Outer Reality as a Reflection of the Inner, CONSCIOUS Creation, Creating Money, Discernment and Judgment, Decisions, Responsibility, and Absolute Freedom
A Gradius and Ragon Channeling by Kristen Fox and Rebecca Mundt

The outer experience is simply a reflection of the inner. The creative process unfolds continually, infinitely, constantly. You cannot miss it. It's going to happen whether you pay attention or not. So the question becomes: how do you create the inner experience with the most harmony and ingredients of joy or the ingredients you seek in the outer? The answer is, you train your attention away from the outer long enough to perceive how the inner process works. Once you have perceived how the inner process works, that is, you have lined up the details of the inner mechanisms: thoughts, beliefs, feelings, emotions, tendencies, influences, choices. Then you are free to go back and watch the outer reflect the new understanding.

It is not that you live in life focused only on the inner, you could do that without a life, or a physical manifestation of life. The objective here is to live in life in the outer, from the inner. Which, if you understand, you do every time you open your eyes. All the sense perceptions you receive are your creation. The more powerful your rational training, the more time it takes to get this turned around correctly, unless you an use your rational training to help you. The difference seems to be in the conundrum or paradox of experiencing the outer physical reality as real while knowing it's a creation of our inner being.

For example: This table we see is real. Just as you and I are real. And if you attempt to raise your leg through the table, you will encounter its reality. And this is a place of confusion for many of you. But remember, we are not asking you to deny what is, just to recognize its source. This table is here with you precisely because you chose it to be. And the further you go on this path of understanding, the more flexible and fluid physical matter will become. But this is not a change in physical matter. But a change in your ability to perceive and focus.

The most difficult challenges come when you confront those areas which you still regard as real and outside of yourself. And this is why your particular challenge [creating money] is such a worthy one for you because you have chosen the thing within the culture that is seen as most real and most outside the self. And in another way it is the most within your control because it is an idea. You see this when you look at it from a global perspective more clearly. Because the idea of money changes from culture to culture. The actual physical representation looks different and is different, and yet its cardinal truth remains the same. You could say it is the physical representation of supply. But do not place too much emphasis on the meaning or implication of what it represents. It would be far better to reduce the contrast between money and all other physical objects, including your body, the earth, sky, and understand it as just another form of the camouflage. In this way you regain your power returning the displaced power you put on the idea of money and putting it back on the self where it belongs.

Now, as to these other events, they are all unfolding perfectly and naturally according to your desires, thoughts and motivations. Remember that all time is simultaneous, therefore, others you have drawn into your life, to some degree have always been there and always will be. Do not assume that you must create artificial boundaries or separations between yourself and others. It is not necessary. The natural order of events based on choices, when allowed to move freely, is the best course of action. And again, as stated earlier, recognizing the source of all the experience is from the inner, dealing with those inner ideas. Conflicts, resolutions, restrictions, ideas of limitation or less than perfection themselves bring forth or create the experience of less than perfection. This applies to relationships, supply, the physical body, all experience.

So by resolving your own internal issues, you will resolve the experience. And by that I mean, the outer experience will reflect the harmony you are seeking. So here is the paradox. The conscious mind seeks inward for resolution of what will outwardly be experienced by the conscious mind. It is not so difficult to understand. But it is true that many beings on your physical plane attach their identification so strongly to the conscious mind and its habits and ways of thinking, and what could erroneously be called "predispositions" that the beings themselves are unable to use the conscious mind effectively. It is as if using the power of creation to experience life you decide that a portion of your creation is in control of the experience and you further decide that this portion that is in control is fixed. Otherwise how could you possibly say "That's just the way I am" or "It's my genetic heritage". Etc etc etc.

The evidence for the opposite truth is all around you. For without absolute freedom none of you could possibly change any of your circumstances. And the extent to which you learn discernment and choice to replace limitation and restriction and the extent to which you understand the power of the self in face of all experience, there is no circumstance you cannot overcome. The foundation of your being is built on this model. And everything, every evidence to the contrary is in its simplest form, an opportunity to choose a new perspective.

The further you progress down this road, the more sustained joy you will experience, because sustained joy is the natural response to choices made out of freedom. So. You experience greater and greater periods of simple contentment. Less and less of your time is spent in the old patterns of pointless mental entanglement. This is because you have satisfactorily proven to yourselves that at the very best mental entanglement is a waste of time, and at the worst, it represents creative power ill used with unpleasant and sometimes dire results.

The question of responsibility must first be clarified so as to determine the application and definition of the idea. You are responsible for your experience. This is not a question, this is a simple statement of fact. How you feel about this fact is another matter entirely. Whether or not you accept it, and what you do about it, are also separate and distinct issues. But your feelings, your acceptance or rejection, and your actions do not change the nature of responsibility. You could say "Responsibility is" just as "life is". Now as to your definition. "Able to respond" This is based on outer perspective discernment of reality. The inner perception would say "able to know, able to choose, able to create." The outer perception definitions make a wrong presumption that you will respond to a physical time and space experience generated from outside yourself. The inner perception would say "you respond to your own creation based on your choices, your desires, your beliefs, your goals or chosen outcomes, and your comprehension about the nature of reality." In other words, responding to an outer generated experience, seen as an adversity is a completely different context and knowing than responding to an innerly generated experience for which you know you made the choices. When you know you created it, you ask very different questions of yourself, which questions you do not have to ask if you assume it was created outside yourself.

Further, when you know you have created it, you know you can uncreate it, if that's your choice and create something else. Think of it this way: There is a man standing under a shower. When he turns the knob he experiences the water pouring full force down on his head. Now this man believes he cannot breathe water and is fearful of drowning. If he forgets that he turned on the water the issue is simply to get out of the water, hoping it never happens again. If he knows that he is in control of the faucet, then he might ask himself "What is it about this fear I want to understand?" or even "Am I ready to deal with this fear?" or he might decide he is not interested in experiencing the fear and simply turn the water off and do something else. Notice that the man who knows of his control of the faucet has more creative options, while the man who does not has more limiting consequences. For example: The shower will eventually overflow is the drain is not open. Or perhaps the water will run out. These consequences are seen as things that need to be dealt with, but from a place of powerlessness. This is quite an impossible situation. And yet this is exactly how so many of you define the world you live in every day. No wonder you are depressed. No wonder the highest cause of disease is stress.

As you break through these barriers and limiting beliefs, you will come upon centers of resistance within the culture itself. These do not have to affect you. But you will be aware of them. You will also come upon smaller versions of these obstacles within yourselves. What happens to compassion in a world where each person is responsible for their own lives? And which is compassionate: allowing the consequences of ignoring the truth about the power of your own creation in the lives of those around you, trying to show them the power of their own creation, or, as in the example of our man in the shower, reaching in and turning off the faucet for him? One of the things you will discover is that there is no right answer. For just as there is no one way to create, just as you are all individuals, each with your own highly specific and chosen ideas to work out, so each situation is individual, and so the spiritual principle "Judge Not, Lest Ye Be Judged" takes on a completely different meaning.

Each of us, in each moment, in each interaction, in each choice, using our own powers of discernment, from our own point of power, to suit our own purposes. Absolute Freedom. This is a foundation piece which is required on the path to total reorientation. You have discovered the difference between the intellectual discussion and the actual experience of this principle. Any who wish to learn, or follow in this new path you cut, will need to use their OWN discernment to do the same. And of course, you will have to remember and continue to practice this experience. Expanding until you are able to experience all experiences from this stand point. And at that place you will know ease. You will also know Joy and Playfulness, in ways you are just beginning to comprehend. So carry on down your bold path.

©1996, Rebecca Mundt and Kristen Fox. Read the full collection of Gradius and Ragon sessions at the Conscious Creation Website.

In Between Times
by Nardine Neilson

In between joy and in between pain
patterns I repeat again and again
drawing to me all that I seek
helping me be whole and complete

moment by moment I realize more
there’s nothing out there I need to store
answers I find in every heartbeat
my inner sweet voice I’m learning to speak

echoing through eons in time
eternal truths of which I remind
myself of my glory my light and my power
embracing more joy hour by hour

gaining of wisdom and giving with love
soaring in joy on the wings of a dove
I believe life to be
to express my uniqueness the essence of me

being a beacon upright and bright
safe secure and warm in Gods’ light
and in between times if I feel unsure
I know All Is Well to my very core

for all around me reflected I see
all of the magic of Gods’ tapestry

A Dream, A Question, and A Promise
By Pamela Gibson

Chapter 4

Thursday, the Following Morning

With a heavy heart, I trudged up three flights of stairs to Vic’s “stylin pad,” as he called his studio. My legs felt heavy, too, tired as I was from having no sleep after working the mid shift. I paused at his front door to catch my breath. Number 409—I’d only been inside twice. The first time I used a potted plant with purple flowers as my excuse for dropping by. The second time Annie and Red and I met up with Vic there, listened to some of his “boss sounds,” talked and laughed and sipped red Merlot from frosty glasses before “moseying on out” to the movies on our double date.

Both times, Vic’s bachelor pad was spic and span, not a free weight out of place. But now a glance through the half-open jalousie windows revealed phonograph records, tapes, dishes, clothes, barbells, and more strewn across floors, kitchen counters, and couch. Two men, one tall and slim, the other short and stout, stood in the tiny living room. A woman with short, curly brown hair sat on the carpet, sorted through the objects of Vic’s life, and cried. Another woman with shoulder length brown hair and big brown eyes stared at me through the slats of window glass.

Her face reminded me of Vic’s – same dimples in her cheeks, same Roman nose, same hint of perpetual good humor in the smile lines around her eyes. She opened the front door for me and I blurted out, “I work at the fire department and I was a good friend of Vic’s and I’m just shattered by what happened and…“ Further words stuck in my throat and I burst into tears. The woman did, too, and we clung to each other, our bodies shaking with sobs, until the waves of grief subsided.

Then the woman pulled away. She placed her hands on my shoulders and said, “Vic’s all right now. He’s in God’s hands.”

“Yes, that’s true,” I sniffled.

The tall man handed me a tissue and stared at me through wire-rimmed glasses. “Would you like to sit down?” he said.

“Yes. Thanks.” I’d sat in the same kitchen chair when Vic whipped me up a hamburger-helper dish. My eyes teared up at the thought that he’d never do that, or anything else, again. That our good times were all gone.

“I’m Tom Summers,” the man said. “And this is my wife Barbara, Vic’s sister.” He gestured toward the woman who reminded me of Vic. “And that’s Vic’s other sister, Eva.” Eva looked up at me with bloodshot eyes and continued to cry.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“This is Eva’s husband Joe.” Tom gestured to the short, stout man.

“I’m Pam. I worked with Vic and we were friends and if there’s anything I can do, anything at all, I’d be more than happy to.”

But what could I possibly do for Vic’s sisters? Their hearts must have broken and shattered with the news that their brother was dead, cut down in the flower of his manhood, not by fire but by the bullets of a murderous liar he called friend. Then to be yanked from their normal lives and forced to fly, grieving, to this so-called land of aloha. Strangers in a strange and hostile land indeed!

The only kindness I could think of to offer them was the use of my apartment. “I just live a few blocks away,” I said. “These are cramped quarters. You’re welcome to stay with me.”

Barbara said she appreciated the kind offer but Chief Jacobs had already arranged for accommodations for Eva and Joe at the Hale Koa Hotel. She and Tom were staying here so they could more easily sort through Vic’s belongings and decide what to ship home and what to give away to his friends.

“Maybe I can help you there,” I offered. “When you get to that point I can get hold of Vic’s friends for you if you like.”

“That would help, dear.” A dimpled smile lit up Barbara’s face.

Oh, goody. At least I could do something. “Will your parents be coming?” I asked.

She shook her head. “They couldn’t bear to come. Dad was on the USS Arizona when Pearl Harbor was bombed. He had to see so many of his friends buried at Punchbowl Memorial Park. He just couldn’t stand to go there again for the funeral of his only son.” Tears spilled over the black-lashed edges of her eyes.

I squeezed her hand and said I certainly understood how her father felt. Not knowing what else to say, I wrote down my phone number for her and repeated, “Please call me if you need anything.”

She thanked me for coming over and asked me if I would be coming to the funeral on the following day.

“Oh, yes.” I tried to think of something comforting to say but the only words I could come up with were, “All of us at the fire department are so sorry this happened.”

Barbara’s eyes filled with tears again. “Good-bye,” Tom said.

The Funeral on Friday

A strong feeling came over me at the memorial home, that Vic was right there taking it all in. Even as I saw his body lying in the casket, I felt his presence, alive and aware. Was I fabricating this as an escape from my grief? Or was he really there in spirit? Accustomed as I am to intuiting psychic phenomena by a characteristic tingling in my head and a feeling of expansion in my heart, in the presence of these signs I decided the latter had to be true. Yes, the true essence of Vic, his joyful loving energy, was indeed present. However, this knowledge only slightly lessened my grief as I joined a group of people from the fire department, friends, and acquaintances in paying tearful respects to Vic’s family.

“We’ll always remember Vic as the beautiful person he was,” I told Barbara.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She took my hands in hers and said, “Come over to the apartment on Thursday, dear, if you have some time.”

When the funeral procession assembled and the pall bearers lifted the casket into Vic’s red ramp truck, I cried at the sight of the truck, spotless, as Vic would have wanted it, wreathed in garland upon garland of flowers. Ramp 7 led the cavalcade, followed by a pumper truck, then all of the individual cars, each with a little black flag stuck on its hood.

The procession wound slowly up the mountain to Punchbowl Cemetery. Slowly we assembled and stood behind the chairs where Vic’s family sat, the women in black dresses, the men in black suits, a black mood gripping us as we wondered, “Why, dear God, why?” When everyone was huddled around the casket, a group of marines marched smartly into place and fired off the twenty-one gun salute reserved for fallen heroes.

“Vic,” I thought, “I know you’re here. We sure miss you.” My arms broke out in “chicken skin,” the local term for goose bumps, and tingling sensations made my head buzz. Something similar to a current of electricity surged up my spine. When it reached my head my skull felt like it was expanding, larger and larger. Like Alice, when she was 10 feet tall. “Wow,” I thought. “Vic really is here and he’s letting me know it.”

The minister read a poem that Vic’s parents had sent about a loving son torn away from the earth in the prime of his life and propelled straight into the arms of God. When he read the words, “Through the quickening years we will love you, Son,” I felt those same tingling sensations all over again. At that very moment, a wind whisked briskly underneath the flag that the four pall bearers held over the casket, causing it to balloon up, sail-like, almost snatching the flag out of the surprised men’s hands and carrying it into the rainbow-laced sky. “Oh, Vic. You still love to play,” I whispered.

Chills traveled up my spine to my neck and confirmed for me again that Vic was one of the spectators, watching it all come down. The thought comforted and elated me. “You just swooped down in the wind to let us know you’re still around, didn’t you? In that ‘stylin-dude’ way of yours,” I thought. Again, my head tingled with invisible energy.

Saturday, the following day

I was typing up the manning sheet on day shift when my pal Robert, a short pudgy fireman who lived in Vic’s apartment building, poked his head into the alarm room and said he’d heard something about Jaaku and Vic.

He sat in the brown chair behind the back desk, clasped his hands together and rested them on the desk. “Some friends of mine who live in the apartment directly above Vic heard a loud argument coming from his apartment the night before he was shot. They figure he was talking to somebody on the phone because they only heard Vic’s voice.”

“Could they make out what Vic was saying?” I asked.

“Unfortunately not. But it could give the state an ace in the hole when it comes to prosecuting Jaaku because, if they were arguing the night before the murder, the prosecuting attorney might be able to prove the murder was premeditated.”

“First degree murder, huh? Did your friends tell the detectives about it?”

“Yeah, they told Yamaguchi when he and Ledbetter came over to search Vic’s apartment the afternoon of the murder.”

So they’d searched Vic’s place before they came to see me. I wondered if they found anything helpful. “Too bad your friends didn’t hear the conversation. I’d give anything to know what was said.”

“Yeah. That’s the big question, isn’t it? What the argument was about?”

I nodded. Those of us who knew Jaaku had no doubt he murdered Vic. The question was why.

A little while later Red stopped by and asked if I’d heard anything about whether or not Jaaku’s bail had been changed and if a trial date had been set.

“Not a word.”

“Any suggestions about how we can find out, Pam?”

“The only thing I can think to do is call the detectives and ask them. They should know.”

Red thought that was a good idea. I agreed to call Homicide first thing Monday morning and promised to call Red the minute I found anything out.

The Following Monday

“Homicide,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. I asked to speak with Detective Ledbetter or Yamaguchi. There was a long pause and I heard voices in the background. Jeff answered the phone, “Yamaguchi.”

“This is Pam Gibson. Can you please tell me if Jaaku’s bail is still set at fifty thousand? And do you know the date of the trial?”

“Pam.” Jeff’s voice was hard and angry. “What do you think you’re doing, making that statement about the obscene phone call?”

I had not expected anger. My heart pounded to a staccato beat and my mind scattered the way it does when danger threatens, circling around itself in an endless loop-de-loop. I couldn’t think clearly as my mind raced around, searching for the stupid or wrong thing I’d done to bring his anger down on me. Fear grabbed me and made my voice shake, “I...I...I heard Jaaku was saying that Vic was making obscene phone calls to me.”

“Yeah? So?” Jeff fired his words at me like bullets.

“So I came down and talked about that phone call I received,” I whispered, unnerved.

“When are you going to come down and make a statement about what you told us before?” Jeff demanded.

“Then I’d have to testify in court.” I felt my knees go weak.

“Yes! Pam, you must come down. You must! You said Vic was like a brother to you. You must tell the truth for him!”

“But I can’t testify,” I thought. “Jaaku will have me killed.” Nor could I talk about my fears to Jeff, who didn’t seem to care one whit about my safety. He only cared that the truth be told and he needed my statement for that. I’d thought I could refuse to make a statement about what I’d told him that day in the chief’s office. After all, it was only hearsay evidence. But now his anger had me trapped as securely as any criminal locked behind bars. Seeing no way out and not daring to tell him to back off, I said, “Okay.”

“You must!” Jeff’s vehement voice and the anger I felt pulsing behind it made me feel like he had my shoulders pinned against a concrete wall. “Think about it for a few days if you like. You can write it down. Or you can tell me when you come down and I’ll record your statement. All right, Pam? I expect to see you in a few days.”

“Okay,” I repeated, and thought, “I already said ‘okay,’ you bully.”

“All right then!”

I remembered my promise to Red. “How can I find out when Jaaku’s trial will be? And if his bail’s been changed? And if he’s still in jail?”

“Call the prosecutor’s office.” Jeff slammed the phone down.

The receiver shook in my hand and I shook all over. I had no doubt Jaaku would send somebody after me if I testified against him. How in the world could I protect myself now?

I phoned the prosecutor’s office. A woman with a friendly voice said Jaaku’s trial was scheduled for June 4th, nearly a four month wait because the court was backlogged. No, the bail had not been changed and yes, Jaaku was still in jail.

When I called Red with the news he had some for me. During their search of Vic’s apartment, the detectives found a loaded .38 lying on top of his futon. The bed was made, indicating that Vic placed the gun there after he neatly tucked in the sheets and bedspread around the edges of his futon the morning he was murdered.

“I can’t believe Vic owned a gun. Was it registered to him?” I said.

“Yes. Vic’s family knew he had a .38. They told Jeff that Vic grew up around guns in the Pennsylvania hills where he was raised and knew how to use them. But he only fired them during target practice, or when he shot poisonous snakes.”

“Then it would have been appropriate to use it against Jaaku,” I said. Red chuckled. “How did you find out?”

“I haf vays of making people talk!” Red quipped. I laughed, grateful for his humor. “Actually, the chief told me after the detectives told him. The chief wants me and you and Bob kept in the loop because we’re the only ones who voluntarily gave information to the detectives or bothered to show up for the preliminary hearing.”

“That’s good of him.”

“Yeah. It’s also survival. The more ammunition we can accumulate against Jaaku the better. The scenario that the chief and the detectives came up with is that Jaaku was coming to work that morning to murder him and some of the other supervisors.”

“That’s what we thought all along,” I said. “And Vic got in the way.”

“That’s the way it looks,” Red said.

Tuesday the following day

Although Jaaku and Vic impacted my dispatching days and nights more than most, they represented only five percent of the forty-some firemen on A and B shifts. With few exceptions, the rest of the firefighters were at least cordial and at most buddies of mine who, in the evenings and wee hours of the night, sometimes popped in and “talked stories” with me.

Especially after they wheeled back into the station following particularly gruesome emergencies, it wasn’t unusual for us to bat the breeze for hours. Talking seemed to help some of them cope with the horrors they’d encountered on the scene and I tried to be a good sounding board. I felt flattered when they trusted me enough to share their feelings with me. They trusted each other more, however, relying as they did on each other for their very lives, and often grew as close as brothers. Part of my endless speculation about what drew Vic and Jaaku together included wondering if their friendship was birthed from some such experience.

Sometimes energy flowed between us through the airways, me on the radios and phones, the firemen on the scene where life and death dramas were unfolding. When we connected like this, it was an incredible rush and I felt privileged to be part of the team. At other times, I felt like I was a member of a dysfunction family, struggling to cope with the inevitable personality clashes.

One of the guys I clashed with from time to time was outspoken, hot tempered, rescue man Gil Flannigan. True, I admired him for his high level of medical expertise that he used to full advantage in saving lives. But he gave me a hard time when he was assigned alarm room “relief” duties and I had to interrupt his volley ball, TV or sleep so I could take a potty break (the shortsighted station architects failed to include a bathroom in the alarm room.) After he angrily dubbed me “Pamela Pee Pee” when I woke him up on a mid shift, my humiliation led me to find another solution. I took to peeing in empty 7-11 coffee cups on swing and mid shifts when I could turn the lights down so no one could see me through the alarm room’s two-way glass.

He was friendlier after that but still thought me a bit airy fairy, what with my eyes often traveling across the pages of a Seth book between alarms rather than watching TV like the other dispatchers. He wasn’t one to drop by the alarm room and chat so I wondered what was up when, after my dinner break in the community room, he walked me back to my “cage” as the guys called the alarm room. I found out when he sat behind the back desk and blurted out, “You liked Vic, didn’t you, Pam?”

I nodded, my eyes instantly blurry.

“Jaaku’s an asshole. I’m really sorry for what happened.”

“Thanks.” It was all I could say without risking a cloudburst of tears.

“I didn’t know Vic and Jaaku, being as how they were on the other shift, except to say, ‘Hi, how you doing?’ to Vic. But I’d heard enough about Jaaku to know he was a punk so I steered clear him. Did you see the news on TV about the shooting the night it happened?”

“No.”

“It showed the police taking Jaaku away in the squad car. When he saw the photographer, he made a thumbs-up sign, like he was proud of what he did.” Anger ignited in Gil’s blue eyes. “I sat there and cried, Pam, it was such a cold thing to do.”

“But just like Jaaku.” I squinted in an attempt to push the tears back down in their ducts. “I don’t think he feels anything. I wonder if he’s a sociopath.”

“Heh? What you said?” Gil’s imitation of local talk made me smile. “He’s a nut case is what he is. Here Jaaku had just ripped off a human life, the life of his best pal no less, and he’s trying to act like Mr. Cool.”

“Vic used to say Jaaku was ‘a sick dude.’ Too bad he didn’t realize just how sick. I think Jaaku had his .357 magnum concealed in the waistband at the back of his trousers.”

“And what makes you think so, Detective Gibson?”

“Because, Rescue Man Flannagan, Vic had powder burns on his body. That means Jaaku was standing less than a foot away. If Jaaku had been waving a gun at him, Vic would never have come so close. Jaaku’s a sneak. He must have had the gun concealed.”

“Sounds reasonable. Didn’t you tell me Jaaku like to hang in the alarm room with you?” I nodded. “It must have been rough on you, dealing with a psycho in such close quarters.”

“You’ve got that right. I was trapped. It was awful.” And chilling, seeing into Jaaku’s twisted soul, wanting to tell him to get the hell out, not daring to confront him. “What worries me now is, given the opportunity, Jaaku will murder again. As long as he figures he’ll get away with it. Do you know about all the violent acts he’s committed?”

“I’ve heard rumors.” Gil shrugged, “But I don’t know how many of them are true. Do you?”

“At least some are. Jaaku was always bragging about doing wretched things. He exaggerated but a lot of the things he claimed to have done really happened. The kind of meanness where he sneaks around behind someone’s back and rips them off—that’s Jaaku’s style. Then, he brags about it and makes the story bigger so he’ll look like a bad ass.” I shuddered.

Gil noticed. “Relax. What slightly weird thought just crossed your mind?”

“Not weird, spooky. The significance of Jaaku’s name. Do you know what it stands for?”

“Jock, ooh?” I smiled and Gil added, “No, I guess that couldn’t be Jaaku, the fat-bellied slob.”

“It’s short for jaaku-no, which means evil-minded in Japanese. Myron Kanashige called him that when he was bragging about how he was going to blow somebody away. Jaaku liked it a whole lot better than his real name, Christian. Jaaku-no was so apropos that he kept a shortened version for his nickname.”

Gil laughed loudly. “No kidding? I read in the newspaper his real name is Christian Cardoza. I never knew.”

“The guys on A shift used to call him ‘unchristian.’ He loved it. I think his mom gave him the name Christian because she sensed he had evil in him and she wanted to put a good vibration around him.”

“Evil? Good vibration? Oh, come on. What twisted path are you taking me down here?”

“Oh, you’re so left brain. Jaaku was given a good name but it didn’t fit because he had an evil spirit. So he chose a perverted name that fits him better.”

Gil grinned like he’d heard the world’s best joke. “Pam, you don’t really believe in evil spirits, do you? I don’t think you should take such stuff literally.”

I thought about Seth’s words, that he who indulges in violence for whatever reason is forever changed and the purity of his purpose adulterated. To my way of thinking, Jaaku had murdered his own good side when he murdered Vic. What remained of his degraded soul was cold, dark, and deadly. “Just look at Jaaku—he chose an evil name for himself and violently murdered his best friend in cold blood.” I thought it best not to tell Gil about the murderer’s thumbs.

He rubbed his chin. “Yeah, that’s so.”

“And he’s certainly capable of doing something equally crazy again, especially now that he’s looking at serving hard prison time, maybe even the life sentence. He’s paranoid, always thinking people are double-crossing him, always plotting on how to get even for imagined wrongs.” A tremor crept into my voice; I wasn’t able to squelch it. “When some of us have to testify against him, I’m sure he’ll try to get even. He constantly used to tell me about how he was going to ‘settle the score’ with people.” The sour taste of stomach acid filled my mouth.

Gil gave me a look that was part pity and part disdain. “People can’t let that punk intimidate them. Jaaku will end up behind bars where he belongs. What can he do to us if he’s locked up? Do I detect a little paranoia here? Do you have to testify?”

“Maybe,” I laughed nervously. “I don’t know for sure yet. Yeah, I suppose I’m paranoid. Tomorrow I have to go down to the police station and give them my statement.”

Wednesday

I tossed and turned Tuesday night, slept very little, and worried about what I could tell Jeff that would stop him from hassling me further and at the same time make me an unlikely candidate to be a witness. My stomach was all aflutter, too nervous to eat the eggs and steel-cut oatmeal I cooked up. As I washed the breakfast dishes, my mind struggled with the problem of what I would talk to Jeff about. The only idea I could come up with was to try and focus Jeff’s attention on the sleazy lies Jaaku told about me and the time I had him kicked out of the alarm room.

Maybe I could sidetrack Jeff from the true-crime stories Jaaku offended my ears with as he sought to impress me with his sick version of manliness. The way I felt that morning, it would have been preferable to chop my legs off at the knees rather than testify against Jaaku and risk the vengeance of him and his punk friends. I was certain, if I had to testify, it would be impossible to ever sleep peacefully again anywhere in Hawaii.

I dialed homicide. The voice on the other end said, “Ledbetter.”

“Oh, good,” I thought, “Maybe I can talk to Andy instead of Jeff.” I told Andy I was as ready as I’d ever be to make a statement and would like to come down.

“Jeff’s not here,” Andy said.

“Can’t I just come down and talk to you?” I said. “Do I have to talk to him?”

“Yes, you do.” My heart sank and I wondered if Andy had caught heat for letting me make a statement about that obscene phone call. “Jeff will be back in a few minutes. Give me your phone number and I’ll have him call you back.”

Less than five minutes later, the phone rang. “Hello, Pam?” Jeff’s voice was friendly and conversational. I wanted to slug him, knowing he was playing me like a fiddle and I couldn’t silence the tune. “How are you doing? What’s up?”

“I want to come down. Right now, if possible. Are you busy?” Anxiety made my speech quick and nervous.

After a pause Jeff answered, “I’m not busy. You can come down.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, I couldn’t write it all down, I’ll just tell you what I know,” I blurted out in one breath.

Less than fifteen minutes later I sat on a hard wooden bench outside the Homicide Division. The receptionist told me to wait for Jeff.

I could almost smell the fear of others who had previously sat here and sweated, also pressured out by The Law. I felt my agitated energy sink into the wood to mingle with that of previous witnesses. Then that combined angst rose up into my throat and tried to choke me. “It’s the bench,” I thought, “that’s overflowing with fear. It’s not me. Surely not me.” I clutched the edge of the bench, stared at the drab gray tile floor and listened to the steady drone of the air conditioner. “What am I doing here,” I muttered under my breath, “after Dad told me not to make a statement?”

I looked up to see Jeff standing at the entrance to homicide, his gray eyes fixed on me. An uncharacteristic look of compassion filled his swarthy face and, for a moment, he looked more like a kindly gentleman than his usual stern, uncompromising lawman self. He caught my gaze and the look quickly disappeared, his act changing back to tough cop. “Come in, Pam,” he said. I followed him down a narrow hallway and into a tiny interview room.

A tape recorder rested on a card table in the middle of the cold, bare cubicle of a room. We sat on hard wooden chairs and faced each other across the table. He offered me coffee but I’d had a taste of homicide’s stale acidic brew when Andy interviewed me so I said, “No thanks.” Jeff poured himself a cup, placed it on the card table between us, clasped his hands, rested them on the tabletop, and said, “Now, Pam, before we record your statement, let’s talk about what we need. I don’t want you to tell me the things other people told you about Jaaku. I need you to tell me the things Jaaku told you. Is this clear?”

I nodded. “Well...he told me he slapped the chief three times. And that he stole the station video center equipment and sold it at the swap meet.” I stopped, hoping that would appease him.

Jeff frowned. “We knew that already. What else—”

“And I had some incidents with Jaaku.” I paused and looked away before adding, “I don’t know if they’re important.”

Jeff leaned forward. “You tell me. I’ll tell you if they’re important.”

“Well...the first one happened less than two weeks after I began working at Hennessee. People started coming to me and telling me Jaaku was telling everybody that he’d looked through the alarm room window after midnight one night and….”

I felt my face grow hot and couldn’t make any more words come out. I thought I’d gotten over this years ago. But now, as I looked into Jeff’s steel gray eyes, embarrassment made me mute.

“Go on, Pam.” Jeff’s voice was gentle.

I tried again. “Jaaku said he saw me…” Again the words stuck in my throat. Finally I forced them out, “having sex with a Navy fire chief on the alarm room floor.”

Jeff’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Really?” he asked.

About Pamela:

Pam recently finished her article titled “Connecting Kids with Nature, Hawaiian Style,” to be published by Fish and Wildlife News Magazine in their Summer/Fall issue later this year. Her article “Hawai’i Parents Speak Out About Healthy Food Choices; Healthy Meal Tips for Families” will be published as the cover story in Island Scene magazine in July, 2008. She is hard at work on an article about the history and uses of native Hawaiian plants.

She thanks Mike Nelson Pedde of Canada, who first emailed her as an SNJ reader and now is a cyber friend, for his continued feedback and uplifting words of support. A knowledgeable and well-spoken reader of Seth’s words and works, Mike recently wrote:

“It must be difficult for you, reliving these memories as you go.  As Seth would say, when you 'remember' the past you are actually restructuring it now, from the present.  I don't know if it would make you feel better; it may not bring back your friend, but you can still choose the outcome you'd most prefer, at least in your memory or imagination of it.”

“I always feel better after reading Mike’s words,” Pam says. “Reliving these memories is sometimes like dancing in the sunshine and sometimes like falling into deep earth cracks where darkness reigns. Mike’s positive outlook and insights help me pull myself out of the crevices. Mahalo plenty (thank you so much) Mike.”

Pam welcomes feedback on her story “A Dream, A Question, and A Promise.” Please feel free to email her at lyricpam1@yahoo.com

Relatively Free

by Donald R. Johnson

Moving just out of your sight
A part of you carelessly dances
It does those things that seem right
Because you won't

Words unsaid are spoken
Deeds only imagined, are done
Truces maintained, are broken
Because you can't

I tear down the walls
And laugh at your fears
Watching as another excuse falls
Knowing that someday you'll be...

Relatively free

And I'll still dance before you
Breaking the bonds that confine
I'll dance in new places too
I am what you dare not be - yet

Moving into the new realm
With an easy step
You casually take the helm
And you see me not

You imagine that you are bound
You are afraid to dance
You worry about how you'll sound
Maybe you fear to be...

Absolutely free

1-13-2008

Announcements, Links and Shopping

Introducing Wisp E-Zine

Though we are no longer in the age of the stylus and clay tablets, there is still some truth remaining in the Latin saying "verba volent, scripta manent" (spoken words fly away, but writings remains). Especially in our fast paced world of instantaneous communication where written words can become as fleeting as spoken words once were.

Brought together as a group of people with similar interests, through social networks of all kinds, personal acquaintances, chatrooms and newsgroups from all over the world, we soon found out that there was a fascinating magic at play in the beautiful interweaving of our stories.

And it often all happened so fast, that time for contemplation was reduced to a few seconds.

So we decided to start some new adventure, to let us expand this natural beauty, and give it a fertile ground to thrive.

A sort of lively garden nestled in the swarming buzz of the city, where time is suspended and true sharing can occur.

Thus, Wisp was born. Wisp, like a flock of birds, or like a wisp of smoke...

Wisp is above all a playground, where everyone desiring to share about his or her own adventure is welcome.

It follows the flow of the energies involved in its creation, and the good-will (o'wisp) of its contributors.

The next issue is planned for July. Till then, feel free to browse the archives at http://wisp.focusphere.net and who knows... you may want to get involved :)

Dale Evans is an Intuitive & Psychic Coach and Energy Worker who has been studying, teaching, and exploring metaphysical phenomena for over 40 years. Her teachings incorporate direct personal experience in order to foster and nurture self-acceptance and trust in one's natural abilities. Dale is also a published poet, newspaper reporter, and freelance journalist whose work is seen in print and on various websites, e-zines and online journals. Visit her website at www.ItAllBeginsNow.com.

Explore the works of Visionary Artist Shirley Hadley!

The photographs you see below were created by Shirley in her studio, and not through electronic manipulation. Each photo is available in 5x7 or 8x10 and includes a poem that goes with the photo.

Entrance to Awareness
The journey of the self is
to see without using your eyes
to hear but not with your ears.
Listen to your inner voice, it will lead you
to an awareness of new ways to view your
selves and the world you live in.

New from Sharon Hackleman, author of Marion the Magnet



MIND TIME CARDS

"Mind Time Cards are a deck of 31 inspiring positive daily affirmations created by Sharon Hackleman and illustrated by Jessica Glickman. The SOUL purpose of creating the Mind Time Cards is to teach teens about the magical powers of positive thought and the importance of feeling good about themselves-
Spirit, Mind, and Body!

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FREE SHIPPING
when ordered on mindtimecards.com

"We are all connected...intertwined...by a universal energy so divine." - Sharon Hackleman

Sethworld - A board game based on the Seth Material

Explore your beliefs! Stretch your imagination! Delve into your dreams! Challenge your creativity!

Seven years in the making, I am so pleased to be able to offer you SethWorld - The Game of All That Is! SethWorld is a totally unique game, the first metaphysical board game based on the Seth material - maybe the first metaphysical board game, ever! It is designed to explore and uncover beliefs while having fun. There are no winners, no losers, and NO RULES! A 24-page pamphlet included with the game gives a probable framework for play, 6 sample "moves," and a glossary of 61 concepts.

SethWorld -- You've never played anything like it!

WHAT A COINCIDENCE Understanding Synchronicity In Everyday Life
by Susan M Watkins

Overview:

What if all those seemingly insignificant little What a coincidence! moments you've experienced were actually connected, were part of a larger, more complex coincidence story?

What if they were hinting at something very personal and important about yourself—and about the workings of human consciousness?

Would you listen?

Susan Watkins does. For more than 35 years she's been documenting and studying the coincidences that have happened in her life. What she's discovered is that seemingly simple coincidences—thinking of an old friend and their calling seconds later, for example—are often pieces of larger, more complex and meaningful "coincidence clusters."

A former newspaper reporter and the author of five books, Watkins has always been intrigued by coincidences—what they mean in our everyday lives, and in the grander scheme of things. What, she asks, do these coincidence clusters say about human consciousness and human connection? In What a Coincidence! she presents coincidence clusters that are utterly astounding. What they reveal is life- altering.

What a Coincidence! is an exciting, groundbreaking journey. Along the way Watkins offers profound insights as well as practical pointers on how to become aware of the coincidence clusters in our own lives. She also shows us how to document coincidences so that we, too, can reap their valuable rewards. We'll never brush off those What a Coincidence! moments again.

BAY AREA SETH GROUPS

If you live in the San Francisco area you'll want to check out the new Bay Area Seth Groups website. Their calendar is chock full of events hosted by seven different groups around the Bay area.

Conscious Creation Links – Conscious Creation Publishers, Book Stores, Websites, Journals, Newsletters, Mailing Lists, Message Boards, and more.

The Elias forum - website by Paul & Joanne Helfrich contains an expansion of many of the conscious creation concepts introduced by Seth/Jane Roberts, channeled by Mary Ennis.

What if the Seth material was a foundation to be expanded later by other channeled sources? Can any perennial source ever be considered complete AND infallible?

Seth readers will want to check out:
Introduction & Overview
A Seth, Elias Comparative Overview (Updated!)
Digest: Seth, Jane Roberts

In The Rose Garden - a blog by Joanne Helfrich who channels the essence of Rose as mentioned in the Elias forum.

The Kris Chronicles - an expansion of many of the conscious creation concepts introduced by Seth/Jane Roberts, channeled by Serge Grandbois.

A Kris, Seth, Elias Comparative Overview (Updated!) - a preliminary comparison of core concepts in the Seth material, information offered by Elias, and Kris Chronicles

Otherfocus.com the personal website of Donald R. Johnson

Explore the creative worlds of John McNally and Kristen Fox Cofounders of the Conscious Creation Website and Email group John and Kristen share interests in writing, art, photography and cooking which they explore on a variety of websites:

John and Kristen's new Green blog: It Should Be Easy Being Green
Intuitive Astrology site: Psychic Weather
Writing: Mind Altering Fiction
Photography: Telepathicfrog
Cooking: Food Follies
Shop: Telepathic Frog Designs
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Kristen's weblog: FoxVox
Art & Photo Gallery: Art of FoxVox
Art & Photo Prints: Deviant Art
T Shirt Reviews Tshirt Casserole