CArol doesn’t usually tell me everything at once. A couple of days ago, she told me that when the car was spinning out of control toward the edge of the canyon she had a clear vision of our deaths, then she saw a big hand take the car the other direction, into the hillside (the dirt piled at the base of the cliff cushioned the blow) on the uphill side of the road–thanks, Operators!
It’s funny, but when Carol, Dooney, Jeff, Stevo and I were smacking the satanic ritual performers in Spokane’s rosicrucian lodge (led by a fake friend of Carol’s, who was ordered to deal with our return to the area) I had a feeling we had initiated a progression of effective efforts to weaken the world odor’s hold on our region further. I had a hunch that doing that weatherball and array, northeast of us in MOntana, was the next step, partly because the Rothschild hive has long had extensive holdings around that mountain. I think they grabbed the land when their railroads were robbing the Indians’ birthright. Carol’s mom was a member of the local tribe, by the way.
The evening we did the lodge ritualists we started out just trying to help Carol feel better, since she was obviously under attack. Dooney was the first to see the fake friend, whom she described accurately and she had the impression that this gal thinks of herself as a ‘white witch.’ I met her a couple of times and she’s pretty full of herself and extroverted, also likes folks to know that she’s very important in the Rosicrucian lodge in Spokane . If you’re familiar with American culture you can understand how someone can see herself in that flattering light even while involved with satanic activities. This sort of schizophrenia is one of the unfortunate aspects of our national heritage.
Yesterday, at breakfast in our favorite egg restaurant in town, Michael D’s, I looked at a tongue-in-cheek print of the painting, American Gothic, and I couldn’t help thinking, ‘I wonder how many Indian kids that pious-looking farmer impaled on that hay fork.’ . The menu covers have an ‘American Gothic’ cartoon of Michael D, as the farmer, standing beside his ‘wife’ who is a chicken in a house dress. Carol and I could write a pretty good dining guide for the region, by the way. We also eat at home, of course.
In between the murder attempts, last Wendesday, we visited with Kelly and Ryan and this probably really pissed off the world odor mavens around here. They really hate it when people in the network successfully get together to share energy and information.
Carol said that her dominant prayer, when she visualized our demise, was that Jeff and I wouldn’t be taken along with her. It was pretty obvious that she was the main target in those attempts. I think the sewer rats know I wouldn’t be much good to anyone without her. At least we’re no longer essential to the expansion of this grassroot movement.
We’ve only got three really dependable psychics in this network for now. I hope to God more will show up before long because that’s a vulnerable link in the chain. This is why I favor spending as much time as necessary to protect these three from threats like this one. The Operators apparently concur. I’m also content with whatever The Operators feel is appropriate for us, having learned that lesson the hard way.
I mentioned the 33d degree Scottish Rite jerk who was in the rosicrucian ritual–a sort of world-odor anchor point (women conduct all the high rituals in the dirty secret orders). I won’t mention his name (he despises nicknames, by the way) but he’s over a century old. We’ll keep our ears open to find out if he died that night. The cop who ‘helped’ us was apparently on hand at the behest of this mason’s underling, so it may be that the old 33d degree baby eater was either out of commission or dead, then.
We watch for confirmations like that. A Jesuit pedophile/murderer in Africa whom we sent some love to, in the form of counter-rotating dodecahedrons, died shortly afterward, for instance.
That gal was in the audience (she was in charge, I think–go figure) when I gave an orgonite and zapper demonstration to the Spokane Metaphysical Society in September, 2001, when Carol was in Kenya. They were a receptive and even appreciative audience but none of them did anything with the information I provided, except most of the thirty zappers I handed out for a trial were bought. There were a hundred or so people in the audience and five of the zappers were stolen. I once read in a novel that most psychics can’t be trusted not to steal the silverware if you have them over for dinner. I’ve long wondered why so many incredulous people assume that psychics are somehow more spiritual than others but in my view, the few psychics who also choose to develop their characters and social consciences are real gems–sort of like geniuses, artists and glamorous people who also have personal integrity.