admitting any fresh data into their stale belief systems).

But all the “security” in the world can’t keep out death when your life contract ends and doesn’t get renewed. My childhood friend, whom I hadn’t seen in over a decade, was viciously murdered in the sanctity of his own home along with his partner in July 2005. Apparently, a psychopath had been stalking them for some time and was driven by drug-induced demons to strike terror into what was once a quiet residential neighborhood. The London bombs went off a couple of days later, prompting me to revisit the origins of fear.

It all starts with the crude concept of “God” as an External Force to be feared, worshiped and appeased. We’ve all heard the phrase “God-fearing” touted as something positive. Well, any “god” that enjoys being feared is more demonic than deific. Where did this “God-fearing” implant come from?

If you travel far enough down your genetic timetrack, you will encounter a blind spot in your deep memory where the universal trauma of abduction and rape occurred. We were violated as a species before our awareness had sufficiently matured to be able transmute and heal the psychic shock. Who raped us? Some wicked “stepfather” creator god or gods whose cold-blooded DNA now flows in our veins (along with a whole stew of strange and familiar bloodlines)? Or maybe, as Gnostic shaman John Lamb Lash suggests, these Archontic ET intervention hypotheses were seeded into the collective psyche as false genetic memories. And the spindoctors are still at - only now these red-herring scenarios are called internet memes.

You can identify this aberrant gene or meme as the aspect of ourselves that is numb to our own feelings - that is incapable of empathy, knows no compassion, and is interested only in its own survival. It raped our planetary biosphere in a desperate attempt to stave off total extinction, caused by an irreversible loss of vital force after too many generations of cloning.

Biological reproduction was deemed too messy and unpredictable, so this criminal reptoid species opted to reinvent itself as a Master Race of Empire-Builders destined to rule over the holographic worlds as the All-Seeing Eye of the Illuminati (Tolkien depicted this as the Eye of Sauron and you can spot this symbol on the back of every dollar bill issued by the Federal Reserve). This bogus deity favors Intellect over Intuition, the Male Principle of Will over the Female Principle of Desire. It installed a corrupt male priesthood to serve as its human agents on Earth, preaching hellfire, brimstone, and planting the fear of God into our hearts (where only Love ought to dwell).

It staked a claim on the dissemination and interpretation of scriptures, labeling as “deviationist” all ideas that liberate rather than entrap. Call it the economics and politics of Monopoly: control the only bridge across the river Styx, set up tolls on every highway to Heaven. Patent everything, make everyone pay royalties and taxes, amass a vast fortune, gain even more power over others, and so the game goes on. When any of us refuses to play, the game is over... it’s as simple as that.

That’s why the “sheeple” must be kept in line through sheer terror. Serve them a daily diet of bad news and mediocrity, let paralysis set in, along with a sense of abject powerlessness – so they always vote in strong leaders to guide them to the Promised Land. Above all, make sure they never reclaim the authentic, primordial, sovereign power within the very atoms of their own cells...

Let eggheads write lengthy tomes about the “Colonized Self.” Let George Lucas churn out blockbusters about the “Evil Empire.” After so many generations of systematic conditioning, most folks are simply too chicken to ever break free of the insidious frequency fence. Here’s a clue for you: The Matrix is a fourth-dimensionally generated 3D illusion (very realistic special effects, folks die gruesome deaths and their bodies stink as they rot).

Speaking of chickens, a shaman colleague recently remarked: “If this Rooster Year transforms itself into a Phoenix, everybody on the planet resurrects and ascends.” So do it NOW, folks, free yourselves from fear conditioning... before another Year of the Dog arrives to find us still barking up the wrong tree.

[Originally published in the August 2005 issue of VIDA! First posted 8 January 2007, reposted 20 November 2017]

Sunday, April 14, 2019

REWARD AND PUNISHMENT IN THE FACEBOOK UNIVERSE

In recent years thousands of Facebook users have experienced being summarily blocked from posting for purportedly infringing something vaguely referenced as “Community Standards.” Initially the block is imposed for 24 hours. For second “offences” the block is extended to three days, then a week. Repeat offenders are blocked a whole month. I don’t know if anyone has ever been blocked for an entire year.

Terminal mammophobia, priggish hysteria induced by the mere sight of female nipples

Facebookers call this sinister form of cyberpunishment “Facebook Jail” and for those who have grown accustomed to the 24/7 flow of virtual chatter and armchair voyeurism that has made Facebook a virtual universe unto itself, being prevented from posting or even liking someone else’s post is an oddly traumatic experience.

Only the easily aroused qualify as
Community Standards enforcers
First, Facebook makes you feel connected to a vast planetary network of other humans, getting your daily dose of dopamine through likes and friendly comments... then, abruptly and without warning, it pulls the plug on you, disconnecting you from the virtual world you’ve grown accustomed to, leaving you mute, separated by an invisible wall, like a ghost.

In effect, being pounced upon by Facebook’s unbelievably prim and prudish censorbots is a painful reminder that we are ultimately powerless against monolithic algorithms generated by faceless, soulless but extremely well-paid nerds who, I wouldn’t be surprised, jerk off to glossy photos of Nurse Ratched (the personification of “community standards” in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest).

The acute sense of frustration, crushing injustice and ultimate futility reduces us to feeling like so many Winston Smith clones sipping on Victory Gin. It reminds us in no uncertain terms that Big Brother is Watching Us and there’s really nowhere to hide, no one to turn to.

Louise Fletcher as Nurse Ratched in MiloŇ° Forman's 1975 film of Ken Kesey's
One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest

And to rub salt into the psychological wound, there is no appeal to anyone or anything remotely human, even if you submit a request for a review of your punishment. Facebook remains inscrutably Faceless: a cold, impassive stone wall with no beginning and no end. It teases you into typing an explanation or protest into a tiny box on the screen… then disallows you from submitting it, because you have been blocked from posting. It’s the ultimate Catch-22 in Cyberspace. Whoever designed this cruel, tyrannical template must have read everything Franz Kafka ever wrote and then converted to radical Orwellianism.


Meanwhile, the corporate cyborgs at Facebook have been auctioning off our personal data to the highest bidder for years, turning two billion Facebook users into a data goldmine without our knowledge or permission. They are the criminals, not us. They are the ones who totally deserve to be put in jail – analog, not digital!



Antares Maitreya
14 April 2019