So Far From Heaven

Almost every culture in human history has been well aware of energy-force manipulation potential by humans.  They’ve recognized both the positive, and the negative applications as well as the ‘choice’ factor by the person using the energy.  Some modern cultures still do.

• Not more than two decades have passed since the last ‘witch’ was killed by unanimous community consent on the Zuni Rez.
• Five, or so, years ago a school bus full of Zuni youngsters on a field trip across Din’e lands were thrown into such a state of terror upon sighting a Navajo ‘Skin-Walker’, that several had to be hospitalized.
• One of the darker, unspoken secrets in Navajo country during the last generation is the growing epidemic of ‘Skin-Walkers’, proliferating throughout the Rez.  Why it’s happening remains a mystery because most Navajo won’t even speak of it among themselves, except in whispers.
• On the Din’e Rez a violated piece of sacred ground of the Old Ones, near Nageezi, which happens to include a roadway intesection, has been the scene of more Navajo deaths than any place since the Trail of Tears to Bosque Redondo in 1864.  Din’e families continue to use it and continue to die there, despite the fact it only needs cleansing by an energy worker and removal of certain artifacts to another, similarly sacred piece of earth elsewhere.  Why?  Because the Din’e have lost too many pieces of the song of life to trust anything anymore.  What once was simple is now beyond understanding.

However, what interests me most is purely practical application of energy to positive ends based on a value system almost everyone professes to embrace, though few practice what they preach.  Either as nations, or as individuals.

I was leading into some thoughts of other applications of energy work, more imaginative than that of the ‘hit man’, unarguably positive on a much broader scale based on reduction of capabilities for the application of physical force.

This entry’s getting a bit long, but if there’s interest, maybe I’ll discuss it more in some later entry.

Best to you,

Jack

Jack wrote this in February 2006 when he was a member of several online metaphysics groups, including Reiki and other types of  energy healing:

Morning blogsters:

A couple of days ago in the comments section of one of the Metaphysics 101 entries it became obvious to me there’s a lot of confusion about the potential for energy work.  Partly it’s because there’s so much sweetness and light humbug associated with it among the practitioners.

The long history of persecution of energy workers in the Christian world has probably caused some over-reaction toward the other side.  A lot of Reiki Masters, for instance, have been trained to believe (and have believed, or profess to believe what they were taught) that the energies they use for healing can’t be used in ways contrary to what they might perceive as ‘positive’.

Similar beliefs are found among Silva practitioners, EFT workers, most dowser/healers, and others who wish to draw an inseparable boundary, both for themselves, and for those who know what they do, between themselves and those on the ‘other side’ of metaphysical practices (ie. black magick, et al).

It simply isn’t possible.

Many energy workers know this, though most will never say so in an open, public discussion.  But there’s a sound reason the use of metaphysical energy, energy conversion, energy projection requires a solid understanding of the disciplines involved.

The pablum approach, including any belief that energy projection/conversion can only be used for ‘good’ is a sure-fire means for neophytes to do a lot of damage, possibly to themselves, almost certainly to others.

On the other hand, there’s such a broad base of growing knowledge circulating about how to do it, I believe it’s time the entire picture (to the extent I know it) comes into view.

There’s no way anyone can control the mindset of certain groups of Pagans and Wiccans (and worse) who are out there playing around with spells and energies, using them to get revenge on ex-husbands and boyfriends.  They know enough to do it, but not nearly enough to respect it.  Kids playing with loaded firearms.

I know a man of some fame and repute for doing many positive energy tasks, healing, and much teaching, who’s also an energy ‘hit man’.  When a particularly despicable homicide happens, say, to a child, and when the authorities can’t do anything about it, he locates the perpetrator by passive methods, then simply ‘goes down and removes the life energy’ of the killer.

(It’s not me doing this, so I don’t have to figure out what opinion I have about his choice to use his capabilities this way.  Though you’d probably recognize his name, he ain’t advertising that piece of his action.)

———————————————————–

This blog entry is too long.

How about this:

Consider that last bit as the end of an entry.  Take a break.  Go outdoors a while and ponder.  When you return you’ll find another entry just below.  A shorter one that doesn’t tax the attention span of blogsters.

If you don’t believe me, just take a peek.

It’s there already for when you return.

(Continued tomorrow instead– Jeanne)

Jack wrote this in June, 2006:

I hadn’t watched Easy Rider (Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper and Jack Nicholson, circa 1968) in three decades.

When I saw it again this past weekend I appreciated it again for the first time:

Nicholson: You know, this used to be a helluva good country. I can’t understand what’s gone wrong with it.

Hopper: Huh. Man, everybody got chicken, that’s what happened, man. Hey, we can’t even get into like, uh, second-rate hotel, I mean, a second-rate motel. You dig? They think we’re gonna cut their throat or something, man. They’re scared, man.

Nicholson: Oh, they’re not scared of you. They’re scared of what you represent to ’em.

Hopper: Hey man. All we represent to them, man, is somebody needs a haircut.

Nicholson: Oh no. What you represent to them is freedom.

Hopper: What the hell’s wrong with freedom, man? That’s what it’s all about.

Nicholson: Oh yeah, that’s right, that’s what it’s all about, all right. But talkin’ about it and bein’ it – that’s two different things.

I mean, it’s real hard to be free when you are bought and sold in the marketplace.

‘Course, don’t ever tell anybody that they’re not free ’cause then they’re gonna get real busy killin’ and maimin’ to prove to you that they are.

Oh yeah, they’re gonna talk to you, and talk to you, and talk to you about individual freedom, but they see a free individual, it’s gonna scare ’em.

Hopper: Mmmm, well, that don’t make ’em runnin’ scared.

Nicholson: No, it makes ’em dangerous.

Three young men searching for America who found it wasn’t what they bargained for.

Jack

Just wanted to check in with Jack’s readers. Here’s what’s happening on my end. I’ve been going through old files nearly every day, culling material from previous blogs, poetry, and the Q&A site that I think make good blog entries. At this time, I have posts scheduled ahead two or three times per week up through June of 2021, and I am not nearly through looking at the material I have. I have another month or so of free time available to me to keep doing this if I feel like it.  The blog will always be here, even if I stop adding more material.

Some people might wonder why I am doing this. I’ve thought about that some, and of course it’s more for myself than anyone else. I’m not willing to let his words die, and it helps me a lot to have those words in my head as I get used to not having him around the way I like. I always thought his writing and ability to think were unusual talents, and I know you regular readers feel the same.  I don’t have what it takes to put together a book about him or a book of his writing, so the blog format is easy and as permanent as I can make it. Also, it helps to have something to distract me during these terrible times we are going through.

Even though he’s not responding to comments anymore, I enjoy reading your comments and will try to respond to them or answer questions.

You readers are helping me through a difficult time, and I appreciate it.

Jeanne

The Toothless Soothsayer

I must have been four, or maybe five
When grandfather said, with a snicker,
“Where a man wouldn’t go with a Colt .45
That boy will follow his pecker.”

Half a century now mocks:
I’d surely be elated
If Papa’s eye had turned to stocks
Or land speculated

Jack wrote this in March of 2006:

Morning blogsters:

A ray of sunshine to all of you.

That picture is where I’m sending it from.  You are looking at the home of an experiment …. a series of them performed at Sandia Laboratories.
https://share-ng.sandia.gov/news/resources/releases/2006/physics-astron/hottest-z-output.html

Without expecting to do it, nor understanding how, they’ve managed to create a reaction generating temperatures of 2 billion degrees Kelvin.

Double the heat inside a star.

By accident.  Repeated the experiment several times to make certain the accident happened on each occasion.  It did.

Accidents do happen.

Gratitude Affirmation #1, Thankee Universe, that it was a fender-bender and not a head-on collision.

Ohhhh.  Yeah.

Another gratitude affirmation challenge.  Some other laboratory somewhere else, presumably inside the US:

“Researchers have found that by putting one or two mutations into the H5N1 bird-flu virus, they were able to give it greater ability to slip into human cells. The new information will give virus-trackers something to watch for as H5N1 expands to new territory. “

How many labs in the world, we wonders, did it take to screw in that light bulb?

The challenge this morning is to find something in that italicized jewel to be grateful about.

• Thankee, Universe, for allowing some of us humans to be smart enough to convert a virus that was killing only birds, to one that will kill humans.
• Thankee, Universe, for giving those clever folks the wisdom to announce it to the world so nobody else figures it needs doing again.

Well, there are a couple.  Feel free to be innovative and make a few of your own.

Jack

Quote of the day:

George C. Scott playing a Major General in Doctor Strangelove:  “I wish we had US one of those Doomsday Machines”.

Jack posted this in February, 2006 but I think it was written much earlier.

The mountain I used to prospect for several years is covered with ruins wherever there is water.  Big ruins.   I used to sit on one near my camp and try to imagine what it must have been like.

One summer solstice afternoon I was sitting on the cliff boundary of the ruin watching the sunset.  In the basin below there’s a volcanic knob out toward the center of the plains.   I’d discovered a single kiva on top of it years before and puzzled over it vaguely.  What was that kiva doing there, miles away from the big houses?

But because that day happened to be solstice, I suddenly noticed when the sun went down, it vanished directly behind the point of that Kiva knob!  Yon damned Chacoans used it to mark summer solstice!

A place like that fires the imagination, and I spent a lot of time thinking of those people who lived in that ruin. Some of these groups had evidently been in the same locations for 300-400 years, and suddenly their government leaders decided they had to leave.  They probably watched and even hosted strings of these travellers along the trail until their own turn came.

Then one day they  just left.

What a thing it must have been to be one of them on that last day, saying good bye to the place your great-grand-dad, your granddad, your dad, and everyone else as far back as anyone could remember, including you were all born, lived, and mostly died.

Everyone voluntarily packed a few belongings, a medicine bag and blanket or two, a stone hatchet and a few scrapers, and left, leaving corn in the bin for those coming behind.  Abandoned pots lying around all over the place measured the things they couldn’t carry.

Sometimes sitting on that mountain early in the morning it sort of overwhelmed me, the pain and sorrow in those villagers.  Probably they all left in the morning one day, after a while of maybe being notified it was their turn.  A few weeks of  planning.  What to take?  What to leave behind.

Finally they probably finished the last minute packing the night before.  At dawn they made a line down the basin heading south, looking back over their shoulders as long as they could, feeling so sad.  Knowing they’d never go home again, wondering about the place they were going.

Remembering how it was playing on the mountain with their grandads when they were  kids, remembering the special, secret places kids always have.  Just looking and yearning to stay, and already missing that long home where their ancesters had roamed for 2000 years.

They’d have tried to keep it in sight as long as they could, each one stopping to wipe the trail dust off his face, pretending to catch his breaths.  But yearning back at the old home place, piercing the heat waves with their eyes, straining to see it one last time, maybe crying, certainly crying inside.  The kids probably screeching aloud enough to cover everyone elses grief.

As they trekked south they were joined by other groups from the neighboring villages.  The dust rose on the trail making a plume, a cloud around them.  They examined these strangers who were now trail mates and wondered who they were.

Some, they probably soon discovered had a mother-in-law, or uncle who came from their village.  They got to know one another better there on that hot, sad, lonesome trail away from all they they’d ever known, and they shared the hardships of the journey together for a long time.

Today, it’s just piles of rock, potsherds, holes left by scholars and other diggers for spoils.  The land still falls off across Johnson Basin, sun going down over that volcanic nub that once measured the time to plant.  Cow men ride their motorized hosses across the old trails, cows stomp around looking for grass, making the pottery fragments even smaller.

But sometimes late at night when the wind howls down the mountain a man might hear, or think he hears an echo of the chants, the drums, the night mumbles and whispers of lovers, the ghosts of lovers.  Pulls the bag tighter around his ears and wonders.