Stead’s Folly

WT Stead

Socialist reformer W.T. Stead was fascinated by spiritualism and psychic phenomena, so much so that when a medium told him he must not, under any circumstances, travel by sea, he went and booked passage aboard an ocean liner for her maiden voyage.

He died aboard the Titanic, April 15, 1912.


Consciousness: 3-3-2017

Consciousness is the laser pointer, or to use an old metaphor, the needle playing the groove of the vinyl record of what you experience as “waking life.” All is just a frequency field, emanations or vibrations of lighter and denser frequencies, and this is decoded by the conscious mind as the YOU. If you can transcend or escape this prison, find enlightenment, then you return to the ALL. But God experiences Himself as YOU, and you experience God as everything and everyone else. How could it be otherwise? Every physical sensation is simply an electrical impulse decoded by the central nervous system–all just illusions. More dreams, more “vibrations.” None of it, ultimately, any more real or permanent than a dream, a soap bubble, snowflake or flickering flame.

When I First Saw the Demon


I was thirteen years old when I first saw the demon.

It came to me in the darkest watches of the night. Waking up from slumber, I found I couldn’t move. I knew I had been away, somehwere, in a place that was dark and grey and dead. Upon coming back from that dismal, horrifying place, I would slowly open my eyes and see the immense form, the hooded shadow that a man has described as “blacker than the black.”

When it first came to me, it was invisible. I could feel it crawl over me, and the feeling was both overpoweringly exhilarating, erotic, and terrifying. I could feel it press down upon me, could feel its weight as the bed creaked up and down heavily…

I awoke that night in a panic, and had to be rushed to the hospital emergency room.

A year or two later, I saw the demon.

I awoke and it was there. Blacker than the shadow which surrounded it, with a hood like a medieval monk. Burning red eyes, and NO FACE. Immensely long fingers, twisted tree branch-like. Curling. Someone has described the horror of having those long, twisted fingers reach out and touch you. I can attest to the fact that this is correct.

I awoke, screaming, my mother running into the room while I implored her “Can you see it? Can you see it?” I had broke the paralysis in terror. After that, I passed back into sleep.

The last horrifying time it visited me, I was in a childrens’ hospital. In my dreams, I was visiting the same grey, dead place, the same melancholy, dark world of rocky, muddy ground, dead trees, yawning caverns, and deep, filthy wet. I awoke, and the Hooded One had come again. Immense, dark, a being that could be seen through, but who was also distinctly defined–I could nearly make out the folds in his cloak. His long, claw-like pointed fingers were in my face; his eyes burned red in the darkness of his hood, but THERE WAS NO FACE.

As hideous as this phantasm was, standing beside it was a being so utterly beyond the pale of what could be considered “real” that it seemed to have escaped from some psychedelic nightmare. A twisted, starved body, like the body of a greyhound dog or even a starved old nag, and long, crooked,preying-mantis like arms that culminated in long, skinny, skeletal white fingers; like the bones of a skeletal hand. Perhaps there were four fingers.

The neck was a skinny branch. The head was huge, oversized; the mouth was a twisted, psychotic, slit-like grin stretching from one side of the huge head to another. But the eyes! They were the huge, black, almond-shaped eyes of the extraterrestrial abductor, the visitor.

I could not move; I could not scream out. I was paralyzed with fright, and could not breathe from the crushing weight of absolute spiritual terror suffocating me. Finally, I must have lost my mind, for I bolted up in bed, screaming more violently than I had ever screamed before or since.

It was almost as if, in sheer terror, I had left my body, and was outside myself, looking at myself. It was not me screaming, at this point; it was simply my body performing a motion to purge itself of some toxin.

I then fell back on the pillow, passing out. My last memory of that nigth was of a hospital attendant rushing into the room with a flashlight. “Oh, I heard this individual say, “he’s just having a nightmare.”

When I awoke the next morning, it was with a massive headache, and virtually no memory that anything unusual had even happened at all.

It took several hours before my memory was jogged, and the terrifying events of the night before started flooding back into my consciousness.

It was maybe a year later, when I was out walking with a relative, that I had my first close-encounter UFO sighting. Rounding a corner of an abandoned lot, across the street from a field and coming into the entryway of an apartment complex, my relative looked over at a strange, hovering object across the street, and asked, “Hey, what’s that?”

I turned, telling her, “it’s a helicopter.”

“Yes,” she said, “but it’s not making any noise.”

Sure enough, the huge, cigar-shaped object was hovering over the field across the street, near a huge radio antenna. Lighted brilliantly on each end, with a strobing, lightning-like blue flash on top, it went up, silently, at a 35 degree angle, before exploding into scarlet light and shooting into the stars. It moved faster thn anything I had seen before, or since. It was, quite obvioulsy, a legitimate, bona-fide UFO.

“That was someone a little off course,” I remember joking. “Like, about 35 million light years…”

Since then, I have had many, many paranormal experiences: visions of beings holding scrolls with strange symbols; episodes of missing time; bizarre, vivid, and often precognitive dreams; bodily scratches; beds that bounce as if some invisible entity were standing at the end, kicking them. And, of course, communications with SOMETHING else, via automatic writing, art, etc.

It was decades before I learned others also had similar “Night Hag” or shadow person experiences, or experiences with the “Hooded Man,” and Preying -Mantis entities. Some of these people described experiences not just similar to my own, but EXACTLY like my own, to the T. You could argue such experiences are simply hallucinations, but, then, explain why all of these people, throughout the history of the “Night Hag” phenomenon, have all had the same experience.

It has been many decades since I have seen the “Hooded Entity,” as far as I can remember. I expect to see it again some day, perhaps, I think, when I finally go to join that mysterious OTHER in the misty veil.

Mind Power (Excerpt 3)

Believe It, See It, Feel It, Touch It, Taste It

Sense the power all around you., the flickering spark within. Do you never consider the one miraculous fact of your own existence? Alive, vital, and able to cast the heavy burden of your thoughts upon the rippling water of time. Out of the millions of shifting possibilities, reality gathered itself together, woven together like a fabulous quilt, to fabricate the divine patchwork that is YOU. Incarnate in this earthly vessel, you are adrift upon a vast, churning ocean of possibility. Anchored in the Here and Now, but ETERNAL. Your soul Journeying the far journey through dimensional space and limitless Time.

You may find yourself encumbered by physical existence–but this is false. Only the illusion of encumbrance enfolds you — the free man realizes he is driving the chariot. Only a fool or a wastrel lets the chariot drive HIM. Hence, yielding to physical temptation or addiction is illogical, as the mind is the master of the physical vehicle which contains it.

Possessions will not in any wise fulfil whatever deep and internal longing you happen to have. The possession itself is fine, the having of it is fine, but finally it will fade in importance as your awareness is fixed further and further afield.

A truly wise man looks only to tomorrow as his greatest possession–the sun rises, the sun sets, like a blinking eye, and, in a twinkling of that pure and ravishing orb of all-sightedness, a year and then a decade is gone. How will you define your being in that space of time? How will the secret, deepest desires at the core of you, define that being? Will the sun smile upon you? Will time, like a gurgling brook, pass at your feet, laughing merrily to see you tripped along the path of your progress? What does the soul seek to understand? Can you reflect back, like the polished surface of glass, an image of you–pure, resolute, fulfilled, wholey and completely made in the image of God?

Remember: You are what is SEEING, and what is SEEN, the Infinite and the Mundane.

Personality chained to a fragment of dust, floating, floating in the sphere of Time. And this emanation of you, this ensouled self-aware monad, this individuality that contains, like a blossoming flower, all possibilities and infintte truths–this self-same YOU will continue to transmit the same signal it is receiving. Because, in an infinite arc of self, we are both the sender AND the receiver mechanism–the Seer and the Seen.

You have been made manifest in the corporeal reality of materialistic entropy. Born, as it were, to grow old (in a sense of linear time), to experience the recurrence of birth, cycle of entropy and decline, putrefaction, and finally, Phoenix-like, to be reborn into a new, “redacted” state; free, to borrow an allegory from Ben Franklin, from niggling “errata.”

The deep. liminal spaces of your cerebral cortex are alive with electrical points, power grids of inifinte wonder and neural pathways that send, receive messages in less time than the blink of an eye.

Your very chain of being, the atomic particulates that make up the totality of the physical YOU, are appearing and disappearing so rapidly into other spaces that we cannot even quantify their comings and goings–but merely speculate, as if through a glass darkly, at the IS/WAS/WERE/IS-TO-BE represented by the shifting image, the prismatic mirror of universal conscious awareness. We see ourselves but darkly in the glittering diamond surface of that mirror–imagining in our ignorance, that, in that reflection, WE HAVE SEEN ALL THAT THERE IS TO SEE.

We have not. Instead, we see only the flat image, lacking in depth. Lacking int hat sense of depth, it only suggests one possibility to us, out of a myriad of them.

Mind Power (Excerpt 2)

Believe in the awesome abilities you can call forth, for, in toto, everything is YOU, a reflection of you. The cosmos is like a vast cloth, and you weave the cloth of your dreams as you go.

Spin a garment fit for a king, or a shroud. This is entirely up to you, and is your doing. The golden threads of your personal loom will spin you a garment Seven Leagues Deep –alternately, you may become lost in the myriad folds of your wn cloth, unable to break free from the suffocating blanket of your expectations, doubt, and desires.

Take a moment to assess what I am saying–this universe is the springboard of your wants and desires, the veritable crystalline pool or looking-glass wherein is reflected the clay image of ourselves molded in the perfect echo chamber of our MIND.

The Mind is a Mirror, or a Labyrinth, a Cradle, or a Holding Cell

Truly, the mind is all of the things listed above. A collection of warring atoms is at bottom of all of our physical, tangible existence. Everything, from that which has ascended to the loftiest pinnacle, to the lowest, basest thing, has struggled to attain mastery over itself, over those predators and competitors who would thwart the right of this self-contained conscious monad to exist and even thrive–to manufacture symbiotes, to extend itself outward into the perpetual worlds of space and time.

Thwarted, an individual can either succumb–and be devoured. Or, alternately, adapt, evolve, and SURVIVE.

This can only be achieved by the ensouled monad manufacturing for itself EGO IDENTITY. A sense of place, purpose, values, esteem…a SELF. EGO.

But the mind begins to manufacture duality out of fear–saying to itself, I MAY NOT SURVIVE. The ensouled monad is thus busily reflecting the inner fears that manifest as outward objective reality–for nothing exists but that it has first been created and acknowledged from the storehouse of the mind–a reflection of our small doubts, wants, fears, failures, and egoistical beliefs, born from the cradle where the baby is rocked, a baby who could very well be named THE NEED TO BE.

The Need to Be

Eventually, ensouled consciousness becomes the prisoner of itself–paired to the frequency field of its own fears, putting up the impenetrable walls and barriers that keep man searching for himself in an ever-shifting continuum of false passages, dead ends, cul-de-sacs, blind spots, and doors that open into NOTHING.

We are the sender and receiver of our own special visions. We are the mind that manufactures the man–and we are also the man (non-generative use).

We are what we see, and what is seen. We are both the sender and the receiver, the message, the messenger, and the words imparted. And the word became FLESH.

I Come Awake on a Train

When we come to, consciousness once again rudely interrupting the patterns and purposes of our dreaming life, we find ourselves bathed in a crisp sunlight, streaming through the window on a train.

Outside–if we can credit that the fields and farmhouses and furrows rolling by are any more real than the vast oceans of rubble, steel and concrete that made up the city–the world is a placed stop-motion drama of little movements here and there; tiny ant-men and women lifting the dull and mediocre vestiges of lies that blur by too quickly to allow me to contemplate. At this speed, does anything have any objective reality? Or, is it simply the window dressing imposed by a still more vast consciousness, one accustomed to dreaming its own dreams?

It is then that I notice the man sitting in the seat nearest me. He is a sort of ashen pale, with dirty blonde hair shagging, almost like twin, grease-feather wings, over his ears. By his eyes, I would guess he is almost completely blind. His skin is pale, cheesy, waxen yellow, marked with little pocks, and his mouth is a wide, rotting, but for all that still rather toothsome grin, with a gap parting one side of his dental bridge from another. A prominent, ugly gap.

I look down at his thrift store clothing, which is very dirty. It is then that I realize, with mounting alarm and disgust, that he is crawling with tiny mice, vermin; pests.

He smiles at me, picks one off; he squishes it merrily between his fingers. It explodes in his grasp like an overripe berry.

“I see you have a couple of little green ones crawling on you,” he says. I assume they have let some insane vagrant on board the train. It is then that I realize, much to my horror, that, indeed, I AM crawling with similar vermin. They are all over my face, groping toward my collar, the inner confines of my clothing. And I am frozen numb with fear.

It is as if I am outside myself looking at myself.

The rattle-clatter of the train closes, like an ominous musique concrete soundtrack, over his wretched, scraping laugh.

The Other Dreamless Sleep

Let us pay obeisance to Eternal Death, the final arbiter of all human conflicts, the Grand Equalizer, and the one certainty that can be relied on in every man’s life. It is the Capstone of the Final Work, a fathomless intrigue, a bottomless well of possibility.

Should we meet it with tears of opprobrium, or shivering in the dark, the weight of all our years telling heavily upon the lines and grooves etched into our face by the ticking of the clock? No.

Should we slink in its grim shadow, trying to slip the tether of its Seven League chain; hoping against hope for miracles and magic nostrums to stave off what, finally, is inevitable? No.

Should we cower and tremble and offer paltry excuses, bargain and plead for its favors, broker a few minutes more time, sift through the pleasures of yesterday, and yearn, finally, for some cosmic reprieve that can never come?

No, no, a thousand times, no!

Instead, let us go to our death stoically, unafraid, with neither a smile nor a frown, but with a cold, inscrutable expression to defy the best efforts of fear to nullify our reason and sense of self. Let the heavens quake at our ruthless acceptance of What Is To Be, that we may stand, with head “bloodied but unbowed” before the Judgement Seat of Father Time, not in arrogance or defiance, but in Acceptance; passionless, cold, boldly analytical, and Beyond Fear.

C’est la vie!