Alchemike: http://www.zayra.de/soulcom/enki/
Alchemike:
[Blue] there
are many vortices and portals laid out through out earth .....
likened unto the meridians points of the human body ....
where wars flare up you will notice as above so below ... you can associate
some battle over portals / grid points ....
Alchemike:
high up in
afghanistan mountains there is a crucial portal
(stargate???) one of many
...... and there is a battle for control over this .....
you may say that oil is not the only gain ... there are also artifacts of
a
historical nature that would reveal much about humanity and it's beginnings
Alchemike:
...... but your
governments run by the shadows do not want you to see these
...... go back and research any diggings, excavations or new findings in
places where there is currently turmoil .....
BARDSQUILL:
who dat?
Alchemike:
second half
of this piece...
Alchemike:
http://www.zayra.de/soulcom/enki/
Alchemike:
is an 'interview'
with somethin named 'blue'...
Alchemike:
suggests the wars
in a-stan, mideast being fought over portals, stargates as many of us have
been thinking...
BARDSQUILL:
hey, weeee beeen
thinkinnn that
BARDSQUILL:
need to find out
what's up there
Alchemike:
yup...
Alchemike:
brb
Alchemike:
there's gotta be
shit going on above us beyond belief...
BARDSQUILL: In 1978, just before Afghanistan's
latest time of troubles began, a Soviet archeologist unearthed a hoard of
treasures so fabulous it rivaled those of Egyptian Pharoah Tutankhamen.
BARDSQUILL:
heh, it all vanished
BARDSQUILL:
http://old.smh.com.au/news/0111/03/world/world5.html
Alchemike:
yea...just
vanished...heh
BARDSQUILL:
jeee look at this
in Afghan
http://www.afghan-web.com/gallery/band2.jpg
BARDSQUILL:
WHAT is that?
Alchemike:
cave???
BARDSQUILL:
dunno, a suspended
lake
BARDSQUILL:
http://cr.middlebury.edu/art/Powell/afghanistan/A6.HTM
Alchemike:
looks like a giant
cave entrance tho...bottom middle of image
Alchemike:
wow..trippy
Alchemike:
that's what its
all about right now tho...secrets in the deserts...
Alchemike:
not oil after all...oil
just a bonus...
Alchemike:
oil only relevant
in the matrix...
Alchemike:
not in wormholes
and stargates...
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Alchemike:
bardo...I got a
? for ye...
BARDSQUILL:
here
Alchemike:
ok...so if all
this stuff is true...all this crazy Anunnaki ancient ark pillar wormhole
stargate stuff...
Alchemike:
and that concept
is what all the fightin is really bout...
Alchemike:
then the question
i have is this...
Alchemike:
does it become
just a personal spiritual warrior sort of idea??? cause the majority
in the mainstream could never even conceptualize what is really happening...
Alchemike:
in fact, most outside
the mainstream would still not accept this stuff...
Alchemike:
only just a few
of us even willing to discuss it as a possibility...
Alchemike:
so i guess the
question is are we alone?
Alchemike:
how do we fight?
BARDSQUILL:
well if there are
only two of us up against Saddam and the Jinn, umm, we gonna get our butts
kicked
Alchemike:
it only takes
one...maybe two...
Alchemike:
or do we fight
at all???
Alchemike:
do we just kick
it and watch???
BARDSQUILL:
plan 3
Alchemike:
hehe
BARDSQUILL:
uhhh, sometimes
I get sucked into this ... ummmm...weird place
BARDSQUILL:
where I'm at war,
not just astral-poo war, WAR
Alchemike:
ok...so it's physical?
BARDSQUILL:
50/50 kinda like
a lucid dream
Alchemike:
but the war is
a physical sense...right?
Alchemike:
not a spiritual
or mental war...actual combat...
BARDSQUILL:
but the battle
is freeakin hand to hand CroMagnon
BARDSQUILL:
as opposed to praying
to god that everything will be swell
Alchemike:
sheesh./..keep
goin..
BARDSQUILL:
not that I don't
do pray like mad too
BARDSQUILL:
the enemies are
like shadow beings though
BARDSQUILL:
they have semi-form
and they can be whupped.
Alchemike:
gawd
BARDSQUILL:
sorta like this,
I get my butt sucked up, in a place, like on earth
Alchemike:
k
BARDSQUILL:
aware of an attack,
not just on me, but on everybody
BARDSQUILL:
you hit them with
a kind of force that seems to come from your mid-section
BARDSQUILL:
now I guess that
sounds different than swords clanking
BARDSQUILL:
but it's pretty
amazing how this force bubbles up, tosses out a tangible beam-like and turns
them sorry shadow suckers to nothingness.
BARDSQUILL:
they attack in
swarms
BARDSQUILL:
and they have like
individualness, that is, you can see them as individual shapes.
BARDSQUILL:
and the travail
is exhausting ...come back from that place barely crawling... with an acute
awareness that it was all out WAR
BARDSQUILL:
passive stance
ain't worth a damn, can't love-vibe them away, it's different deal
BARDSQUILL:
they the enemy
of humans they hate us.
BARDSQUILL:
BUT if you ever
get stuck in a scene like that it seems humans know instinctively how to
fight back, pure INSTINCT
BARDSQUILL:
no head-trippin
allowed, no philosophizing, it's a FIGHT
BARDSQUILL:
that's it I guess
BARDSQUILL:
thinkin here...maybe
that's why we are so quick to go to war on earth, we know the fight is there
somehow, but then we go conk a bunch of poor Arabs instead
Date: 11/10/02 11:23:23 AM Pacific Standard Time
I just got done reading you "wars to control them" conversation script and had a distinct sense of understanding for the last of your statements. I've lived in the Middle East where the presence of the Jinn is palpable, I have even witnessed them to a degree in the physical. It's sad when people can't talk openly without feeling a bit antagonized by the paranoid belief that you might be somewhat insane, but I know that's only societal conditioning. With that said I believe that human kind fell through a kind of corruption suffered from a terrible war between the invisible enemy sometime in our ancient past where you can say we won but at a staggering loss by not completely removing the presence of this invader. Let's say it rooted itself into the spirit of our world and kind of led to the corruption of spirit. We can't know who we are until we know what we were. Before we can do that we gotta clean out house, too much bad influence to even think straight, but like you said our instincts don't need to be told what needs to be done. Fire only forges the strength of the soul, hope lies in the hands of the youth.
Jinncoming: Attacked by the Pissed-Off Unknown
Jinn cautionary tale
Date: 3/22/02 5:05:34 PM Pacific Standard Time
Thank you for your "CyberSpaceOrbit" site and its rather eclectic conspiracy-cum-convoluted-mythos content selection. Your approach to the labyrinthine vicissitudes and eldritch horror machining of modern existence makes for a mind-ripping good multimedia yarn.
Your recent addition of the jinni to the mix is something of interest to me, as I have had my own hecatean crossroadkill experience at the hands of beings similar to them. If you have never been acquainted with Paracelsus´ little monograph or pamphlet on nymphs, sylphs, salamanders (these being the equivalent of the fiery brand of jinn) and gnomes, they seemed to match up to his analysis on quite a number of points: quaintness of attitude, fixedness of facial expression (something on the order of appearing to be smelling offal when exposed to my turdescent presence), being able to assume various and sundry human and even animal forms (a silver fox and an irish setter bounding around together on one occasion at a construction site soon to become the new Russian Embassy that I used as a shortcut route to classes on occasion) and passing as though a spirit through a security chained and dead-bolted door. There was a regular small army of them, unless they were constantly density shifting forms (to borrow a turn of phrase from David Icke). The only one that didn´t bother with costume changes, as it were, was a female vision of fairylike beauty that must have been all of 6 and a half feet tall, slender as a willow wand, with raven black fine straight hair that hung down to the middle of her back, translucent white skin and tiny perfect facial features__except for the eyes. These were a deep cobalt or oceanic blue. All blue, without a trace of white or iris or capillary or pupil. She spoke a broken English mixed with gutteral utterances of some language (the latter was mentioned in L´Ondine of de la Mott-Fouque as being their native speech).
I saw her on a total of four occasions: the first being her unfolding like a carpenter´s rule from a badly beat-up Datsun with several cracked windows. The second her sudden materialization in a bedraggled public park where I had gone to clear my head and burn a joint (when I went back early the next morning, I saw rather largish cat-like pawprints in the snow intermingled with my hiking boot treads). The last and final was glimpsing her in my rear view mirror driving a new Chevette and wearing a beret of the garden French variety.
The third encounter with this paragon of witchy-weirdness was at my northwest Washington DC roachdom of an efficiency (I was then in the process of flunking out of Georgetown University´s School of Foreign Service undergraduate program, which I have lately seen described in the thefifthhorseman.com website, now defunct, as a draconian Tavistock affiliate replete with gargoyle waterspouts and thickly gothic atmosphere well suited to affording backdrop for The Exorcist film trilogy that the Jesuit Fathers kindly provided technical consultancy for and even acted in, in the scene involving one retiree chowing down in their commons room) where she asked for $5 change in quarters for the laundry room. After scrounging them up and giving them to her in exchange for some extremely crumpled bills (which I now believe to be a shaktipat sink, although she did jerk back her long-fingered hand when I attempted to touch it during the exchange to ascertain her degree of tulpazuzuness---pazuzu being the Sumerian scene-stealing she-demon of The Exorcist), some few hours later I found myself in the crosshairs of a veritable gatling gun of invisible needles piercing the approximate area of my heart, which did not abate until I lost consciousness. These were preceded by an olfactory (olf = elf?) excrescent of the utmost putrescence that continued to the point of inducing uncontrolled vomiting (I since learned from some source which I have forgotten, perhaps Dion Fortune, that this is a blackest of the black arts ritual termed The Opening of the Drains of Iniquity, which is performed at the auspices of the nymphs for the setting up of wet sand pinpricking poppets). I collapsed on the floor, face down in my own vomit, having been recently previously ill from an intestinal viral epidemic that had closed the entirety of Georgetown University for three days during which I had serially puked to the point of dry heaving on several instances.
The point of my retelling this seemingly supernatural personal epic is that I believe I had somehow invertently pissed off these nymphs (which I guess them to be from Paracelsus´ description of them as being the most human-like in appearance of the four elemental races--the all-blue eyed woman-child perhaps being a siren, her having Paracelsus´ tell-tale departure from regular features by the device of those two blue orbs ensconced in her eye sockets, sirens described as living omens from God to the people of their impending doom if a spiritual repathing was not put into play.)
As an aficionado of your ongoing multimedia rant in the teeth of what is perhaps going to turn out to be the Last Days of the Eschaton, I would urge you to exercise extreme caution in your selection of verbiage concerning these creatures, as they do not suffer mortal fools gladly (to say the least). You seem to be a person of some reasonable moral turpitude and compassion, and if there were more individuals like yourself included in the Power Elite, it would no doubt be a more livable world.
Although I could conceivably be termed paranoid and fear-riddled to the point of no return, which I have to reluctantly concede that I am, I have at least to recount to you my little tale of weirding-woe, in the hopes that you will tread lightly in their presence. My life since incurring their wrath has been a hell of mirrors, as I am not magickally gifted as you Celts are, being myself a Slavic nondescript, and most times I cannot tell them apart from regular human resources. Their elfink bag-o-tricks seems to be bottomless and variegated as the wave-tossed oceans from which they emerged, probably looking like the two-tailed androgynous mermidon of Starbuck corporate logo fame. I beg you, sir, do not end up endlessly dredging through an Ishmaelstrom of painful degradation and despair as have I.
