Drake: “Either we take care of business, or ET will take care of business for us. . .” This remark, and others like it, occur at about the 32 minute mark on Drake’s new 3-hour show:

www.blogtalkradio.com

So. Away from this wild cosmic multidimensional/geopolitical drama for nine days now, I  re-enter the roiling river of rumor, innuendo, factoids, predictions, fears, funny business and so on re: the morphing plan for “mass arrests” and financial reconfiguration that were first (I think) mentioned by Bill Wood (Brockbrader), confirmed by Fulford (I think), Wilcock, and Drake, and are now, by the way, being reconfirmed also by Cobra.

Transcript of Interview with Cobra, Part I (of two)

Well, well. Either we’re “moving right along” or we’re not. Who knows?

Nobody knows. Nobody knows all and everything. Nobody has all and everything “in mind.” Each of us occupies the exact center of the endlessly flowing expanding contracting multiverse, streaming in and out from our particular teensy-weensy infinitesimal point in the mysterious unfolding ocean of Love.

So why bother to try to figure it all out? Well, why not? While it may be, as Bill Hicks says, “just a ride,” I, and many many others, find the whole hullabaloo fascinating, even exhilarating, as we try, and fail, over and over again, to surf it.

In any case, whatever happens next, I choose to center my awareness within the relentless present moment as it keeps on opening, opening, opening.

BTW: if you want to learn how to stop doing and start being, you might consider spending a day with elders like my dear parents, together for 70 years, now in their mid-90s. Only one requirement:    SLOW    WAY    DOWN.

Very refreshing, ultimately, for this hyperventilating double Sagittarian with Mars/Uranus opposition in Sagittarius/Gemini triggering constant cascading conceptual cacophony, confusion . . .

For Dad especially, every little task becomes a series of tiny steps, executed correctly, in order. For example, when he needs to go to the bathroom. First he makes sure his oxygen line is clear of his feet. Then he pushes a button on his huge cushy special chair that slowly rises like a dump truck to deposit his giant heavy body, stuffed stiff with edema, on his feet. Then, having fetched from whatever daughter is present his “four wheeler” (walker), he holds onto its bars, and shuffles slowly through the living room and down the hall to the bathroom, where he transfers from clutching walker bars to clutching doorsill, then sink, and closes the door. Ten minutes later, he slowly emerges, and the process starts up again, only backwards. The whole procedure takes about a half hour.

Here’s a larger image of that remarkable painting that my Mom threw out of her unconscious, the one that reflects the old goddess images of arms and hands up, in supplication, the one she said “means nothing; throw it away” as I grabbed it. “Oh no you don’t!”

That kind of riff between us is familiar, comforting. We both enjoy the laugh.

BTW: Sister Paula tells me she’s going to take Mom to more art classes. Good!

From the unimaginably slow and mysterious in Seattle to the unimaginably fast and furious, back home in Indiana, at my computer, surfing the internet.

I ask myself: how to inhabit very low and very high frequency ranges simultaneously? Or, failing that, how to move from one to the other with ease?

There’s no denying that this “break” from the frenzy was good for my soul. And not just because I wasn’t posting daily, riding the collective adrenalin wave. Not just because I got to forget about thinking so much, and discerning so much, and instead, simply follow directions, as barked by my still very German father, his face increasingly luminous with  deepening love and earned patience. No. There’s more.

Something about reconnecting to memory, not just my own, but family memory. Going through the desk of my Mom’s now deposited at my sister Mary’s house — I probably spent ten hours on that sorting process together. (Not bad, considering). For each sib and their children I created a largish pile of stuff (old emails to the folks, Christmas, birthday cards, photos, etc.); another pile for one of  our cousins on Dad’s side, who, we hope will sort Dad’s emails to and from his still living sibs; another for “war correspondence” (to be sent to me); another for “church-related” (that goes to Kristin, includes not just preparation notes for his various homilies as a Deacon, but “holy cards” and other memorabilia).

All neatly packaged now, as if memories don’t spill, stir together, foam, ferment . . . and leave us changed.

It’s wild, picking up memories and then setting them down again. And I really was the one to do this task, since I’m the most detached, least likely to get bogged down.

Picking up family memories from various siblings that I never knew about (since as the oldest, I left home first). Picking up memories from the folks before any of us were born, from old newspaper accounts of Mom’s dad inheriting the helm of his father’s business (an ironworks in St. Cloud, Minnesota), of the cabin that remains in a St. Cloud of our ancestor Balthazar Rosenberger (what a name!), of the whole collective, mind-controlled, cabal-designed, bankster-funded, profitable skullduggery of that so called “Great War,” “Good War” that my Dad participated in as a flight surgeon on a tiny island in the Phillipines.

The richness of the visit to Seattle continues in memory now. Endless streaming conversations with especially my brother Mark and brother-in-law John while out with each separately, walking the dogs and contemplating the same range of material that I talk about on this blog. They too, each independently cultivate this open spherical consciousness that considers the ever-expanding multidimensional whole of the dance of seeming good and seeming evil and all illusions in-between without attaching to any of it. So astonishing! Not just my son Colin and I, but one of my brothers and one of my brothers’-in law, all tracking together!

Huh?

After so many decades living and thinking on my own, and often lonely, at culture’s edge, not exactly estranged from my large family, but separate, apart — this kind of familial intimacy feels like a blessed bonus. Truly food for the soul. I am so incredibly grateful to have lived long enough to experience it!

And the family, the family! As sister Kristin says, there simply are no “fissures” that wreck our oneness. None. Not even the 30-year ideological struggle between me and Dad that finally threw us both out of mind and into heart. That’s over. And what does the heart do? It opens.

We are so very very fortunate.

Notice the soft, grainy quality of the picture taken on my iPhone after Dad’s anointing ceremony? Well, it turns out that all the pictures taken on all the iPhones after that ceremony had the same soft, grainy texture. None of the others taken before or since do. Strange. Brother-in-law John wonders if we were shifting out of 3rd into 5th dimension — or higher — during that ceremony . . . Were our bodies dissolving, becoming more fluid?

Both his observation, and his speculation upon it blew me away and was what, really, that started us talking.

Towards the end of the week, John and I wondered if my sister Mary had ever seen Bill Hicks on stage. She had not. We showed her his riff “It’s just a ride” on youtube. That led to our watching together the wonderful transformative movie, The Bill Hicks Story, on netflix.

If you want to bring somebody up to speed quickly, watch it. There’s very little about the glittery, terrible, life-denying, destruction-loving so-called civilization that we’ve allowed to contaminate this beautiful Earth that Hicks doesn’t, with a few well-chosen words, and rhythm, and tone, suddenly laser into ultra-high relief.  Shock after shock after shock. Wake up. It’s time.

Here he is, once again, with “It’s just a ride.”