Quantum Wave

 

My phone died. 

My computer monitor died at the same time.

There is more to this. 

A growing awareness of how energy works.

Spiral Flock

One day I was in a college where my father was head of department, in the computer room. A row of computers went out, not exactly at the same time, but close to it, one of those tempos where some people saw what happened differently. The slow-thinkers saw all the computers in the row, stop at the same time. The faster-thinkers saw them go out one by one in a line. There was debate about it after the event. Was it one main plug responsible which they all fed into or was it individually they went out or is that how fast it takes for the electric to travel down the row which they're all connected to? That's not the purpose of this part of the story... At the end of the row a girl collapsed to the ground, as if she was the next machine in the row to have a power-cut. Lights in the rest of the room, the other machines in other rows, not affected. She collapsed and her pulse had stopped. I witnessed this. 

Because my dad ran the place, although I was not a student there I was, in breach of campus rules but because the fates had decreed it this way, knowledgeable of the staff room combination code, to access a telephone, to phone an ambulance. I had done this before word had got around to the rest of the staff and first-aiders etc that there was a medical problem with one of the students, technically she was dead. I'm not showing off, anyone would have done what I did in my situation, its a given. It is to illustrate "how energy works" with regard the underlaying structure of the universe. Her collapse sucked up all the power from the row of machines, although she was not part of their circuit, as her heart attempted to stay alive. Or something like that. I don't fully understand it yet. Certainly not a coincidence. 

 

I went outside because the ambulance driver/paramedic would not have any idea where in the college to find the girl. From outside I watched birds spiral above the exact same room she was in. There is a legend birds protect the soul, and help it to travel from this world to others, after death. An Egyptian symbol for soul, is bird. A flock of birds spiraling above her and I said a prayer to whatever gods, please help her come through. Guy arrived, I carried his electro-shock machine and showed him the way there. He zapped her heart, perhaps fifteen minutes after it had stopped, give or take. He got her going again. She came around, alive. It was years ago. I don't know the girls name. 

 

 

Candles & Vases

A girl I once dated told me she had seen the future and a major blockage in the way of me and her having a future together was someone called Alia. I didn't know anyone called Alia. That girl was, to cut a long story short, difficult. We split up. I don't know how much credibility to believe she had an accurate prophecy or if it was more of her bullshit. I moved house to where I am living now. 

I saw some art for sale in local free & cheap, decided it was worth buying because pre-made canvas I can paint over, the same size blank canvas is more expensive than these pictures. I didn't care what the pictures were. Somehow I could not bring myself to paint over them. Every time I thought about it, something stopped me. They have power. So one day I looked at them, figured them out. 

Its an African woman and her family of younger women and children, carrying water, walking through a desert. Walking away from the viewer. The other picture is a close-up of an African womans face surrounded by candles. I don't know any black families.  

Forgotten about, until I got to know one of the neighbors here, a black woman with (so far) four daughters. The eldest, Alia, is my son's age. They're friends. I've had some involvement with them over the past few years. Her mother is the woman in the painting. She would ask to borrow my phone and sometimes my computer to sort her banking out. Her energy has gone into my machines.

Tonight, a knock at the door. Immediately my phone battery went from 100% to zero, switched itself off, won't come back one again, the re-charger is not recognized. My mind associates cause and effect; knock at the door, phone dies, same wave of energy. Quantum mechanics in action. Waveform function.

So I opened the door. 

Alia with a print-out in her hand. "Can I have money for my fun run please"

I explained I spent my last money on dog food, come back tomorrow. 

Her young sister was at her feet "hello." I also saw the mother lurking in the shadows, holding onto a baby buggy with one hand, her mobile phone in the other. She has a phone now which explains why she has stopped bugging me to borrow mine. I went back inside without saying hi. 

Back inside, my computer monitor had gone dead. Won't come back on. On/Off button is knackered, or a loose circuit or something. 

With the computer plugged in but no monitor working, I cannot click 'close down computer' button, so I was forced to do something I hate to do, I pulled the computer plug out of the socket to switch the machine off. As soon as I did that, I heard one of the young girls outside cry out as if in pain. 

I believe that family is draining me and I believe those paintings are something to do with that. I do not know what to do about it. Only this week tidying the upstairs junk room I unearthed the paintings which were at the back of the room buried under stuff. I haven't looked at them but they are unearthed so to speak. 

I don't know what to do about it all. Waiting, to see if the time is ever right to give the paintings to Alia or something? Burn them? 

Lessons in voodoo.

(I am writing these words using my sons xBox monitor).

I have so many true life stories like this. 

Clarity

In my experience, state workers are irrational. 

They use language to mean something different to what most people use it to mean. 

They do not use words to mean precisely it says then to mean in the dictionary. Where they do, they rely on people mistaking between multiple definitions. 

For example, if they say they “are using reason”, what they mean is they are doing it for a reason. 

They are justifying that they are working to an agenda and explaining it to you in such a way that makes it sound reasonable, so you accept it without even questioning it. 

‘Reason’ has three meanings. 

First of all it means ‘a process of thought’.

Secondly it means ‘purpose’,  either, ‘a purpose resulting from a process of thought’ or ‘a process of thought resulting from a previously intended purpose.’ 

There is never clarification from people using the word precisely what they mean by it, only assumed clarification, their is manipulation. 

We also have to accept the dictionaries are revised periodically and the original intended meaning of words when they were invented are not necessarily what people of different eras use them to mean. 

In practical use this means it is accepted across many generations the Dictionary definition is secondary to establishing and communicating an intended purpose. 

Entitlement

The world is on lockdown. Our villages are on lockdown. It is a more extreme lockdown than the one earlier this year. 

One thing was proved by this: track&trace does not work. It does not prevent the spread of the virus and it’s useless at chasing up who has caught it. 

The purpose of the lockdown, social distancing and face-masks, is to minimise risk of the virus spreading. 

It appears to be spreading worse now than it was before, because people are not minimising the risk. That is why we now have more a extreme second lockdown. 

People who survived plagues in the past did so by total isolation from risk. 

I’m stuck because my sons mother is sending him to school. As we have shared residency by court order, I can’t do anything to protect us (my son or myself or her and her lodger and all our extended families and people we encounter) from minimising the risk. 

I have been called “overprotective”. I don’t believe I am overprotective, I believe I’m sensible. Why have we got social-distancing, face masks and lockdown ??? 

People ignoring all that are the problem, which is making the virus spread. 

Schools are a part of the problem because if any of us who are totally minimising risk in every other area of life do get infected, that’s where it’s going to come from. 

This is the governments strategy. 

We send our children to school as opposed to homeschooling, by choice. We literally have to sign the children over to give the school our consent for them to attend. 

The other option is to inform the education authority we are homeschooling. It is legal and in the current situation it is recommended as a safety measure. 

In 2020 and into 2021 it is the parents choice whether we increase the risk of a pandemic by sending children to school, vs homeschooling. 

In shared residency situations where the parents cannot agree, traditionally the state steps in and encourages the children to go to school. 

In light of covid-19 the state workers employed for that task (Education Authority Officers) will not step in. They are minimising their own risk. They will not even answer their phones to give advice. It’s not their fault they don’t know what to do about the pandemic. 

The obvious advice is to minimise risk and stay safe. 

Who is being responsible vs irresponsible by analysing the situation this way? 

Spiritual Soap

 The demons are tricky

They integrate between human and divinity

They change words

Humans recognised we need soap to avoid plagues

Soap is made from lye

We need lye

Humans asked for much more lye 

The demons intervened

They changed the word

They told divinity: Humans need lies and soap

We have had industrial revolution

Demons are hidden nobody believes in them anymore so they are more powerful and more discrete

Soap gets rid of demons too

But

The price we paid is culture is full of lies

Lye and lies

The divinity gave us lies and soap 

For generations the culture has been lies instead of truth

So much that truth is rare, barely recognised. 

Those who live in truth are discriminated for being different. 

Attempting to explain this to people is difficult. 

A pandemic of cognitive dissonance, human minds deviate and fall victim to demonic persuasions. 

This is how the medieval demons take over the world - through possession of humans who no longer recognise it as a reality as was once feared in medieval times. 

The answer is soap. 

Lye is dangerous to mess with and so are lies. 

Spiritual soap that we recognise truths. 

Using industrially produced commercial soap cleanses some bacteria but not all of the demons. 

Only spiritually made soap can do that.

Soap for the spirit. 

BLR cont (ch4&5)

BLACK LABEL RED (continued)

c2020 Ordo Octopia. All Rights Reserved

< Previous (ch 1-3)

4. Fools Journal

It was. 

It was past. It was the past. The matter has been settled, set aside at least for the subconscious to deal with in some future emergent development.

It was by coincidence they bumped into each other again.

He had been haunted for a week or two after the event, the time it takes to get over someone who has had an impact, knowing it takes much longer for trauma to heal and emotions to settle especially being empathic could sense her energy when she was feeling about him, and quite sure she felt the same. They had hugged in a passionate embrace and kissed for all of five maybe ten minutes, had shared time and a meal together.

It’s inevitable humans are going to think about other humans. Especially those with whom intense passionate scenes have been shared. 

A part of the setting aside process is recapitulation. The reliving of a memory to let go of it, this to free the energy up for the moment of immediacy. No more attachments to the past which is a fiction because it no longer exists.

The police called him obsessive. He is certain he is not. It’s another mean police trick, part of their interrogation technique to grind somebody down and make them feel worse about themselves hoping the pressure will cause the person to break and confess even to a crime they did not do simply to escape the torture. Which it is. Torture. These interrogation techniques are illegal according to the Geneva convention but nobody cares, they get away with it.

The first meeting was poetic. They both climbed a hill upon which a ruined castle, a broken tower the only remaining feature. She sat on a stone throne made of broken wall and he had kneeled at her feet, Templar to his queen. 

From there they had walked the length of an avenue of trees, chestnuts. It was romantic. She agreed to a second date which they arranged for a following week. A meal in a restaurant neither of them knew. 

She surprised him by phoning him the night before, drunk at a party she wanted to be rescued from asking him to give her a lift home. A damsel in distress, he white-knighted to her need for safety. A long drunken walk through urban wilderness full of drunk men was not a safe situation for a vulnerable woman. 

She invited him in for tea and explained the party was progressing toward a hot-tub party which was not her scene. Mixed couples and singles drunk and bathing together with amorous intent. 

She surprised him again by throwing herself at him physically. A part of him regretted not having taken her up on her offer “you can do whatever you want to me” instead of taking advantage he had been a gentleman and detached himself from her drunken behaviour and gone home. 

He weighed his own behaviour. A woman he had met only once and who was willing to have sex with random men was not someone he trusted to risk catching a sexual infection from. It was not him she wanted, it was a man shaped dildo. 

She had discarded him as a broken dildo because he had not taken advantage of her and had treated her instead like a lady. It spoke everything of her and nothing of him. He had done the right thing. 

When the police had arrested him from his front door because of allegations she had made and taken him to the station for interview, he figured she owed him an apology which he accepted he would never receive. 

This is the quality of women met from a dating app. He resigned himself to stop using dating apps. The experience had not gone well. The types of women using them were from his experience not the type of women he intended to share time with. He summarised with the single word: sociopathic. 

Would it have been any different had he had sex with her that night? He reconciled in all probability he would be in exactly the same situation as he is in today, plus carrying an std she had no intention of warning him about if she even knew she had it herself. Contacting her to explain that would become a nightmare after she had lied to the police to get him off her back. 

Meditating on her was depressing. He chose to manage his thoughts by remaining optimistic. This experience was a gateway passage to a higher dimension in which women treat men with the respect men like him have to offer women. The next one will be better. 

Sex or no sex, mutual respect is a foundation of a strong relationship. Probably she does not respect herself very strong which is why she behaves the way she does toward others. A key to understanding her psychology. A very common one. 

Musing on human psychology and the woman with whom a flash-in-the-pan brief fling which went nowhere, falling out of love at first sight on the basis of how she had disposed of him so callously, he bumped into her again. They bumped into each other. 

It was by coincidence they bumped into each other again. Perhaps it was a contrived coincidence. 

It was a book signing. They both shared a passion for the same favourite author who happened to live locally. She came up behind him in the queue and said “boo”, high in excitement of meeting her literary hero enough to approach her ex instead of hiding in disgrace at how atrociously she had behaved. She was alone. 

His lasting memory of her was the police claiming she had made a false allegation about him. She was the last person he hoped to encounter although he was aware the possibility she would also be at the signing. He had gone anyway, determined not to let her shadow overwhelm his life and his appreciation of a novelist he admired. His genuine interest, he was on book three of the series while she had been on book two. 

“Oh. Hi.” He said. 

The energy between them was magnetic. His heart leaped at seeing her despite his brain accelerating into flight mode.  

She was making out all friendly because public and a crowd. She approached to hug him. He stood his ground. She held his elbows and leaned her torso in toward him so he could smell her perfume, she wasn’t wearing perfume, she smelled of herself, pheromones. Her face leaned in and pressed against his, cheek to cheek. She was on tip-toe. 

“I’m... sorry.” She whispered. She stepped back and smiled. Their eyes told the truth, despite words, contexts, situations. 

“We were in love.” He said. He shrugged. “People do crazy things when they’re in love and feel rejected.” 

He had forgiven her. 

He turned his head around to check how the queue was progressing. His body followed automatic by itself. The famous author was watching and had heard their conversation through the person standing in the queue between them. Their eyes met, and smiled. The person between them was inconsequential to the story. 

She said his name. He turned half around and looked at her. 

“I owe you an explanation.” She said. 

An invite into her madness. An olive branch of peace. An offer of redressing imbalance. A confession of still wanting him in her life. Another chance at happiness. A fools journey. 

The pressure of the heroic adjudicators presence, their published author becoming the judge in their romance. How hard should he be on her, on himself? 

Abruptly the environment of the novel, a work of fiction, the authors predeliction, became of massive import in the unfolding of their relationship. How vengeful or forgiving, how daring or cautious, he should behave, was guided by the atmosphere of the book series which they were both reading. 

Should he go with the flow and do it in accordance with the ambience of the author who even this very second said “next”, or to become his own man measured by whatever creed he was living by, one would argue he was seeking by reading and meeting the writer face to face.

He had not intended to be standing with his back to the man at exactly the same moment of his audition. He spun on his heel, more dramatic an approach than he had intended. The woman behind him was spinning him, catalyst controlling his behaviour. As he recognised this, so too did the author who greeted him as a friend. 

Silently she sidled up beside him. 

“Ah.” Said the author. “Are you together?”

Direct and to the point but for what purpose? They both held as-yet unsigned copies of book four of the series, waiting for the writers scrawl to endorse them with personalised value. 

She smirked. He was not entirely sure how to answer. A relevant quote from the earlier novels would have been appropriately light and mirthful. His mind was excited and he had to accept that instead of disfunctionally rejecting her. At the same time he was still hurting from the police interview and hours in a cell, a long walk home in the rain, her punishment for his not having fucked her like an animal when he had a chance. When she had given him a chance. He edited his stream of conscipusness the way a writer edits their work. In respect of the pursuit of accuracy. 

“Aspirations to higher intentions.” He said by way of explanation. It was cryptic and intellectual. It was a lame explanation. 

“We might be.” She said, flirting with the author. 

“Lucky man.” He flirted back, making it obvious he found her attractive too. “I will sign both your books.” 

She patiently accepted her position in the social order by letting him go first as he had been before her in the queue. Despite this, she was owning his meeting with his literary hero, scrambling his mind and emotions by standing beside him and flirting with the guy. 

He took a deep breathe. 

“You both look like writers” Stated the author. 

“We are.” She said. 

“I find writers who write for writers to be a different breed of writer than writers who write for readers. I try to do both.” 

Black and white dynamics disguised as atypical advice and easily mistaken as inherent egotism. A clever flirtation. The author was quite taken with her enough to make it obvious he would happily take her home himself given a chance. She was making it obvious it was a possibility in her mind also. 

“You’re good at both. How do you manage the dynamic?” She asked. 

“In my experience we think with our head, heart, belly and groin. You have to get these things in check.” The author explained. 

Immediately the author turned back to the man. He had rejected her offer momentarily, necessarily to sign the book. 

“We have to satisfy them all.” She said. 

“You’re looking for satisfaction.” Replied the author. 

“Aren’t we all?” She nudged him sideways with her elbow. “That’s why I read your books.” She added. 

She was clearly having a good time. She had not stopped smiling since she had slinked up behind him in the queue. 

“Then you must be the person I am writing for.” He answered. 

A silence fell as the author scribbled into both their copies of his book, silence in which the word “writing” became re-imagined as the word “waiting”. A short queue behind them was growing impatient and bored. 

“I hope our paths cross again.” The author said as he handed her copy. 

“They tend to with her around.” He said as he received his copy.  

5. Revelations

“Coffee shop or wine bar?” He asked in the street outside the book store. They had both left at the same time and stopped to say goodbyes. 

“You assume I want to give you another chance.”

“You said you owe me an explanation.”

“I didn’t say I was going to give you one.”

“Actually you said I can do whatever I want with you.”

“That’s unfair. I was drunk.” 

“That’s exactly why I went home instead of.”

“Wine bar.”

“You assume I want to hear your explanation.”

“You assume I’m doing this for me.”

“Let’s stop making assumptions.”

“Good idea.”

“So what happened? Why did you lie to the police about me?”

“What?”

“I had to walk home in the rain. It was my karma for having given you a lift home that night. I did three hours in a cell it was my karma for three hours of your company. I was interrogated it was my karma for talking too much in the restaurant. I’m good with that. What’s your story?”

“What the fuck are you talking about, police cell? I never called the police.”

“That’s not what they said.”

“I don’t know anything about that. You’re bullshit.”

“You’re playing mind games again.” 

“No! I wanted to explain why I told you to leave me alone. I was over-reacting.” 

“You’re telling me. Over-reacting to what? I hadn’t done anything.”

“It’s something someone said. If a thing is too good to be true, it probably is. I really enjoyed your company and we seem so perfect for each other. I got frightened that it must be some sort of trick.”

“Yeah I can accept that’s possible. Why did you lie to the police and then deny it? Can you see how that’s a mind-fuck?” 

“So why did you invite me to a wine bar?”

“You said you wanted to explain yourself. I’m a good person, I’m giving you a chance to do that despite what you already did. I believe it’s important to be respectful. It is possible you’re innocent after all. Or at least justifiable.” 

“I never contacted the police. I don’t know what you’re on about. You’re playing mind-games with me. You’re lying about it.”

“I swear I’m not.”

“I swear I’m not.”

Their gaze met and a look of trust passed between them. 

“What the fuck?” 

“You think I put you through hell. It was my poor-me drama, I wanted you to stand up to me and tell me I was too good to let go of and force me to back down and accept me as your own.”

“It doesn’t work that way. You told me to not contact you again. If I had ignored that it would have been criminal because it would have been abusive.” 

“This is so fucked up.”

“If we had sex that night, would it have made a difference?”

“Yes! I want us to do it. That’s the whole point! That’s why we’re sitting here. Why I apologised and why I want to explain it to you.”

“It’s confusing. Because of the drama. Because of the alcohol. I need integrity. Integration. If it doesn’t make sense then it’s nonsense.”

“I get that. I said I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about the police getting involved though and that’s the truth.”

“That’s difficult to accept.”

“If that really did happen to you then I find it difficult to accept too. What happened?”

“They arrested me and said you had made an allegation about me which had no evidence. So they let me go because they couldn’t force me to make a statement agreeing that I was abusive you.”

“That’s incredible. You can sue the police for doing things like that it’s harassment.”

“It doesn’t work that way. At worst they’d deny having arrested me at all. At best, the possibility that I had been abusing you is weighed against they’re just doing their job. What I can’t add up is that you say you didn’t contact them at all. It looks as if you’re lying.”

“I get it. And because I was apologising to you for changing my mind, blowing hot and cold, it’s easy for you to believe I’m manipulating you.”

“Basically. Except the way you’re talking when we are face to face is so honest and open... I can’t get my head around it.”

“So you thought I had lied to the police about you and you still invited me to a wine bar?” 

“Yes.”

“Then I guess were both a little crazy. You must really like me or something.”

He shrugged. It was obvious. He didn’t have to say anything. 

“But why would the police do that?”

“Because you’re setting me up. You’re a believable actress. And you’re shameless.” 

“That’s a major trust issue you have going on there.”

“Is it surprising?”

“Will you give me a lift home?”

“You’ll invite me in and test me to see if we are going to have sex today.” 

“It’s possible. It might be the sort of sex we both need.” 

“It’s not worth the risk. The police have made their statement what they think of us even knowing each other. That’s even if you’re telling the truth about not having called them yourself. So don’t take this personally.” 

“Not like last time huh?” 

“I would never take advantage of you.” 

“I wanted it. Still do.”

“That’s my cue to leave. I’m sorry. Because I wanted it too. Still do.”

And he left her with a half full glass of wine in her hands. 

In a higher dimensional version of this same situation, one in which their focus had not been consumed by attempts to find an honest harmony, they had compared the personalised notes with which the author had signed their personal copies of the fourth book in his series.

To him, keep aspiring, signed blah

To the mysterious lady for whom I write, this is my number, signed blah