A monthly e-zine that highlights the creative energy of over 1600 souls exploring the work of Jane Roberts and Rob Butts.
Volume Fifty-Five
Protea Powers by Nardine
In This Issue:
Protea Powers by Nardine
Rob Butts: A Retrospect by Frank P. Dorchak
The Winds of Change by Lydia Brescia
A Dream, A Question, and A Promise: Chapter 14 by Pamela Gibson
10 Little-known Gems by Brent Marchant
Announcements, Links and Shopping
Protea Powers
by Nardine
Wandering
around my garden this week I saw this stunning bloom and thought it so
beautiful I wanted to capture its magnificence. I then researched the
magical symbology of this flower: Protea are among the oldest families
of flowers on earth, dating back 300 million years. Greek legend tells
us that Protea were named after Proteus, the son of Poseidon - a sea
god who had the power to know all things past, present and future. With
mythological associations to change and transformation, in the language
of flowers, the Protea represents diversity, courage and strength.
Rob Butts: A Retrospect
by Frank P. Dorchak
Last
year a friend of mine, Rob Butts, passed away (May 26th). I posted a
blog about it, which can be accessed below. As I mentioned in this
blog, Rob and I started corresponding with each other when I was a
teenager, some thirty-odd years ago back in Lake Clear, New York. He
was my first contact with a “Famous Person,” and he impressed me
because he actually wrote back! I’ve since come to find out very few
“Famous People” actually write back to you. Or maybe it’s just me?
Well, in any case, that lasted a veritable lifetime, since we continued
to correspond up to his death last year. I liked Rob, he was
unassuming, cool, open, had great thoughts that created great
“conversations” (letters), and we saw many things eye to eye. Living a
philosophical belief system like this...well, that’s saying a lot. And
he took the time of day to sit down and actually HANDWRITE his letters
back to me, many times including artwork on them. Took the time to read
some of my weird manuscripts I had sent his way, both for comment and
just for fun. Took the time to allow me to come see him (twice--though
neither time panned out), and talk with him on the phone.
It’s
not that I worship him or Jane, or even Seth. I appreciate and admire
them. Admire their courage to speak out against the tide. Forge a new
path, even though, at times, they might have been afraid to. I never
got to “talk” with Jane; she had either been too inundated with her
work and Rob had been running interference for her, or she had begun
her decline about the time I attempted contact, I no longer recall. But
it’s just like any time you lose someone you really enjoyed talking
to/with, whether it’s a beloved parent, grandparent, pet (I talk to my
pets all the time!), or friend. I miss the letters we wrote back and
forth. Sure, it might have taken him six months to wade through all his
correspondence, but he ALWAYS wrote back. It was cool. And I hope his
wife, Laurel, is holding up well a year later. My heart goes out to
you, Laurel.
Do you know that people are STILL signing Rob’s guest book a year later? Check out the Legacy link, below.
So,
I’m just taking this time to think about him, hope he’s having some
wonderful adventures, and send a smile and warm energy his (and Jane’s
and Seth’s) way. The three of them did a lot for me and many, in my
formative years, and to which I am greatly indebted. They taught me to
think outside the box and trust myself. That there’s so much more than
literally meets the eye. So much more to life...and death. And that we
have a hand in all of it, every single speck of it. Gave me a new, far
more useful understanding of God and life.
So,
yeah, I miss Rob--but I know he’s out there having further adventures
with Jane and company, and growing in new and exciting ways.
Bon voyage!
Frank
Frank P. Dorchak
blog writer and paranormal fiction author, delves into the world of the
supernatural, the unexplained, and the metaphysical, to explore who we
are and why we exist. Heavily influenced by the writings of Jane
Roberts, Stephen King and H. P. Lovecraft, Frank published his first
book, Sleepwalkers, in 2001, with Author House.
Frank
has since been published in the US, Canada, and "the old
Czechoslovakia," now the Czech Republic, with over a dozen paranormal
short stories in various small-press magazines. Among his work, Frank
has written about fear, monsters, a race of forever-walking people, a
paradoxical love, a Civil War soldier lost in time, a "shipwrecked
UFO," the end of the world, and many, many more tales of the super
ordinary and fantastic.
Sleepwalkers is self-published through 1st Books Library, as a print-on-demand book with http://www.authorhouse.com/ (ISBN 0-75963-950-7)
To visit his blog page: http://www.authorsden.com/visit/author.asp?AuthorID=9240
To contact via email: fpdorchak@fpdorchak.com
Link to Rob Butts Guestbook: http://www.legacy.com/Star-Gazette/GB/GuestbookView.aspx?PersonId=110687230
The Winds of Change
by Lydia Brescia
You can see the Wind only in what it moves.
Tumbleweeds come alive, skipping across desert highways
They break apart and little ones take off for lives of their own.
The breeze whispers to them... of safe hollows in which to hide.
Tumbleweeds, like Tribbles, jouncing over veils of coral sand
Repositioning Mother Earth's Blanket
Covering what is... now, uncovering what... came before,
The sand snuggles in curves of skeletons past
Mute images of animal lives as they join the Parade of Seasons,
Past and Present, Ever Circling.
Change is always... something we can count on.
The Sun will rise again...
Bringing with it... The Winds of Change.
April 2009
A Dream, A Question, and A Promise
Copyright by Pamela Gibson
Chapter 14
Monday, September 4th
When
I walked into the alarm room a few minutes before 4 p.m., Henrietta
announced, “Ten four, Chief Two” on the radio, answered the red fire
phone, “Fire Department, are you reporting an emergency?” and pointed
at a message she'd taken for me. It was from Emilio and read, "The
trial starts tomorrow at 8:30 at the Circuit Court at 777 Punchbowl,
Courtroom #5, on the 4th floor."
“This is it,” I thought. “D-day has finally arrived.”
The
roar of the airfield trucks backing into the station nearly drowned out
her words as she filled me in on what was happening in the operations
side of the house. I must have given her a blank stare because she
asked, "Did you get that, Pam?" I had to admit I didn't.
She
patiently repeated herself and this time I paid attention. Then she
headed out to Honolulu in what I imagined would be bumper-to-bumper,
going-to-work traffic. I anticipated getting stuck as well when I drove
into town early the following morning for The Trial. “I'll leave at 6
a.m.,” I thought. “No, five thirty's better. Then I'll grab a bite of
breakfast in town. Four or five hours of sleep isn't much but who
cares? God willing, the Worm King will fry. Please God, be willing.”
Tuesday, September 5th
In
spite of my good intentions, I didn't make it out of my front door
until six. A three-car accident on the H-1 Freeway tied up traffic even
worse than usual and left me inching through Honolulu’s clogged
streets. Two hours later found me frantically searching for a parking
spot near the circuit court building. Nothing materialized.
Three
blocks further away, Lady Luck smiled on me when a car in front of me
vacated a parking space with 25 minutes left on the meter. I funneled
in four quarters, ran to the building, sprinted up three flights of
stairs, and arrived at courtroom number five only to find it empty. A
search of the building unearthed the court clerk who informed me that
the courtroom had been changed to the district court building on Alakea Street and the trial was now scheduled to begin at 9 a.m.
I
repeated my father’s signature curse, “God damned son of a bitch” under
my breath, ran back to my car and drove across town to district court
which, fortunately for me, stood across the street from a parking
garage. This time I let the escalator carry my tired body up to the
second floor.
The
floor was constructed in the shape of a cross with four separate
hallways, a square open space in the center and two courtrooms situated
on the interior side of each hallway. I looked around, uncertain of
which way to go. A clock on the wall said two minutes until 9 am. Good,
just in time. I spotted some scratched-up wooden benches lining the
walls opposite the courtrooms; Detective Alex Ledbetter sat on one of
them. He shuffled through papers piled on his lap and spilling across
the bench. The guy looked like he needed a secretary.
I
breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of an ally and headed his way.
No sooner had the words, "Hello, Alex. Do you have to testify?" escaped
from my mouth than I thought, “How dumb of me. Of course he does.
That's why he's here.”
Alex didn't seem annoyed at me asking the obvious. He nodded and said, "Me and Jeff. How about you?"
“No.” It surprised me that he didn’t know. “Mr. Soon said I don't have to testify."
"You're just here to watch the trial, then?"
I
nodded. He snatched up some papers to clear a space for me but I
remained standing because I didn’t want to miss even a moment of the
proceedings. "Has it started yet?" I asked.
"No.
There's been a delay.” A look of dismay must have filled my face
because he hastened to add, "The assigned judge is ill and they have to
decide whether to assign another judge or cancel the trial for today.
They'll decide by 10 o'clock."
Patience
is not my forte. I wanted to scream but instead thanked Andy for the
info and said I’d see him later. The elevator carried me down to the
first floor where I found a pay phone and dialed Norma's number. No
answer, just as there’d been no answer the night before when I phoned
her. Antsy and anxious now, I walked out the door, across the street,
and down the block to a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. Although my cup
of java held more cream than coffee, it tasted almost as bitter as I
felt at the thought that seven months had passed since Jaaku murdered
Vic and now the trial might be postponed again. Five minutes
before ten found me sprinting back into the court building, my
caffeinated heart racing faster than my feet as I ran up the escalator
to the second floor.
Jaaku
and his parents stood near the entrance of one of the courtrooms. I
cringed at the sight of him and sank down on a nearby bench because I
felt unsteady on my feet.
His
closely clipped hair looked like a dirty black scull cap. He wore a
gray suit and black tie in an attempt, I imagined, to appear
respectable. His jacket bulged across his belly with the excess fat
he'd acquired since the preliminary hearing.
He
didn’t see me as he talked with his mother, a large woman, heavy set,
with a thick black braid trailing down her back. The slump of her
shoulders spoke of defeat and resignation. The bowed back of her
husband, a fat-bellied man with a bulb-shaped nose and a white shock of
hair, told a similar tale. “How awful to be Jaaku's parents,” I thought. For the first time, I felt sorry for his Mom and Dad.
Jaaku
swiveled. His eyes scanned the hallway before coming to rest on me,
whereupon he smiled and waved. My mind started churning the way it does
when bombarded with irreconcilable data. I turned my head away and felt
dizzy, like I might faint. The sight of Jaaku pretending to be a friend
was just too much.
Wanting
to get as far away from him as I could as quickly as possible, I stood
up and walked over to the rail that separated the escalator from the
hallway. I glanced down and spotted Jeff, briefcase in hand, taking the
slow ride up, his gray eyes focused on me. His smile pulled my mind
away from the murderer who stood less than 50 yards away. Jeff
Yamaguchi; a sight for my sore eyes indeed. A crazy thought took
possession of me; that if I could just touch his arm it would be like
touching Jesus’ robe and some of that rock-solidness of his would
magically mend my shattered heart.
A
reassuring smile was exactly what I needed and I gratefully smiled
back. A look of compassion spread across his face like ocean water
washing over the shore. “What a good guy,” I thought. Although I’d
kicked and screamed at this Christian detective’s relentless insistence
that I tell the truth, he’d cracked my dark shell of fear and confusion
wide open and pulled me into the light.
I
glanced back in the direction of the courtroom where Jaaku had stood
moments before. He’d disappeared and people were walking into the
courtroom. I took a deep breath and silently prayed that justice would
prevail. Then I rushed over, pulled the heavy door open, and slipped
through.
Jaaku's
family and in-laws sat clustered together on the left side of the
wood-paneled courtroom. Very much aware that I was the only spectator
present who was not a supporter of the Worm King, I slipped into an
empty wooden bench on the right side. The icy temperature in the
courtroom made me shiver and I vowed to bring a sweater on the
following day. Now I understood why the lawyers and detectives wore
suits; they didn’t want to freeze their okoles.
In
the front right quadrant of the courtroom, Jaaku sat at a table beside
the same short, fat Japanese lawyer who represented him at the
preliminary hearing. The fortuneteller had said Jaaku had a good lawyer
and might get off. I fervently hoped this prediction was among the
twenty percent she commonly got wrong.
Behind
another desk on the opposite side of the courtroom sat a Chinese man
who I presumed was Daniel Soon, the deputy prosecutor. He walked over
to a man seated on a bench several rows in front of me and spoke with
him quietly. Soon stood nearly six feet tall, looked almost anorexic in
his thinness, had an ivory complexion without a line or a wrinkle, and
sported thick black eyelashes any women would envy. “He looks so
young,” I thought. “Hope he's experienced enough to handle Whacko
Jaaku.”
Three
large, fleshy women who I recognized as Jaaku's sisters sat on the
bench beside their parents. Their round, clear-skinned faces, big brown
eyes, and long black hair mimicked that of their mother’s. One of them
sported a bruised-looking eye, colorful with painful shades of black,
blue, purple and yellow. She sat beside the small dark man with beady
black eyes I’d seen at the preliminary hearing. He gave me the same
"stink-eye" look he'd given me then and raised his upper lip in a
sneer. Red had told me that the sawed-off guy was Jaaku's
brother-in-law and that he regularly beat up his wife. I wished someone
from the fire department was there to keep me company and comforted
myself with the thought that tomorrow there would be after I clued them
in on the new location of the trial.
We
all rose as the judge, an elderly Japanese man, walked into the
courtroom and stared at us through eyes magnified by coke-bottle
glasses. I hoped he’d read my statement and been offended that Jaaku
called Japanese people ‘Buddha heads.’ It surprised me that no jury
walked in. Why would Jaaku have waived his right to a jury trial?
A
detailed pencil drawing of Jaaku's fourplex apartment building was
tacked onto a portable poster board to the right of the judge's bench.
It was a view of the building as seen from Thurston Street,
which fronted his former home. The drawing showed the location of the
two upstairs apartments, the two downstairs apartments (Jaaku's on the
left), and the open garage. The latter held parking spaces for four
cars between the two downstairs apartments. At the back of the garage,
a stairway led to the second story.
The
drawing showed the location of the two cars parked in the garage when
the shooting occurred; Jaaku's blue Toyota with its hood up in the
leftmost stall and his upstairs neighbor Ernesto's car in the third
stall from the left. The second and fourth stalls were empty. Vic's
body had been discovered in the second parking space from the left, on
the floor of the garage next to the Toyota. The drawing also showed the
location of Vic's truck, parked sideways and blocking Jaaku's car at
the entrance to the garage.
The
first witness called to the stand, Ernesto Escalona, lived in the
apartment directly above Jaaku’s and was the only neighbor home when
Jaaku shot Vic. He testified that he’d heard loud voices coming from
downstairs, arguing for from three to eight minutes, and that he
couldn't make out what the voices were saying. "But aftah dat, I went
hear da haole yell real loud, 'I hate you fuckin' Portagees! And den
Jaaku went yell, 'Fuck you, brah!' louder yet. And den I heard five or
six gunshots, one right aftah da udder."
Was
Ernesto telling the truth about what Vic said? I saw no reason why he
would lie about that. Jaaku’s insane refusal to listen to reason must
have totally frustrated Vic, who undoubtedly hoped he could argue some
sense into his friend’s head. For Jaaku’s part, he would have taken
such a statement from Vic as the worst kind of betrayal. He was
probably also hopped up on speed and scared shitless that Vic, strong
as he was, would beat the crap out of him. Beating up a weaker man was
something Vic would never have done, but Jaaku didn’t know that, didn’t
really know Vic, lacked the empathy to know anyone. Rather, he judged
Vic and everyone else by his own twisted nature. Hence his perceived
need for the hidden “Equalizer” as he later described his .357 magnum
to Morry, a Hennessee firefighter, when he ran into him at the beach.
"What did you do then?" Soon asked.
"I
stood dere shaking for a couple of seconds, wondering what I going do
now." A tremor crept into Ernesto's voice. "Den I went walk down da
stairs dat lead to the garage downstairs, slowly, 'cause I scared I
going get shot, too. Den I went see da haole guy lying dere on da
garage floor, his head in one pool of blood."
"Did you see anything else?" Soon asked.
“Yeah. I went see da haole guy wit' his right hand on top his chest. He was gasping, breathing hard."
"Did he have a gun in his hand?"
Ernesto licked his lips and glanced nervously at Jaaku before muttering, "No."
Good!
Ernesto's testimony at the preliminary hearing had been that he
couldn’t remember where Vic's right hand was because he was freaking
out at the sight of all the blood. Rumor had it that Ernesto scored
pot, reds, Quaaludes and who knows what else from Jaaku and was
terrified of testifying against him. Apparently he was even more afraid
of Jeff. I could certainly understand why.
"And did you see Mr. Cardoza anywhere around?" Soon continued.
"No. So when I saw da haole guy lying there, I went run back upstairs and call da ambulance."
"And what did they tell you?"
Ernesto
licked his lips again. "Dey said, 'Call da police.' I was calling dem
when Jaaku ran up da stairs and went yell at me, 'Hey, brah! Call da
police. I went shoot dis guy but he came at me wit' a gun." So I went
tell him, 'Yeah, brah, dat's what I'm doing, I'm calling da police."
"And then what did you do?"
"I went stay in my apartment 'til da detectives came up and asked me what happened. I tol' dem and dey went tape-record me."
When
the detectives tape-recorded Ernesto in February, he’d told them that
Vic wasn't holding a gun. According to Chief Jacobs, the detectives
threatened Ernesto with perjury if he didn't tell the truth during the
trial. “Smart, to rush in and record folks while they're still shook
up,” I thought. “Before they have a chance to fabricate crafty lies.”
The
cross-examination by Jaaku's lawyer, Mr. Nozawa, was long and drawn
out. He kept repeating Ernesto's every word and asking him if indeed
this is what he intended to say. Ernesto kept saying yes, what he said
was what he meant. The proceedings were so boring I almost nodded off,
in spite of the giant goose bumps covering my bare arms. After what
seemed like hours but was actually closer to half of one, the cross
examination ended.
The
next witness, a tall, wiry painter named Ray Cambra, took the stand. "I
was painting the second floor balcony of the apartment directly across
the street," he said, "when I heard what sounded like a car backfiring
four or five times so I turned around. That’s when I spotted this guy
crouching down, dragging something. I didn't have a good view because a
red truck halfway blocked the driveway so I couldn't see what the guy
was dragging.”
Cambra
continued, his voice smooth as silk, “I kept watching and after a few
seconds I saw the guy look all around, walk around the red truck to the
street side, and climb into the truck on the driver's side. He carried
a blue shirt, wadded up, in one hand. He wrapped something up in his
shirt then got out of the truck with the shirt in his hand and looked
all around again.” Cambra’s long thin hands acted out the wrapping up
and his brown eyes mimicked nervously looking around. “Then he went
back into the garage and I couldn't see him anymore.”
"And then what did you do, Mr. Cambra?" Soon asked.
The
painter shrugged. "I went back to painting the balcony. A little while
later all these police cars arrived so I walked across the street and
found out somebody’d been killed. So I told the police what I'd seen."
After
another lengthy, tedious, and repetitive cross-examination by Nozawa,
the judge called a recess for a late lunch at 1:30. I admired Ray’s
composure when Jaaku's lawyer asked him the same questions over and
over. Several times the judge said, "The witness has already answered
that question, Mr. Nozawa." As I took the escalator down to the first
floor, I wondered if I could have remained as unruffled as Ray.
A
phone call to Fire Chief Jacobs confirmed what I suspected—that several
of the firemen wanted to watch the proceedings but found an empty
courtroom where the trial was supposed to be. I explained that the
trial had been moved to another building, complained that I had to
track down the court clerk to find this out, and added, "The judicial
system sure doesn't make it easy for us concerned citizens, do they?"
"They
sure don't." The chief said he’d make an announcement that the trial
had been switched to District Court. "Tomorrow, I’ll bet a lot of our
guys will be there."
There
was no answer when I dialed Norma's number so I walked across the
street to the Federal Building and lunched by myself in the large
cafeteria. I drank another strong cup of coffee in hopes that it would
help me stay awake through Nozawa's deadening cross examinations.
When
the trial resumed, Officer Grace Hanson, the first police officer to
arrive at the scene, took the stand. "Mr. Cardoza was talking nonstop,
going on and on, when I arrived at the scene," Hanson said.
"What did he say?" asked Soon.
"Mr.
Cardoza claimed that Mr. Lazzarini came speeding into his driveway in
his truck, parked sideways so Mr. Cardoza could not drive out, and
yelled at him, waving a gun in one hand and a knife in the other."
Another fantasyland fabrication by the Worm King.
"Mr.
Cardoza said he then ran into his apartment, grabbed his own gun, stuck
it in the back of his trousers, and rushed back out. At that point he
said that Mr. Lazzarini came running at him from the opposite side of
the garage with his gun pointed at Mr. Cardoza. So he, Mr. Cardoza,
pulled out his gun and shot Mr. Lazzarini in self-defense. The accused
told me that Mr. Lazzarini had called him on the phone earlier, saying
he was coming over but that he, Mr. Cardoza, didn't expect anything
like this. Mr. Cardoza also told me he tried to give Mr. Lazarrini CPR
after he shot him but that it didn't do any good."
"Did you advise Mr. Cardoza of his rights?" Soon asked.
"Yes
sir, as soon as I arrived on the scene. He said he didn't care; he was
all shook up because this guy came at him with a gun, and he was
scared, and this kind of thing didn't happen every day, and he wanted
to talk about it."
"Where was Mr. Cardoza's gun when you arrived at the scene, Officer Hanson?"
"Lying on the front bumper of Mr. Cardoza's Toyota."
"In what position was the hood of Mr. Cardoza's car?" the prosecutor asked.
"The hood was up."
Several
police officers who had arrived at the scene after Officer Hanson
testified next, relating in detail what they had seen and done. Since
the mundane details of police work were far from riveting, in spite of
my earlier coffee I had to pinch myself to remain awake. The afternoon
dragged slowly by. Nozawa tried to find instances of improper procedure
on the part of the police. He failed.
After
the police officers had finished testifying, four police technicians
involved in taking fingerprints and photographs testified and told in
more detail than I wanted to know how they did their jobs, what they
looked for, and what the homicide detectives had instructed them to do.
When the judge adjourned for the day at 5 p.m. I could have jumped for
joy.
My
promise to Norma, made five months previously, motivated me to wait
downstairs for the first available pay phone. She’d fed me fresh-baked
bread and ginger tea and the two of us were reminiscing about Vic when
she said, "He was such a considerate young man. I felt like he was my
own grandson. After my husband passed away last September, he helped me
in so many ways, picking up my groceries, offering to take me places
since I don’t drive, stopping by to check on me. Now there's one thing
I want to do for him."
When
I’d asked her what that thing was she replied, "See his murderer
convicted." I’d promised to call her once I found out the trial date
and place but here she was missing the trial. Without much hope I
plopped my last quarter into the slot. This time she answered. I
relayed what had transpired and asked, “Will you come with me to the
trial tomorrow? It starts at nine.”
"Well,
of course, dear!" The exuberance in her voice lifted my spirits. "I
would have come today if I'd known. I can’t wait to see the jury
convict that little worm."
"There's
no jury, just a judge. Jaaku must have waived his right to a jury
trial. Don’t you think that’s strange? Seems like a judge would be
tougher than a jury."
"Good!
That means we've got a better chance of seeing that creep get what he
deserves. I'll meet you at the courtroom at 9 o'clock, dear. No need to
pick me up. I enjoy my morning walk."
Wednesday, September 6th
I
arrived at the second floor of the District Court building at 8:30 a.m.
Several of the firemen from Hennessee, most of them with wives or
girlfriends in tow, were already seated on benches in the hallway. They
peppered me with questions about what had happened the previous day. So
I relayed the testimony of Ernesto Escalona and Ray Cambra in great
detail and mimicked the latter’s depiction of Jaaku crouching down,
dragging something, the pupils of his eyes darting around like pin
balls as he nervously scanned the area for witnesses.
"Do
you suppose Jaaku was on speed?" I asked. Their comments ranged from
“that or cocaine” to "it wouldn’t surprise me" to "what a goon" to
"wonder if the cops tested him for drugs.” Somebody asked, “What do you
suppose he did with his stash?” A few of them speculated that Jaaku had
either flushed it down the toilet or passed it on to Ernesto for
safekeeping before he phoned the cops.
All
conversation stopped as Jaaku and his entourage rounded the corner,
strode past us without a word and into the courtroom en masse. Just as
silently, the rest of us followed.
Since
Jaaku’s supporters sat on the left side of the courtroom, we dispersed
into benches on the right. I looked around for Norma and spotted her
snowy white hair a few rows in front of me. She sat ramrod-straight,
alone until I slipped into the bench beside her. When she beamed her
radiant smile on me and squeezed my hand, I had to swallow hard to keep
back the tears. Her positive presence nourished me more than her
delicious freshly-baked bread ever had. It delighted me that her love
for Vic and distain for Jaaku equaled my own. Norma, my stalwart
comrade in arms.
She’d
arranged her hair in tight white curls spaced evenly across her scalp.
Pink rouge tinted her cheeks and her eyes sparkled like sapphires.
"Brr!" she whispered, and rubbed the goose bumps cropping up on her
arms. "It sure is cold in here."
"I
should have warned you," I whispered back. "I almost froze yesterday."
I drew in my knees so that Red and Annie could slip past and sit beside
me, and noticed that the rest of the fire department clan were
clustered around us, some to Norma's left, the rest in rows ahead and
behind us. "It feels so good to have you here, and the folks I work
with," I told her. "I felt so alone yesterday."
Norma
clucked sympathetically and squeezed my arm. "When you feel like that,
ask the Lord to be with you and He will make His presence known. He's
here all the time, you know." She pointed her chin at Jaaku, who sat
fidgeting in his chair in the front of the courtroom. "That little worm
is the one who's really alone."
Emilio Badua
from the fire department was the first witness called to the stand. He
stated that he‘d seen Jaaku flashing a .357 magnum, a pellet gun, and a
dagger at the fire station last December.
"Was the .357 loaded?" Soon asked.
"Yes, sir, it was."
"How do you know it was loaded?"
"Jaaku opened up the chamber and showed me the bullets," Emilio replied.
Soon
pointed to two guns and a dagger that were tagged and labeled as
exhibits. "Are these the same weapons you saw at the fire station last
December?" he asked.
"Yes. Except the pellet gun Jaaku brought to the station was whole and that one there has half the handle missing."
During
cross examination, Jaaku's lawyer asked Emilio, "Are you sure these are
the same weapons you saw at the fire station in November?"
"December,"
Emilio corrected him. "No, sir. I can't be sure. They look like the
same weapons though, except, like I said, for the pellet gun's handle."
Herbert Kelikihi
testified next. His testimony was essentially the same as Emilio's.
Again, Mr. Nozawa asked, "Are you sure these are the same weapons that
Mr. Cardoza brought to the fire station?"
"No, sir. I can't be sure of that." Herbert glanced nervously at Jaaku. "I'd have to know the serial numbers to be sure."
Mr. Jefferson,
a tall, thin, craggy-faced ballistics expert from the Honolulu Police
Department, was the third person called to the stand. A skeptical
expression occupied his puffy-lidded eyes; I suspected it went along
with the territory. "Four bullets from Mr. Cardoza's gun lodged in the
body," Jefferson explained, "and the remaining two shots were fired
into the concrete right next to the body. The impact of those two
bullets caused fragments of concrete to shatter in an oblate spheroid
pattern. The fragments lodged in the victim's body in a pattern
consistent with the deceased’s right hand resting on his chest."
Jefferson
paused, I imagine to give his audience time to digest his words, before
continuing, "It would have been impossible for the cement fragments to
lodge in the upper section of the right arm in the pattern that they
did had the right arm been extended out from the body."
"Imagine that," Norma whispered. A wide smile spread across her tanned face.
I
returned her smile and whispered back, "Looks like that little worm
slit his own throat. Assuming worms have throats." We giggled
conspiratorially, like children.
"Another
discrepancy," Jefferson said. "When we lifted up the right arm of the
deceased, we found concrete fragments on the back of his arm. We
surmised that the right arm had to have been moved after the bullets
were fired into the concrete in order for those fragments to be there.
Your Honor, I have a series of slides to illustrate my points. I
request your permission to show them now."
The
bailiff wheeled in a white, chalk-board looking screen and then turned
off the lights, plunging the courtroom into darkness. Slide after side
clicked across the screen. The first one, a close-up shot of the right
side of Vic's body, showed fragments of concrete lodged in his right
arm and the right side of his torso.
I
suppose the other slides were similar but after seeing the gaping
wounds in Vic's body Norma and I decided not to watch. "I can't bear to
see our Vic like that," Norma whispered.
"Me neither,” I whispered back.
We
kept our eyes averted from the screen as Mr. Jefferson explained how he
was able to calculate the pattern of dispersal of the concrete
fragments based on the angle of the bullets striking the concrete and
the location and concentration of fragments in Vic's body.
"What
a horror story," I told Norma. "Jaaku’d already blasted Vic with four
bullets but he was still shooting at Vic’s fallen, bleeding body when
he was down on the garage floor. And Jaaku was so shook up that he
missed, even though he stood right above Vic." I shivered. "If there’s
a silver lining, it’s that Jaaku’s rage is his downfall, since the
concrete fragments shattered in a specific pattern that the police can
trace."
Norma
placed a hand on mine. "Isn't it amazing what the police can figure out
from things like that, dear? Well, thank goodness for that. But I'll
never get over Vic’s death. I loved that kid. And to think of him being
blown away by the likes of Jaaku is just too horrible."
I sandwiched her warm hand between my two cold ones. "I agree with you one hundred percent."
Several
other technicians from the Police Department testified. They clicked
their way through several slides as they described the position that
Vic's body had to be in when the shooting occurred as opposed to when
the police arrived. One of the slides revealed the shaft of a dagger
sticking out from behind Vic's right shoulder.
"Were there any fingerprints on the dagger?" Soon asked Mr. Yee, the fingerprinting expert who was on the stand.
"Yes. One,” Yee said.
“Whose fingerprint was it?” Soon asked.
"The fingerprint belonged to Mr. Cardoza,” Yee replied.
Dr. Ingram,
the medical examiner for the State of Hawaii, testified that each of
the four gunshot wounds were surrounded by stipple marks which were
caused by powder burns.
"These
indicate that all of the shots were fired from very close range,"
Ingram said. "Between twelve and eighteen inches from the body."
Ingram
explained how he was able to determine which bullet was fired first,
second, third and fourth. "The first shot penetrated the deceased’s
chest and lodged in his spine, paralyzing him from the chest down and
causing his death." Ingram described how Vic started to fall forward as
the shots were fired into his body in rapid succession. "But," he
added, "the impact of the fourth shot, to the top of his head, caused
his body to jerk and fall backwards, so that he came to rest on the
floor of the garage on his back."
Once
again, color slide after color slide clicked across the makeshift
screen, showing close ups of the bullet wounds in Vic's body. And once
again, Norma and I looked away and talked in whispers.
After
Dr. Ingram finished his testimony, Detective Alex Ledbetter took the
stand. "The victim was found with a perfect grip on the weapon, index
finger still on the trigger, fingers wrapped around the gun. Very
unusual."
"Why unusual?" Soon asked.
"Most of the time, the gun falls out of the hand when a man falls to the ground.”
"Did you find anything else that was unusual?"
"Yes.
There was blood on the palm of the right hand but no injury to the
fingers, as would normally be the case if the hand hit the concrete
holding a gun." Ledbetter paused before adding, “And, of course, the
gun in the deceased’s hand was a pellet gun that was inoperable, with
half the handle missing.”
During cross-examination, Jaaku's lawyer asked Ledbetter, "Did you search Mr. Lazzarini's apartment?"
"Detective Yamaguchi and I looked through his apartment."
"Did you find any marihuana there?"
"No, sir." Ledbetter looked puzzled. "We did not."
My
initial thought was, “How strange that Jaaku's lawyer was asking about
Vic having pot when Jaaku was the one who probably had to dump his
stash fast.” But a moment's reflection convinced me it wasn't strange
at all, that Jaaku must have switched the story again, trying to
portray Vic as a druggie when it was actually Jaaku who sold, smoked,
ingested, and maybe even injected a wide spectrum of drugs.
"Did you find any weapons?" Nozawa asked.
"Yes. A .22 caliber pistol was lying on the deceased’s bed."
“Neatly
made bed,” I thought, remembering Red's words. I whispered to Norma
that Vic obviously considered taking his own gun but then decided not
to. "Jaaku must have been threatening to blow him away but Vic just
couldn't believe he'd really do it."
Norma
nodded. "If I hadn't heard it from his sister's own mouth, I wouldn't
have believed Vic owned a gun," she said. "But Barbara allowed as how
Vic, raised as he was in the Philadelphia countryside, developed quite
the marksman's eye shooting varmints—crows and jackrabbits and
such—when they foraged through the family's garden acres."
I
started to say that Jaaku was the slimiest varmint Vic had ever come
across but the sight of Jeff Yamaguchi striding to the stand stilled my
tongue.
He
looked elegant in his tailored black suit and matching tie. His thick,
black, slick-backed hair was devoid of even a single strand of gray
even though, by the looks of him, the man must have been at least 45
years old. The stern expression on his face and the intensity of his
gray eyes, set wide apart above high cheekbones in his swarthy Asian
face, made me think, “Executioner or saint.” Something about his aura
of insolent competence made me admire him almost to devotion and I
thought, “Awesome either way.”
He’d
not only solved the case for me by putting the heat on when I wanted to
chill but had also been my confessor. He repeatedly wounded my
conscience, saying, “You said Vic was like a brother to you. Won’t you
tell the truth for your brother?” until my love for Vic grew more
compelling than my fear of reprisals from Jaaku. That’s when I felt the
fear all the way through and told Jeff the truth anyway. My reward was
discovering what the argument was about, coming into a state of grace,
and experiencing such an ecstatic love connection with Vic that it made
me whole down to my very soul.
"Right away I saw that there was evidence of foul play," HPD’s finest detective said.
"What evidence?" Soon asked.
"Firm
grip on the gun. Blood on the right hand but no injuries to the
fingers. Four shots in the body and two in the pavement. A knife
resting underneath the deceased’s right shoulder."
Bob
had told me about Jeff’s reputation for speaking his mind to witnesses,
judges and lawyers alike, and that he didn't suffer fools gladly. As he
faced Jaaku’s poor excuse for a lawyer during the cross-examination, I
couldn't help but smile at the sparks that flew. Like two samurais with
katanas gleaming sparks, they slashed at each other. But one of them
kept missing the mark.
“How many homicides have you investigated, Detective Yamaguchi?” Nozawa asked.
“Roughly
two hundred fifty to three hundred.” Yamaguchi’s gray eyes scanned the
audience, as if Nozawa’s questions were too insignificant to command
his attention.
“Do
you think that makes you an expert?” Nozawa’s raised his eyebrows, a
skeptical expression written across his pinched little
Pekinese-look-alike face. “Have you gone to school to learn the proper
way to conduct an investigation?”
“I’m a professional!” Yamaguchi said angrily.
“Answer
the question, detective,” the judge ordered. “Counsel has the right to
establish credibility and the proper credentials.”
“Yes, I’ve gone to several schools.” Jeff rolled his eyes.
“Do you think that qualifies you as an expert witness?”
Jeff looked disgusted and Soon hopped to his feet. “Objection! Counsel has already asked the question. He is badgering the witness.”
“Objection sustained. Mr. Nozawa, this court recognizes Detective Yamaguchi as an expert witness. Continue.”
A hint of a smile played at the edges of Jeff’s mouth.
“Did you check the deceased’s apartment for drugs?” A brittle edge crept into Nozawa’s voice.
“Not specifically.” Jeff paused before adding, “My partner did most of the searching of the apartment.”
“Did you find any drugs?” Nozawa asked.
“No.”
As
far as Norma and I could ascertain, nothing new came out of Nozawa’s
cross-examination of Jeff. When it concluded, the judge declared the
court recessed for lunch until 2 p.m. Red walked with us across the
street to the crowded, bustling cafeteria in the Federal Building. Too
many patrons and too few tables resulted in us sharing a round one with
three overweight uniformed policemen. Food on the buffet line was too
greasy and overcooked for my taste, but it was quickly acquired and the
third coffee of the day that I washed it down with was surprisingly
good.
“Red,”
I said between sips. “I don't understand that technical stuff about the
concrete fragments shattering in an oblate spheroid pattern. Do you?”
“I
think so,” Red answered. He lay his sandwich down on the plate so he
could talk with his hands. “When Jaaku shot those last two bullets at
Vic, he was all shook up so the shots missed Vic and the bullets hit
the concrete. A .357 packs a lot of wallop; those bullets made fairly
big holes in the garage floor and caused the concrete fragments to fly.
The fragments flew in an oblate spheroid pattern. That means a
flattened sphere. Three dimensional, sort of like a blimp pattern.”
“I
was wondering what oblate spheroid meant,” Norma remarked as she cut
her piece of cheesecake in half and raised her eyebrows at me. I nodded
and scraped the dessert onto my plate. She added, “Sounds like an
elliptical pattern but three dimensional?" Red nodded. "Thanks for
explaining,” she added.
“You’re
welcome. Anyway, when the police found Vic’s body, his right arm was
extended out from his body with the palm and underside of his arm
facing up.” Red extended his own arm to demonstrate what he meant.
“Those two shots that were fired into the pavement were fired next to
the right side of Vic’s body. Remember when they showed all those
little puncture marks the cement fragments made in the right side of
Vic’s torso?”
“Pam and I looked away,” Norma said, “so we didn’t see that part.”
“Well,
there were more of those same cement fragments in the upper portion of
Vic’s right arm and in his elbow.” Red touched his own right arm and
elbow to demonstrate. “In the upper portion, not the underside portion.
That would jibe with Vic’s hand being on his chest when the shots were
fired. Because if his arm had been extended out from his body in the
position it was found in, with the underside portion of his arm up, the
fragments would have lodged in the underside portion of his arm. But
they didn’t.” Red paused to take a bite of his sandwich.
“I think it’s wonderful that the evidence bears out what we already know, don’t you?” Norma asked.
Red and I nodded. “It’s looking good for the good guys,” he said. “But it ain’t over ‘til the fat lady sings.”
“I think we’re real lucky the police are so sophisticated in their techniques,” I said.
“And Jaaku so stupid,” Red added.
“Well, of course. He’s nothing but a worm.” Norma looked so serious that we laughed.
“How fortunate for us that Jaaku pleaded self-defense rather than insanity,” I said.
“Yes,”
Red agreed. “Some of us were talking about that at work the other day.
Jaaku would have had a better chance of getting off easy if he’d
pleaded temporary insanity.”
“He’s
crazy alright. Like a fox,” I said. “But he’s not as smart as he
imagines himself to be. Besides, I’ll wager he was on dope and couldn’t
think straight when he murdered Vic.”
“One thing puzzles me,” Red said. “Why do you suppose Jaaku raised the hood of his Toyota?”
“My
theory is so that Vic couldn’t see him when he drove up. Because Jaaku
was waiting in ambush for him,” I speculated. “Remember, Jaaku told the
cops Vic called him up before he came over that morning. I bet that
part’s true.”
“Maybe. Or maybe Jaaku was just putting water in his radiator.” Red shrugged.
“Do you suppose we’ll ever know the whole truth?” I asked.
“Not if we have to get it from that little worm,” Norma said.
The
first person to testify after lunch was Detective Paul Lee, a tall,
lanky Chinese man with a receding hairline who wore a weary expression
on his round face. “What was your part in the investigation, Detective
Lee?” Soon asked.
“To fingerprint Mr. Cardoza and take inventory of his personal belongings before he was transferred into the cell block.”
“Describe what transpired with Mr. Cardoza on February 14th of this year,” Soon instructed.
“Mr.
Cardoza was brought to me for fingerprinting by Officer Hanson,” Lee
said. “He was going on and on about how this big guy came at him with a
gun and a dagger. I advised him of his rights and told him that my only
part in this case was to fingerprint him and hold his personal
possessions in custody. He said yeah, he knew his rights, but this guy
he shot had syndicate connections and he was afraid for his life and
wanted to talk about it.”
“Did you tell Mr. Cardoza that he had the right to remain silent?” Soon asked.
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“Did you ask Mr. Cardoza what had transpired that morning?”
“No,
sir, I did not. Mr. Cardoza volunteered the information. I interrupted
Mr. Cardoza to advise him of his rights and he said he already knew his
rights.”
As
before, Nozawa’s long and repetitive cross examination generated yawns
in the audience. It seemed like forever before Lee finally stepped
down.
Nozawa
turned to the judge. “Your Honor, my client, Mr. Cardoza, would like to
testify in his own behalf at this time. He has been advised that he is
not required to testify but has volunteered to do so nonetheless.”
The judge raised his eyebrows. After a pause, he nodded. “Very well, Mr. Nozawa. Mr. Cardoza, you may take the stand.”
See the April issue of Sethnet Journal for the first chapter in the true story of “A Dream, A Question, and A Promise.” Pam welcomes feedback on her story. Please feel free to email her at lyricpam1@yahoo.com
Pam’s
article, “The Scoop on Scouting,” was published in the June/July issue
of Hawaii Parent Magazine (HPM). In late June, she finished another
article for HPM on 4-H clubs in Hawaii that will be published in the
October/November issue later this year.
Pam writes:
Recently, my dear friend Robin’s mother Pali passed away. Robin asked
me to rewrite and breathe more life into a eulogy that a family member
had written in haste. Pali was an inquisitive, intelligent woman, an
authoress, a loving mom to her five daughters, and a friend to me for
nearly 30 years. So of course I told Robin yes.
The
memorial service took place at the Friends Meeting House in Manoa
Valley where Pali attended services for decades. The spacious home
overflowed with friends and family and fellow church goers who stood up
and spoke about Pali as the spirit moved them. The service was lovely
and heartfelt, personal and emotional. I felt “chicken skin” as the
mistress of ceremonies, a professional hula dancer, danced with Pali’s
spirit and asked us to sense her presence there—I did. The Quaker woman
who read my eulogy did so in a slow, clear voice and, again, I felt
Pali’s spirit near.
Pali’s
daughters included a poem by Mary Frye in the cards passed out to the
guests. It touched my heart and I hope it touches yours as well. It
also makes me think of “Vic.”
Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints on snow
I am the sun on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn rain
When you awaken
in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight
I am the soft starlight at night
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there; I did not die.
10 Little-known Gems
by Brent Marchant
With
the summer movie season upon us, Hollywood is ready to release this
year’s cavalcade of blockbusters. This annual array of high-tech eye
candy, full of spectacle and special effects wizardry, will no doubt
deliver more than its share of action, thrills, and larger-than-life
figures. But while these films may be good examples of facing fears and
living heroically—undoubtedly integral concepts for effective conscious
creation—they nevertheless may fall short for those seeking more
substantive fare. With only a few exceptions, such as new releases from
directors like Woody Allen and Stephen Frears, this summer’s crop of
new films may seem like a celluloid wasteland to moviegoers who desire
more out of their cinematic experiences. So in light of that, it may be
time for more selective viewers to turn to cable TV or the DVD rack to
find more suitable offerings.
It’s
with the foregoing in mind that I present the following list of
little-known gems for alternative summer viewing. These movies may not
be household names, but they effectively explore various aspects of
conscious creation/law of attraction principles in highly entertaining
ways. So, in no particular order, here are 10 candidates worth seeing:
“Stranger Than Fiction”:
What happens when a novelist meets one of her fictional characters in
physical form? And what if creation and creator are at odds with one
another about the creation’s fate? A hilarious look at the nature of
reality and what drives its materialization. (2006; Will Ferrell,
Maggie Gyllenhaal, Emma Thompson, Queen Latifah, Dustin Hoffman; Marc
Forster, director; Zack Helm, screenplay; 1 Golden Globe nomination)
“Vitus”:
A multitalented child prodigy’s greatest challenge is learning what it
takes to create a “normal” life for himself in the face of high
expectations from everyone around him. He learns what a unique talent
it takes just to be oneself. (2006; Fabrizio Borsani, Teo Gheorghiu,
Julika Jenkins, Urs Jucker, Bruno Ganz, Eleni Haupt, Kristina Lykowa,
Tamara Scarpellini, Heidy Forster, Daniel Rohr, Norbert Schwientek;
Fredi M. Murer, director; Peter Luisi, Fredi M. Murer, and Lukas B.
Suter, screenplay)
“Solaris”:
High strangeness abounds aboard a space station launched to study a
planet with unusual qualities—and capabilities—an experience that
brings crew members into contact with their innermost thoughts and
feelings in ways that startle, astound, and enlighten. Remake of a 1972
Russian film of the same name. (2002; George Clooney, Natascha
McElhone, Viola Davis, Jeremy Davies, Ulrich Tukur; Steven Soderbergh,
director; Stanislaw Lem, book; Steven Soderbergh, screenplay)
“Whale Rider”:
A young Maori girl lives out her value fulfillment, rising to meet her
destiny as a tribal leader, despite cultural obstacles that would hold
her back. A gorgeous and moving offering from New Zealand. (2002;
Keisha Castle-Hughes, Rawiri Paratene, Vicky Haughton, Cliff Curtis,
Grant Roa, Mana Taumaunu; Niki Caro, director; Witi Ihimaera, book;
Niki Caro, screenplay; 1 Oscar nomination)
“Bread and Tulips”:
A bumbling housewife trapped in a bad marriage creates a new life for
herself by taking off on an impromptu Venetian holiday, an opportunity
that allows her to believe in herself—and blossom—in ways she never
dreamed possible. A lively Italian romantic comedy. (2000; Licia
Maglietta, Bruno Ganz, Giuseppe Battiston, Antonio Catania, Marina
Massironi, Felice Andreasi, Vitalba Andrea, Tatiana Lepore, Tiziano
Cucchiarelli, Matteo Febo, Lina Bernardi, Ludovico Paladin; Silvio
Soldini, director; Silvio Soldini and Doriana Leondeff, story and
screenplay)
“August Rush”:
A young boy put up for adoption at birth uses his art—and his conscious
creation wherewithal—to discover the truth of his background and to
fashion the life he craves. A heartfelt, inspiring, metaphysical
melodrama. (2007; Freddie Highmore, Keri Russell, Jonathan Rhys Meyers,
Terrence Howard, Robin Williams, William Sadler, Marian Seldes, Mykelti
Williamson, Leon Thomas III, Jamia Simone Nash, Bonnie McKee, Alex
O’Loughlin, Aaron Staton, Ronald Guttman; Kirsten Sheridan, director;
Paul Castro and Nick Castle, story; Nick Castle and James V. Hart,
screenplay; 1 Oscar nomination)
“Malos Hábitos” (“Bad Habits”):
A reflective exploration on the nature of the relationship between our
two principal sources of nourishment—spirituality and food. An unlikely
premise for a very thoughtful film. This hard-to-find gem from Mexico
played primarily at film festivals but is available through import DVD
sellers. (2007; Ximena Ayala, Elena de Haro, Marco Antonio Treviño,
Aurora Cano, Elisa Vicedo, Emilio Echevarría, Patricia Reyes Spíndola;
Simón Bross, director; Ernesto Anaya and Simón Bross, screenplay)
“Shadows and Fog”:
The search for clarity in life—and how to employ it in our creations—is
symbolically played out through the murky nighttime exploits of a
circus troupe, a band of sharp-tongued prostitutes, a moody
intellectual, a put-upon apparatchik, and rival gangs of vigilantes
seeking a serial killer in a small town. A funny and surreal mood piece
reminiscent of a Kurt Weill opera. (1991; Woody Allen, Mia Farrow, John
Malkovich, Madonna, David Ogden Stiers, Donald Pleasence, Lily Tomlin,
Jodie Foster, Kathy Bates, Anne Lange, John Cusack, Julie Kavner,
Kenneth Mars, Wallace Shawn; Woody Allen, director; Woody Allen,
screenplay)
“Big Eden”:
When a gay New York City artist is called home to Montana to care for
the ailing grandfather who raised him, he embarks on a journey of
personal discovery to find the true nature of love, family, and
happiness—that is, as long as he’ll allow himself to embrace the
beliefs that will make it all possible. A real heartwarmer. (2000; Arye
Gross, Eric Schweig, Tim DeKay, Louise Fletcher, George Coe, Nan
Martin, O’Neal Compton, Corinne Bohrer, Veanna Cox; Thomas Bezucha,
director; Thomas Bezucha, screenplay)
“UFOria”:
A small-town grocery store cashier who’s convinced that Jesus’s second
coming will be in a flying saucer gets caught up in a string of
relationships with shady characters who seek to use her unique vision
for their own purposes. A quirky, sometimes-cynical, often-surprising,
little-known comedy. (1985; Cindy Williams, Harry Dean Stanton, Fred
Ward, Beverly Hope Atkinson, Harry Carey Jr., Darrell Larson, Diane
Diefendorf; John Binder, director; John Binder, screenplay; VHS format
only)
Good viewing!
Brent Marchant, in his NWV blog: Get the Picture, shares ongoing discussions about Conscious Creation/Law of Attraction (CC/LoA) issues as depicted in film.
Entries include reviews of movies that illustrate CC/LoA principles and concepts as discussed in his book, Get the Picture: Conscious Creation Goes to the Movies.
Brent also shares personal observations on the philosophy and practice
of CC/LoA and how they play out in his own life. He welcomes comments
and feedback from readers.
Get the Picture: Conscious Creation Goes to the Movies Published by Moment Point Press, Needham, MA, www.momentpoint.com ISBN 978-1-930491-12-0
To visit his blog page: http://getthepicturebrentmarchant.blogspot.com
To contact via email: brentmarchant@momentpoint.com
Announcements, Links and Shopping
Introducing Wisp E-Zine
Though
we are no longer in the age of the stylus and clay tablets, there is
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manent" (spoken words fly away, but writings remains). Especially in
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Wisp e-zine is now in print; issues 1-3 in Volume One, and 3-6 in Volume Two: http://wisp.focusphere.net/wisp-ezine-in-print-volume-1-and-2
The June issue is online. Feel free to browse the archives at http://wisp.focusphere.net/ and who knows... you may want to get involved :)
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Visit her website at http://www.itallbeginsnow.com/Home_Page.html
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"We are all connected...intertwined...by a universal energy so divine." - Sharon Hackleman
Free Seth CD from New Awareness Network
This CD contains additional Seth excerpts that are not on the sethlearningcenter.org website)
This
CD contains selections of Seth speaking on a variety of topics along
with explanatory notes by Rick Stack, former student of Seth and Jane
Roberts and President of New Awareness Network. For ordering
information, Click here.
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.
Party Like It's 2012
Just one of the great metaphysical t-shirts, bumper stickers, greeting cards, buttons, mugs and clocks available from the Conscious Creation Shop by Kristen Fox and John McNally
SETH CONNECTIONS
Meetings of both the physical and non-physical kind.
If you have a Seth group or are planning a get together for Seth fans, and would like to see it advertised here, email us at SNJ@newworldview.com
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.
Seth Network Japan
Photos and audio recordings from the Maine Seth Conference
At
Seth Network Japan's website you can have a look at photos and listen
to most of the presentations from the Maine Seth Conference, held in
York Beach in April/May 2009.
Photos
Audio 1
Audio 2
Have fun, :-)
Masa
Greetings from the Portland-Metro Seth Readers' Guild
We
meet the 2nd and 4th Tuesdays of every month. Our first meeting of the
month is for reading aloud and commenting. Right now, we are reading
"The Seth Material" in the first half of the meeting, then we take a
break for drinks and treats and conversation. During the second half of
the meeting we have started reading "Seth Speaks".
We
end the meeting variously with a psy-time, or reading from the Seth
deck of cards. Of course the reading goes slowly, because we always
have a reason to stop the flow for comments--current events, family or
personal tie-ins, etc. This is how we use the material, and it seems to
work.
Our
second meeting of the month is what we call the experiential meeting,
which can range from a past-life hypnosis psy-time, to a video of
interest on a current topic, or a time of general discussion. We did
some remote-viewing experiments with pretty good results.
Our
meetings start at 7 PM and go to 10 PM. The host provides tea, coffee
or other drinks, and we bring finger food. There is networking,
friendship, and stimulating talk on all kinds of subjects during the
break. We aim to keep our focus on our primary reality, and learn from
each other how to deal constructively with the secondary reality of our
greater world.
Drop-ins are welcome--call Marie 503-232-6469 or email harakne@yahoo.com for our meeting locations or any cancellations."
Cool Conscious Creation Resources on the Web
2009 Conscious Creation Calendar of Events
Sethnet Basics - get the most out of Sethnet
Sethnet Archives - lots of free articles and material
Random Seth quotes
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
Essence of Rose Website - The new website for the entity Rose as channeled by Joanne Helfrich. For more about the nature of Rose, see the essence of Rose 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
Shop Powered By Tshirts
Kristen's weblog: FoxVox
Art & Photo Gallery: Art of FoxVox
Art & Photo Prints: Deviant Art
T Shirt Reviews Tshirt Casserole
A monthly e-zine that highlights the creative energy of over 1600 souls exploring the work of Jane Roberts and Rob Butts.
Volume Fifty-Four
Pyramid Jugglers by Orna Ben-Shoshan
In This Issue:
Love of My Life by Greybear
A Dream, A Question, and A Promise: Chapter 13 by Pamela Gibson
Reaching by Michaela Sefler
Never in Vain ~ Grand Plan channeled by Sylvia
Psychic Experiences by Rama
We shine so bright by Nardine
Announcements, Links and Shopping
Love of my Life
by Greybear
Never have I thought that I would feel
This way again; for surely I have. But
My remembrance pales to this moment.
I rejoice in the presence that is you.
You have found your way into my heart.
My every thought is of you. My eyes
See your face when I know you are not
There. But you are always there. Always.
What shall one say of the Love of his Life?
Your very soul caresses mine. In the
Deepness of the night the light of your
Being illuminates the reaches of eternity.
I am overcome by the caress of your
Hands on my heartstrings. Where can
We meet? I would always capture your
Smile in the camera of my memory.
But no need. You are here; every glimpse
Is new and exciting. I live but for the
Moment that I can call every smile my own.
My precious, my only, Love of my Life!
A Dream, A Question, and A Promise
Copyright by Pamela Gibson
Chapter 13
Sunday, May 1st
May
Day dawned sunny and cool, with a stiff trade wind twirling fallen
leaves around in little twisters across the cracked sidewalks. From the
vantage point of my patio chair, I watched the golden and pink sunrise
dissolve into the blue sky, then returned to staring at my journal and
chewing on my writing pen between sips of coffee. The neighborhood
abounded with birds chirping, cars speeding by, people sweeping their
patios and walking their dogs. Doing Sunday things. But I barely
noticed, struggling as I was to capture my memories of Vic. Time was
racing by all too quickly and I suspected that if I didn’t make a
concerted effort to record the nuances of each encounter I had with
Vic, my recollection of these would disappear into the amorphous
quicksand of time.
Should
I begin with the times I hooked up with Vic away from work? Most of our
interactions happened at the station when we worked and talked, laughed
and played together. It was there that my friendship with Vic blossomed
into love and his every look, word, and gesture sent me on a quest for
a romantic meaning beyond the one expressed.
I
could count on the fingers of one hand the times we’d met away from the
station, all of them instigated by me after Abe and I split up. Once
was when he came over to my place to disassemble my bike; once when I
startled him in his apartment stairwell in my Halloween costume; once
when we met at his place before our double date; once when I visited
him in the hospital; and once when I brought him a plant. A mere five
times but each burned into my memory because of the heady feelings that
possessed me when I was in his presence.
Which
of the five should I write about first? The breeze carried a fragrant,
mock orange scent to my nose and I thought of the sweet-smelling,
purple-blossomed plant I’d given Vic when he was bedridden in the
hospital after his nose surgery. Balancing the journal on my knees, I
wrote quickly, trying to capture the memories that ran like motion
pictures through my mind.
It
was on a cool December morning about seven weeks before Vic was
murdered that Red and Annie and I visited him in the hospital. Annie
gave him a Playboy Magazine and chocolates and I gave him a plant. “A
plant, huh?” he’d said with a smile but I compared my gift to Annie’s
and wished I’d brought him something more hip. Propped up on his
hospital bed, his nose padded with white bandages, his eyes black and
blue, he looked like someone who’d lost a fight. I couldn’t help but
gasp when bright red blood dribbled out of his nose. “This isn’t cool,”
he said. “Not cool at all. But it looks worse than it feels, Snake.” I
thought it was considerate of him to try and put my mind at ease and
felt thankful that the operation to repair his deviated septum had been
a success.
He’d
been home from the hospital a week when I drove the two blocks to his
place, my heart pounding with a staccato beat under the weight of the
mountain-sized crush I had on him. My left hand gripped the steering
wheel and my right steadied the plant I’d pampered with an abundance of
fertilizer and water. It was, after all, my excuse to stop by Vic’s
place; a legitimate excuse because he’d asked me to bring the plant
over since it was too unwieldy to carry home from the hospital on his
bike. What an opportunity to stop by without worrying that he’d think I
was chasing him. I knew, if he thought I was chasing him, it would
chase him away.
A
few months earlier, Red, Annie, and I met at his place on our double
date. The four of us talked and laughed over the Merlot that Vic served
us in frosty glasses. Then he and I headed out in his shiny red S-10
Chevy pickup truck, Red and Annie following in their car. We sat
through some silly want-to-be comedy because there weren’t any stellar
movies in town.
I’d
twisted his arm into taking me. We’d been batting the breeze in the
alarm room, me complaining about missing going to movies since Abe and
I split up. “I don’t like going alone,” I told him.
“I’d
go to a movie with you sometime,” he’d offered, never imagining that
his words made my heart race faster than his Chevy truck’s
eight-cylinder motor. I’d jumped on it, said, “Thanks, Vic. You’re a
pal. How about Saturday? I get off work at four and it’s your break
day.”
He
looked startled, mumbled “sure” and practically ran out of the alarm
room. A few minutes later, Red buzzed me on the intercom. “I hear Annie
and I are going to a movie with you and Vic Saturday night.”
“Oh,
that’s great.” I tried to sound excited although my initial response
was disappointment that Vic didn’t want to be alone with me. On our
date, however, I appreciated having Red and Annie there to stimulate
conversation since I felt tongue-tied and nervous at actually going out
with Vic.
He
drove me straight home after the movie, didn’t try to kiss me, shook my
hand, said he had a good time and now he was headed over to Jaaku’s pad
to down some suds and play poker. I swallowed my disappointment at him
preferring Jaaku’s company to mine and said I had a good time, too. I
didn’t really; I was way too nervous.
Back
in my apartment, I comforted myself with the thought that Vic was a
what-she-says-is-what-she-means kind of guy. He must have taken me at
my word and thought, “She doesn’t like to go to movies alone. Seeing as
how she’s my friend, I’ll go to a movie with her.” End of story.
I
cried a little at the thought that I wasn’t his type and that he saw me
only as a friend. Well, that’s okay, I rationalized. Having a
delightful and positive friend like Vic enhanced my life more than any
man-woman relationship I’d experienced so far in my 35 years. Maybe it
was better this way. I blew my nose and took solace in the thought that
we confided in each other, laughed like lovers and played like children
when we hung out in the alarm room and during lunch or dinner in the
community room. Now I realize that Vic had feelings for me but was too
shy to say so, especially on a first date I’d finagled him into. He was
also a gentleman.
After
that, I tried to extinguish my crush on Vic. But I failed miserably and
still hoped that he would someday feel for me what I felt for him.
That’s why, two months after our double date and a week after the
hospital visit, I trudged up the three flights of stairs to his
apartment, plant in hand, my heart beating like a big brass drum. I’d
tried to phone him but the phone was busy for so long that I grew
impatient and just drove over. I heard his voice through his open
jalousie windows and knocked on the weathered wooden front door.
The
curtain moved aside and I smiled into those blue eyes of his peering at
me through the glass. He flung the door open and bedazzled me with a
grin that lit up his face in spite of the white bandage spanning his
nose beneath his bruised eye sockets. Then he motioned me inside,
pointed at the couch, and continued talking to his ex girlfriend Molly.
From
the vantage point of his overstuffed brown and white couch, I glanced
around his neat, well-organized studio. He’d lined up hundreds of
phonograph records in wooden crates against the apartment’s east wall.
Above the crates, dozens of eight-track reel-to-reel tapes were stacked
in tidy rows inside small wooden compartments, on top of which rested a
tape player, stereo receiver, and record player. I spotted some of my
favorite albums among his wide assortment of jazz, blues, rock and
roll, and big band music, and thought he had a fine collection and
terrific taste in music.
And
he had a taste for the beautiful. In a corner of the room between the
couch and stereo equipment hung a delicate looking, four-sided,
three-tiered shell chandelier. The light from the bulb dangling in the
middle caused the hundreds of tiny white, semi-transparent shells to
shimmer and reminded me of shells embedded in sparkling sands on a
sun-drenched day. Never did I imagine that same chandelier would hang
above the wooden table in my new apartment before three more moons had
passed.
Later
on, when Vic showed me around his “sylin’ pad”, he proudly pulled out
his porthole-shaped, hanging aquarium to show me. He kept it stashed in
the top shelf of his walk-in closet because the only suitable spot to
hang it in the small studio was already occupied by his gravity boots’
bar. It was too heavy for me to even budge but Vic easily hoisted it
back up to the high shelf. Molded from rough ceramic with round glass
imbedded in the two parallel facing sides, it is one-of-a-kind and
lovely.
Following
his death, Vic’s family gifted me with this sculptured piece of art.
After one of the glass panels broke when the combined weight of
aquarium and water caused the hook in the ceiling to straighten and the
aquarium to fall, I mopped up the mess and flushed the dead fish down
the toilet. My artistic sister Patty helped me epoxy several cracked
and broken pieces back together and we transformed Vic’s aquarium into
a planter. Now it graces the outside patio of my Pearl City apartment
where it hangs from a thick rope on a strong hook embedded in a wooden
beam. A Mandevilla vine with yellow trumpet-shaped flowers winds itself
picturesquely around the outside. Sometimes a ray of light from the
setting sun strikes the glass straight on and it shines like a
lighthouse beacon.
I
wriggled my toes in Vic’s plush beige, wall-to-wall carpet. It smelled
clean, like rug shampoo. The thought “cleanliness is next to Godliness”
popped into my mind and I wondered what, if any, religious beliefs Vic
possessed. The answer came several months later, in a letter from his
mother. About a month before he died, he told her he’d prayed the
sinner’s prayer and believed in God.
After
he finished his conversation with Molly, he thanked me for bringing the
plant over, promised to try and remember to water it, and asked, “How
about a little music?” I nodded. He added, “Some Neil Diamond for you,
I think.”
“How did you know I like Neil?” He was one of my favorites.
“I just figured he’d be your type.”
“And
he’s not the only one,” I thought. Sensuous music filled the room. Here
I was, hanging with my heartthrob and he was playing romantic melodies
for me. I pinched myself; it hurt. Yep, this was real.
“Want something to eat, Snake?”
“Sure.” Although I wasn’t particularly hungry, I wasn’t about to say no to his good-host offer.
His
fridge and cupboard were nearly bare so he “rustled me up” a meal made
with hamburger helper. As I looked at him standing so tall and vibrant
beside his kitchen sink, blue eyes twinkling, thick, wavy brown hair
resisting all attempts to keep it neatly in place, the thought popped
into my mind that Vic was a reincarnated warrior. Here he stood, 36
years old yet still such a free-spirited and open-hearted man, innocent
of weighty seriousness, as if sadness had never deeply scarred him. I
felt certain, given his good looks, that a myriad of women had been
attracted to him just as I was. I was equally certain that his
independent streak would have made it impossible for even the most
determined pursuer to tie him down. Like Sir Lancelot, I mused, his
warrior’s destiny would keep him strong as long as he didn’t fall for
the wrong Guinevere. Would he ever see that I was the right one?
“This
tastes delicious,” I told him as we sat facing each other across his
small wooden-spool table. “I’ve never seen you eat anything but healthy
food. Is that why you’ve got so much get up and go?” I thought about
the yogurt, papaya, and tuna mini-meals I often saw him eat instead of
the greasy chow hall food at the fire station.
I
melted beneath the warmth of his smile. “I try to eat right because I
want to stay healthy and hang around for a long time. Like my old man.
He’s 63 now, in great shape, and still works out. Want to see a picture
of him later?”
I
assured him that I did. After I finished eating, he placed a
checkerboard on his king-sized futon because there wasn’t enough room
for it on the spool table. I stretched out on my belly, faced him
across the board, hands under my chin, and sank down into his thick,
soft futon. I told him I couldn’t sleep on my landlord’s furnished bed
because the lumpy mattress hurt my back and maybe I’d save my money and
buy a thick futon like his. He said his back used to hurt too before he
bought this futon, which was kind of expensive but you get what you pay
for.
We
talked and joked and he beat me three times in a row (honestly; I
didn’t let him.) I told him he must have stacked the checkers somehow
whereupon he called me a peanut head (his way of saying I was a nut
case.) My standard response would have been to tell him he had the mind
of an amoeba (he didn’t know what an amoeba was until I told him). But
stretched across his futon as I was, fantasizing about him carrying me
over the threshold, kissing me passionately (he actually did this in a
dream several years ago) and snuggling with me under the covers of this
our wedding futon made me lose all desire to play the usual game. No, I
wanted to get closer somehow. So I pouted and said, “Aww. You’re
supposed to be nice to me.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?” he asked, still wanting to tease.
“We’re
buddies, aren’t we? Friends?” He nodded, somewhat hesitantly. I added,
“Well then. You’re supposed to stick up for me, not knock me down.”
My
words seemed to soak into Vic like water into a sponge, seeping into
every pore of his body and brain. The mischievous twinkle disappeared
from his eyes and I wondered why my remark should have such an impact
on him. He replied in a serious tone of voice, “You’re right.”
His
reaction stunned me into silence. We stared at each other for a long
moment until it got too intense for him. Then he donned his pirate
face, dropping his lip and contorting his features so that he looked
ugly and mean. In his deepest, most dire voice, he ordered, “Don’t act
up or I’ll hang you upside down from my gravity boots.”
I laughed, glad to see his playful mood restored, and wondered what nerve I’d hit.
He
stood up, walked over to his chest of drawers, and pulled out some
photo albums and a shoe box full of medals he’d earned when he was a
sergeant in Vietnam. We “moseyed-on” over to the couch where he sat
beside me and pointed out who was who. There were snapshots of his mom
and dad and two sisters and their families. He talked about them quite
a bit. When he showed me pictures of his ex-girlfriend Molly and a
couple of girls he’d met at the beach, and some pictures of himself and
Jaaku at bars posing with different girls, he didn’t elaborate and I
didn’t ask. He became loquacious again when he showed me pictures of
himself in high school and in various places he’d lived.
Shortly
afterward, not wanting to overstay my welcome, I told him I had to go.
“Thanks for your hospitality. Awesome food and music—and company.” I
smiled and tried to hide my reluctance to say goodbye.
I waved as I walked away. Vic watched me from his open front door. “Thanks for stopping by,” he said.
“My pleasure.”
“Stop by again sometime,” he said. I could have died and gone to Heaven.
But
now the thought that all chances to stop by had been stripped away from
me forever by that sociopathic murderer Jaaku propelled me into a
downward spiral of depression. I laid my pen aside, reached for a
tissue, and dabbed at my wet eyes. A lump formed in my throat. By now,
I knew that the only way to dissolve it was to let the tears flow, so I
did and felt better afterward. The irony of me instructing Vic on being
a friend overwhelmed me and I broke into sobs again, thinking how he’d
been killed doing just that; standing up for me, being my supportive
pal.
I
was in possession of so many of Vic’s belongings—his copper plant
holder, his glittering chandelier, his lovely aquarium, dozens of his
tapes and records—all willed to me by his grieving family. In a way, it
felt comforting to have his things around—they reminded me of him—but
in another way it made me even lonelier that only the trappings and not
the man remained. Oh cruel fate, that brave-hearted Vic had gone down
protecting me. If the choice had been mine between Vic’s life and my
honor, I would have chosen for Vic to live. But given Vic’s noble
nature, there would have been no other choice for him than to protect
me. Even if he didn’t love me, he had way too much integrity and heart
to stand by and let Jaaku put the hurt on me.
I
prayed to All That Is to show me the reason why Vic had to die and I
was allowed to live unscathed except for my broken heart. And I
wondered if the time worn adage “the good die young” was true and what
Spirit wanted me to accomplish before my days on earth came to an end.
Was my mission to tell Vic’s story? Despair sat heavily on me, and I
prayed and cried and prayed and cried some more. Then I felt spent, all
the grief washed out of my body by buckets of tears. Sleepy now, I laid
back in the lounge chair. The
cool wind soothed me and I was tottering on the blurry line between
waking and sleeping when a feeling of peace enveloped me. The last
thing I remember thinking before toppling into sleep was what a magical
universe this was, where the soul knows no death and a woman still
encased in a body was gifted to experience the awesome love of a man
who was not.
Tuesday, May 3rd
During
the morning, I went about my daily duties of housework and getting
ready to go to work. When I arrived there a few minutes before 4 p.m.,
Assistant Chief Bob told me that an official-looking letter waited for
me in the alarm room. The letter read:
In the Circuit Court of the First Circuit
State of Hawaii
STATE
OF
HAWAII
) Cr
No 30592
)
vs
)
SUBPOENA
)
CHRISTIAN CARDOZA, )
)
Defendant, )
)
(Trial)
SUBPOENA
THE STATE OF HAWAII
TO Pamela Kay Gibson
1620 A. Ward Avenue 523-0246 BUS. 726-6385
Testify regarding Victor Lazzarini’s relationship with Cardoza, Christian.
YOU
ARE HEREBY COMMANDED to appear in the courtroom of the above-entitled
court, at 777 Punchbowl Street, HAAHUMANU HALE, Honolulu, Hawaii,
before the Honorable (judge to be assigned.) on Week of 6-4-84 or a
date thereafter when a courtroom becomes available. At __-____ o’clock
__-___.M., to testify on behalf of the STATE OF HAWAII in the
above-entitled action.
Dated: Honolulu, Hawaii 5-2-84
At
the top of the subpoena was typed the note, “Please call Deputy
Prosecutor Daniel T.L. Soon at 523-1234 on receipt of subpoena. If you
are unable to reach the above number please leave message with
receptionist at 527-6420.”
Bob stood in the doorway with eyebrows raised. My hand shook as I handed him the letter.
“Looks like you’re going to have your day in court.” He placed a hand gently on my shoulder. “We’ll all be behind you.”
The
only thing my frantic mind could focus on was that they were using
cameras in the courtroom now and maybe I ought to rent a wig and wear
heavy makeup so people wouldn’t recognize me. When I voiced my fears to
Bob he laughed and said, “I doubt if they have cameras in every trial.
I wouldn’t worry about it.”
But
fear held me firmly in its grip. I told him I was serious, that I
didn’t want any of Jaaku’s punk friends to know what I looked like,
even if there was no TV in the courtroom and his friends came solely to
watch the trial. “And if there are cameras in the courtroom, I would
never feel safe anywhere in Hawaii again,” I said. “I’d always be
afraid one of his friends or relatives would recognize me.”
“Well,
I suppose you should do what makes you feel comfortable. Just don’t
look so bizarre that everybody starts laughing when you walk into the
courtroom.”
I smiled. That Bob. What a riot.
Thursday, May 5th
The
huge airfield fire trucks had just wheeled back into the open bay
garage after securing a ground emergency, hot brakes on a C-5 aircraft,
when Bob dragged himself into the alarm room. He still wore the lower
part of his silver turnout gear—bulky, metallic trousers that made him
look like a clumsy giant—and his T-shirt was lined with sweat from the
heavy jacket he’d just removed. At first I thought he wanted to cool
off, for I’d maxed the air conditioning on this humid, still evening. I
knew something was up when he shut the alarm room door behind him and
said, in a soft, conspiratorial voice, as if to prevent someone from
listening through the walls, “What’s the latest on the phone calls?
Have there been any more?”
“You
must have ESP.” Moments before, I’d been thinking about the dearth of
phone calls in the last couple of weeks, none since the one I received
the night of the van incident. Although I hadn’t told Bob or anyone
else at the fire station about that episode, I had talked about the
woman who called me some weeks earlier and tried to get me to talk on a
non-recording line. She was the impetus for me lugging my recording
device to the station every night.
“This
thing’s heavy.” I pointed at the machine that peeked out of my bag,
ready to be attached to the phone in the adjoining office at a moment’s
notice. “Looks like I’ve been dragging it around for nothing all these
weeks. I think I’ll stop. Maybe my little scheme worked and Greg told
Jaaku I’m living on base now so he’s given up on having his thugs
follow me home. Or maybe he thought better about trying to get hold of
me. Who knows? I sure can’t figure out the psychotic mind of that
creepy crawler.”
Bob
tried to squelch the smile that curled up the edges of his mouth.
“Whatever the reason they’ve stopped, I’m glad,” he said. “Do you feel
safer now?”
I shook my head. “Maybe I should but I’ve got such an uneasy feeling.”
“Want to talk about it?” He sank his silver-trousered bulk into the back chair.
“It’s
just that...I don’t know what the silence means. Maybe Jaaku’s heard
I’m living on base but has he given up on following me home? With his
connections it’d be a piece of cake for him to get on base. All he’d
have to do is convince a friend with a base sticker to let him duck
down low in the back seat until the guard waves them through.”
Bob
rubbed his chin. “I suppose. But his lawyer undoubtedly told him to
stay clear of the base and he’d be in a world of trouble if he got
caught.”
“Well,
that’s true. And the rumor mill has it that Jaaku always claimed he’d
never commit a crime on a military base. Afraid of going to the federal
pen is why,” I said. “Then again, maybe Jaaku still thinks I’m living
off base. I wouldn’t put it past him to tell his lowlife friends to
ambush me on base. Every night when I leave here at midnight, walk
through the unlit end of the airfield garage, and push open the door
leading to the parking lot, I tremble. And I keep on shaking until I’m
locked up snug inside my VW bug.”
“Just
wake me up, Pam,” Bob offered. “I’ll walk you to your car; don’t mind
at all.” Then he went on about how he was used to waking up in the wee
hours for alarms anyway, or to stumble to the bathroom.
I
thanked him but said I’d never hear the end of it from the rescue guys
who shared his bunkroom if I woke them up at midnight just so he would
walk me to my car, which was prominently lit by the bright lights in
the parking lot. “But if anything unusual happened that spooks me, I’d
take you up on your offer,” I promised. “I don’t think I’ll have to,
though. It’s not unusual for some sleepy fireman to stumble past the
alarm room on his way to the john round about midnight. Maybe I’ll
recruit the poor guy to see me out.”
A
radio alarm in the barracks cut our conversation short. Bob scrambled
for his truck as fast as his silver overalls could carry him, saying we
could continue our talk later. But things got busy and after working a
couple of emergencies we both forgot. I didn’t remember until around
10:30 p.m., when he was fast asleep in his bunkroom. Such a fearful
feeling came over me that I bowed my head and prayed for protection.
I
wished the trial was over yesterday and Jaaku safely locked away behind
bars for the rest of his slimy life. “Inside a cage fit for a worm,” I
thought. “Bird food.” One of my grandmother’s country sayings, “spit in
one hand and wish in the other and see which one gets full the fastest”
came to mind. I wished Noni was alive so she could give me some of her
no-nonsense advice. Here I sat, looking at less than a month of
uncertainty and angst before Jaaku went to trial. And then what? If he
got convicted—please God—would closure follow? I wanted my life back.
My patience had worn rice paper thin.
Monday, May 9th
Shift
rotation the previous Sunday had me working the relief schedule every
week—two midnights, one day, two swing shifts—today being one of the
swings. Shortly after four p.m. I was standing beside the coffee
machine in the deserted community room, pouring myself a cup, when Red
silently walked up behind me and placed a hand on my shoulder. I
managed not to drop the coffeepot but I did spill coffee on the counter
top and stained red carpet, fortunately missing myself.
“Jumpy, aren’t we?” Red said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I
giggled nervously and admitted I was on edge. He helped me sop up the
spill with paper towels and asked, “Did Henrietta mention you have an
important message in the alarm room?”
“No, she was on the phone when I came in,” I said. “What’s it about?”
Red said he only knew that the prosecutor’s office called for me and Henrietta took a message.
We
finished wiping up the mess and I decided I was already jumpy enough
without aggravating my nerves with coffee. I rinsed out my cup, put on
a fresh pot for the firemen, and walked with Red back to the alarm room.
I
read the telephone memo to Red. It said, “In regard to subpoena for
June 4 trial, trial has to be canceled. New subpoena will be issued for
new trial date of July 5, 1984. If any conflict arises because of new
date, contact Deputy Prosecutor Daniel Soon at 523-1234.”
I
wondered if my face looked as crestfallen as his at the prospect of
having to wait an extra month. “What do you suppose made them postpone
it?” I asked.
Red shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe the courts are backlogged. Or maybe Jaaku’s lawyer needs more time.”
“I
wish we weren’t always left in the dark. Seems like the powers that be
ought to at least tell us why things happen and what’s going on.”
“Never happen,” Red said. “Our state of mind is the least of their worries.”
I crossed my fingers. “Let’s just hope they don’t postpone the trial yet again. My heart can’t take it.”
Wednesday, May 11th
After
all of my spiritual encounters with Vic, it might seem that I would
have walked around in a state of euphoria. For the veil between life
and death had parted for me and I’d experienced what few people
experience: my hero still lived and truly loved me.
But
in reality, my ecstatic highs alternated with deep, dark lows. This
morning, in spite of the sunshine that showered my patio with enough
warmth and light to make the worst curmudgeon perk up and smile, I was
singing the low-down and dirty blues. As I sat slumped in my robe and
pajamas on a patio chair, watching Mynah birds hop across the fragrant,
newly mowed grass, all I could think of was that Vic was in his grave
and buried with him was all hope of experiencing a reciprocated
relationship with the man I loved. And Jaaku, at least for now, was out
free, his sandals shuffling along streets that Vic’s shoes would never
touch again. Nor would I ever walk briskly down those streets, rushing
to keep up with Vic’s longer stride. Never. My chance for happiness
with my dreamboat had been blasted apart by Jaaku’s rage, lust, and
jealousy. I saturated tissue after tissue with tears, grateful that the
adjacent patios were vacant so that no one could witness my grief. My
heart felt anchored by heavy metal weights that stretched that tortured
muscle down past my ankles. If it could have emitted a sound to match
my mood, it would have been a low and lonesome one indeed.
I
felt like I’d sunk into a bottomless hole and if I didn’t pull myself
out I’d sink deeper and deeper until I burned up in the hot molten
center of the earth. I hoped I wasn’t manic-depressive. My mind started
floundering, searching for possibilities, something I could do, some
thought to grab onto that would pry me out of the doldrums. But what? I
couldn’t immerse myself in a good book because my mind was thrashing
around and I knew I wouldn’t be able to focus enough to read. Some
women would have gone shopping but, for me, crowds emitted such a
jumble of anxious and angry vibes that I avoided them whenever
possible. Neither could I escape the blues by gorging on sweets—my
appetite shuts down when my heart is sad.
Suddenly
an idea popped into my mind that spurred me into action and, I hoped,
would distract me from my sadness. At least it was something to do, at
least for the moment. I quickly donned jeans and T-shirt and was
heading out the door when the phone rang. Robin’s cheerful voice lifted
me up and when she invited me to go to the beach with her and little
Rebeka, I almost said yes. I would have welcomed their company but the
last thing I wanted to do was lie on the hot sand and expose my white
body to the burning tropical rays of Hawaii’s noon day sun. So I stuck
with my original plan and told her I was on my way to a costume store.
“What
for? Halloween’s nearly half a year away.” When I explained that I
wanted to rent a wig to wear in court for when I had to testify against
Jaaku, she repeated, “What for?”
“They
have cameras in the courtroom now.” I felt foolish explaining. “I’m
worried that Jaaku’s syndicate friends will watch the trial and see
what I look like. Remember when I told you that the fortune teller said
Jaaku would send somebody after me if I testified against him? She also
said his friends wouldn’t succeed in harming me but she’s not always
right about the future. Anyway, I’d never feel safe again if I appeared
on TV and his friends could recognize me. Even if there’s no TV at his
trial, what if his pals are there, watching the trial? I’d just feel
safer wearing a disguise.”
“Do you really think Jaaku’s friends will come after you?”
“If my testimony helped put him away, damn straight.”
“Do you think he’s a big-time underworld criminal?”
“No,”
I admitted. “But even if his cohorts are petty criminals, they’re
spooky. Who knows, maybe they’ve graduated to the big-time. Maybe
they’re murderers like Jaaku. Small time, big time—whatever they are,
they’re mean. They hurt people. That’s one reason why Jaaku spooks the
firemen. Remember what Jaaku’s slime ball pals did to that G.I.’s
family. And Jaaku cut Bob’s brake lines. Etcetera, etcetera. He
murdered Vic! I wouldn’t put it past his partners in crime to rough me
up or shoot me if they figured I was responsible for their buddy going
to prison. So I’m trying to make it hard for them to recognize me.
Like, insurance….why are you giggling?”
“Sorry. It’s just that you in a wig—” she burst into laughter.
I had to agree that the prospect was comical. “I just hope nobody in the courtroom cracks up.”
“But,
like Jeff told you, it doesn’t hurt to take precautions. Sorry you
can’t come to the beach.” She asked me to pick her up some nose putty
so she could use it on Rebeka’s nose when she made her up as a
pint-sized witch on Halloween.
“Sure,”
I said and thought, “Maybe I’ll get some for me, too, and change the
shape of my nose so people really won’t be able to recognize me.”
The
small, hole-in-the-wall costume shop in a run down section of Honolulu
was chock full of wigs and costumes and nose putty and costume jewelry
and hose and everything else I could possibly imagine in the way of
costumes and accessories. A petite brunette salesgirl greeted me and
led me through a door into a small room where dozens of costume wigs
were displayed on white Styrofoam shapes that rested like decapitated
heads on wide wooden shelves bolted to the wall from floor to ceiling.
The
brunette asked me what color wig I wanted to rent. What length of
hair—long, medium, or short? I told her I’d try some on and see which
one changed my appearance the most. Several dozen wigs later, I decided
on a long, straight haired, red wig because it looked as different from
my short, blond, curly hair as I could get. After reserving the wig for
the week of the trial and paying for two small cans of nose putty, I
drove home. Was I going to extremes? “I can always cancel the wig,” I
thought. “And if I wear it and a new nose to the trial, at least it’ll
give my coworkers a good laugh.”
Thursday, May 12th
When
I arrived at work at midnight, a second subpoena awaited me, this one
for the week of August 4th. “Another month’s delay; what’s up with
these clowns?” I wondered. A typed note on the subpoena said to phone
Deputy Prosecutor Daniel Soon’s office to confirm receipt. The
following morning, after getting off work at 8 a.m. and arriving home
at 8:30, I phoned the number listed. Mr. Soon answered the phone. I
told him who I was and asked if I should make an appointment to see him
before the trial.
“That won’t be necessary, Miss Gibson.” His voice sounded kind. “I have decided not to use you as a character witness.”
“Really?” I could hardly believe my ears. “But I just received a new subpoena with an August date for the trial.”
“That makes it possible for us to call upon you if we need you,” he explained. “I am not planning to use you, however.”
Thank
you, God! The fatigue I felt from fighting my body’s desire for sleep
over the past eight hours of the midnight shift fell away at this
welcome news. The question that sprang to mind rolled uncensored off my
tongue. “Is it possible to inform Jaaku’s...that is, Mr. Cardoza’s...
lawyer that I will not be testifying against his client?”
“Miss Gibson. We are required to provide the defense attorney with a complete list of witnesses and have already done so.”
“Would
you mind telling me why you decided not to use me?” I wondered if it
was because of the van incident. Did they think I’d gone through
enough? Was my well-being even a consideration?
There
was a long pause. I hoped Mr. Soon would tell me the truth. The worry
that the State might have a weaker case without my testimony tugged at
my mind. I was prepared to argue that I had taken precautions, rented a
wig, bought nose putty, was even willing to go into a witness
protection program if it meant giving the State a stronger case against
Jaaku. But then Mr. Soon said, “We think we can convict Mr. Cardoza
based on the evidence at the crime scene.”
I
hung up the phone feeling like the weight of the world had fallen off
of my shoulders. Well, what do you know? I’d told Mom and Dad the truth
after all, at least about testifying. Not about watching the trial,
though; I intended to sit through every moment of it. I wondered if
Jaaku’s criminal friends would steer clear of the courtroom and hoped I
had nothing more to fear from those punks. As I changed out of my work
clothes and into pajamas, I wondered if I needed a disguise just to
watch Jaaku get put away. My last thought before falling asleep was
that I had plenty of time to think about it and that there was no need
to call the costume shop just yet to cancel my wig reservation.
May 13th through Aug 29th
The
next fifteen and a half weeks held few events that had any bearing on
the upcoming trial. One of the firemen would occasionally run into
Jaaku at a beach or bar. After shoving his heart back down into his
chest, the startled guy would respond to Jaaku who, in his customary
wormlike fashion, would glad-hand him like he was his best,
long-time-no-see buddy. For a day or two after an encounter with that
notorious thug, the bringer of news would bask in the spotlight of
celebrity. We interested bystanders would cluster around and listen,
spellbound, as the storyteller relayed Jaaku's every gesture and word
as well as his interpretation as to what they signified in terms of his
state of mind and intentions.
That
Jaaku had achieved hero status in the eyes of the young and the dumb
among the airmen was obvious by the way they went on about what a "bad"
dude he was. I often wondered how these "men" who’d sworn to protect
life and property could practically worship a murderer. Perhaps, I
speculated, the extreme regimentation of their military existence
generated their envy of that fat worm for the bold and lawless ways he
acted out his sociopathic tendencies. That Jaaku got away with things
they only fantasized about earned their admiration rather than
condemnation.
“Ignoramuses,”
I had thought after watching them devour their role model's every word,
guffaw at his exaggerated gestures, and seemingly believe his
impossible tales. These jerks now lay dead in the water, like sailboats
thirsty for wind to push them in some definite direction. Jaaku's wind;
couldn't they see it was just hot air? A childhood taunt, “You're
boneless, spineless, chickenless eggs,” ran through my mind as I
thought about the little worm’s pathetic fans.
Bob,
Red, the chief and I worried that Jaaku would change his story about
Vic coming at him with a gun and then change his plea from self-defense
to insanity. If Jaaku manifested the necessary smarts to plead that he
was at least temporarily crazed, we reasoned that he'd have a better
chance of beating the murder rap. The last thing we wanted was for him
to serve a reduced sentence in the state hospital rather than the life
sentence he so richly deserved.
All
of us were disappointed when the trial was delayed for yet another
month, this time until the week of September 4th. The silver lining in
the delay was that it allowed me to take a welcome and, I thought, well
deserved vacation in early August, when I flew to Nevada to join Mom
and Dad for a couple of stress-free weeks. Well, almost stress free; I
had to remember to keep quiet about Jaaku's perverse and slimy deeds as
well as the reassuring presence of Vic's spirit. I didn’t want to worry
my parents nor did I want them to think I’d fallen off the deep end.
My
parents and I camped out, trailer style, in camp parks deep in
aromatic, thick pine forests. On chilly nights, we crouched around a
campfire, our bodies toasty-warm in flannel shirts, thick socks and
jeans. Gentle crackling sounds from wood, sizzling coal, clicks and
calls from night birds keeping watch from overhanging trees lulled and
enchanted us. The wind turned into an icy paintbrush that drew pink
circles on our cheeks, noses and ears as we scraped blackened
marshmallows off twigs and onto graham crackers. We declared these
mini-sandwiches tastier than the finest French pastries. The stars
exploded overhead, a million shining pinpricks piercing the ebony sky,
as we talked and joked about days gone by. This sweet time with my
folks in the mountains helped distance me from gruesome memories of
Jaaku and was a much appreciated break from what had become mundane
day-in and day-out shift work at the Hennessee Fire Department. My zest
for going to work had died along with Vic.
Visiting
my folks wasn’t all roses, however. Mom and I got along great but
hanging out with Dad had its ups and downs. I think parents tend to see
their children as children even when they’re all grown up, and adults
often feel like three-year-olds in their parents’ presence. There were
times when my childhood wounds bled under what I’m sure were Dad’s
unintentional cuts. At such times, his disregard for my opinions and
judgment pushed me back into a space where I doubted myself. Then my
self-esteem plummeted and I hurt deep inside.
It
took a couple of shifts to ease back into the ebb and flow of the work
routine, after which it felt comforting to have my office back. At
least lack of respect wasn’t part of my existence in the alarm
room—there my abilities were acknowledged. It didn’t take long before
my sense of competency, at least when it came to staying on top of an
insanely busy alarm room, was restored. That I could absorb chatter
from two or three channels of radio dispatches, answer multiple calls
when the phone panel lit up like a Christmas tree, and simultaneously
deal with several alarms beeping into the office all at once, was
appreciated in the small circle of the Hennessee Fire Department
family. The credit for my speed and efficiency, however, did not belong
solely to me. Henrietta, the alarm room supervisor, trained me well and
was herself the fastest and most effective alarm room operator I’d had
the good fortune to work with. She is also one of the nicest women I’ve
ever known.
The
firemen seemed glad to have me back “in your cage where you belong.”
They were, I knew, relieved to have a respite from pulling my shifts in
the alarm room. Most firemen hate desk jobs, feeling that their
rightful places are in the heat of action. Besides, the guys assigned
to my shift hadn't received much dispatch training and felt unequal to
the task of handling the multiple radios and phones and equipment when
they transmitted and rang and beeped simultaneously in the alarm room.
Only
two weeks remained until the trial and I wondered what slimy activities
Jaaku had immersed himself in. Surely his determination to beat the
rap, to somehow worm his way out of serving time in prison, was making
him anxious which translated to dangerous. The firemen had no news for
me. Jaaku, it seemed, had stayed clear of them, at least the ones who
would talk about such encounters to me. Greg, the young local airman
who idolized Jaaku and was reputed to hang out with him still,
volunteered no information and I dared not ask because doing so would
have tipped Greg off that his continued dialogue with Jaaku was no
secret. I hoped that everyone except for Bob, Red and the chief thought
I was still living on base.
These
summer months were tinged with a mixture of dread, that Jaaku would
beat the rap, hope that he wouldn't, and speculation as to which of
these two possibilities was more likely. These feelings attended the
mundane, day in and day out events of living and working for many of us
at the station. Time kept on slipping in this way into the future until
September, the month of Jaaku's trial, finally came squalling into
existence one gloomy Friday morning on the heels of tropical storm
Lani. She flooded the dry, leeward side of Oahu and flung 30-foot waves
against telephone poles that lined the coast of Nanakuli and Waianae to
the west. At Hennessee, Lani sent on-call repairmen scrambling for
sandbags to barricade doorways of low-lying houses against water
running in rivers across the ground.
A
few of the firemen who manned the trucks roaring through torrents of
rain to check out downed electrical power lines and blown transformers
said that the hurricane was an evil omen. They allowed as how the very
elements were agitated about the upcoming trial and it was the Devil’s
wind that blew roofs off houses and uprooted trees.
While
I don’t believe in the Devil per se, I do believe in the existence of
malevolent forces and had no doubt that a slime ball such as Jaaku
worked hand in hoof with these. I often marveled at how much he
resembled the demons in the artist Hieronymus Bosch's paintings. When
fear and grief wrapped their tendrils around me, I ran the priest's
words through my mind, “I believe in the Devil. But God is stronger.”
Then I visualized the Tree of Life, its roots extending deep into
Mother Earth's rich brown loam and its branches spreading wide and
green into Heaven. Only when I saw that tree clearly was I able to
relax enough to meditate. My mind-chatter prevented me from focusing
except for those rare occasions when I managed to still those noisy
inner voices. At such times, my meditation transported me from
agitation to peace. It was then that I felt my angel hero connecting to
me with such energy and ecstasy that my heart chakra opened up, bliss
filled me to overflowing, and fear and sorrow dissolved like smoke in
the air.
Saturday, September 2nd
Most
of the firemen had already finished eating the chow hall fare of fried
chicken and cottage fries before I made it into the community room for
dinner. Luckily, the salad bar was almost untouched and I managed to
fill my plate with a palatable mixture of carrots, celery, mushrooms,
lettuce and cottage cheese. When Emilio lowered his muscular body into
the chair beside me, I was eager for conversation. He was, after all,
half of the fireman twosome who would have to testify against Jaaku,
perhaps as soon as Monday. I gave him barely enough time to unload his
dinner plates and bus his tray before asking, "So. How do you feel
about being subpoenaed to testify?"
He
frowned. "Not too good. When had three guys, the prosecutor only went
need two and Mike was supposed to be the one, not me. Him and Herbert.
But Mike's such a panty, he went run off to the mainland. Like a dog,
his tail dragging between his legs. So now I got to go in his place."
"You're
not worried, are you?" I didn't imagine that Emilio, stalwart as he was
in both mind and body, would let himself be intimidated by the likes of
Jaaku.
He
shook his head. "Naa. Long time ago, me and Jaaku used to hang out, do
stuff together. But after that we had one beef…falling out…I went tell
him, 'I know you, Jaaku. Know how you operate, eh? Stay away from me,
brah. I ain't your friend no more.'"
"You’ve
got a lot of guts," I said and wondered if things would have been
different if I'd confronted Jaaku, too. Right. I could just see myself
telling him, "Jaaku, you offend me. Get out and stay out of the alarm
room." Like Mad Max had told him, after which Jaaku'd taken to pointing
a loaded gun at his head as he rode away on his bicycle. “Yeah,” I
concluded, “Things would have been different. I'd probably be dead.”
"Aah,
Jaaku ain't gonna do nothing,” Emilio said. “If he sends somebody after
me now, I can take care of myself. I ain't worried. But my wife stay
worried about the kids."
"I
don't suppose there's much to worry about since all you have to do is
testify that you saw Jaaku's loaded weapons when he brought them to the
station. That's not such a big deal." I hoped to relieve his mind. "Do
you know the exact date the trial will start next week? I want to go."
"Naa. We won't know until the day before it starts.”
"Does that mean it can't be Monday?"
Emilio looked perplexed. "I'll leave word at the station as soon as I know. But I thought you was gonna testify, too."
"So
did I. But Mr. Soon said he doesn't need me after all. When the woman
from the Witness Assistance Center talked to me, she said it all
depended on what Jaaku's defense was. If he claimed that this was the
only crime he'd ever committed they would use my testimony to show he
was lying. So I'm thinking his defense is still going to be that Vic
came at him with a gun. Anyway, Mr. Soon told me he thinks he can get a
conviction based on the evidence at the scene."
“Yeah,” Emilio nodded. "That's what he's going for."
See the April issue of Sethnet Journal for the first chapter in the true story of “A Dream, A Question, and A Promise.” Pam welcomes feedback on her story. Please feel free to email her at lyricpam1@yahoo.com
Pam writes:
You’ll recall that at the end of Chapter 12, interim editor Nardine
Neilson posted a picture of “Vic” (thanks for the idea, Nardine!) After
reading that chapter, “Vic’s” sister Barbara said that she enjoyed
reading the chapter and especially seeing his picture.
Barbara wrote:
“This particular photo was taken in my parents' dining room where they
were living in Elizabeth, PA. “Vic” stood much taller than my parents
and had his arm around one (or both) of them. Mom had the photo
"touched up" after “Vic” died. The photographer took my parent(s) out
of the photo and had to physically "draw" in the portion of his denim
jacket that he had around one or both of my parents. If you look at the
photograph closely you can see where it was retouched. This photo
always sat on my parents TV console until the day “Eva” and I cleaned
out Mom's house after she passed away.”
Pam writes:
Nardine suggested that I might like to include a picture of myself
during that time period as well, so I did, and she posted it here. This
picture was taken by my Mom, who was in Hawaii at the time helping me
move into my new place (thanks, Mom!) I chose this picture partly
because I was sitting on my sister’s housewarming present of a new
couch (thanks, Patty!) And also because the aquarium that belonged to
Vic, that became a planter after it broke and fell, hangs in the
background.
I
went through some rough times in March and April. When my cat and I
both got sick and I became exhausted from worry and lack of sleep, I
felt overwhelmed and all alone. But then I connected with a friend
(hey, Lynda!) who was easy to talk to and supportive and shared my
interest in green smoothies and The Zone and I felt a bit more
optimistic and tapped in than before. I’ve noticed in the past that it
takes being in a good space for Spirit to manifest. Perhaps that’s why
“Vic” stopped by on a Saturday night, (on April 5th), entered my dream,
and touched my heart with such glorious healing love. He kissed me and
kissed me and his kisses quite took my breath away; it was like being
kissed by the deepest and dearest love in the Universe. His essence
touching mine brought me such joy that, after awakening, I clung to the
tapped in, high energy feeling. Oh, how I wanted to stay in that higher
love space. It was a much appreciated reminder that my earthly trials
and tribulations are only real in this linear world that I inhabit only
half of the time, only when my consciousness is blinking on here.
When
Vic “moseys on in” to one of my dreams, it feels way different than my
other dreams. We connect on a soul level and our encounter fills me up
with ecstasy and a certainty that his soul is as alive and vibrant as
ever it was when he walked the earth on those long, swift legs of his.
What matters most to me when we connect like this is that Vic still
exists and that he loves me, even though I am now 61 with a head full
of white hair and a face sprouting wrinkles. How miraculous and
wonderful it is, to encounter him in this way.
I have the strongest feeling that he likes me telling his story.
Reaching
by Michaela Sefler
Reaching her days,
justice she seeks;
for the light emanates
and she desires.
And long she has lived,
believing;
from one source
are the entities
complete,
and she can reach.
Taking part;
rays of recall
she attempts to grasp,
for many were the roads before her.
Joining of states,
taking part,
and possibilities
are before her, shimmering.
Solitude strengthened,
and taking part she aids,
for in them
change can be.
And roads set;
are hidden,
yet always existing
and the faith is instilled
as new beginnings unfold.
Michaela Sefler
is a metaphysical poet living in Montreal, Canada. Her poetry is
spiritual and esoteric and her poems allude to ancient ideals. In her
poetry, she draws on ancient writings, to convey a message of hope and
survival, describing present realities in the light of ancient truths.
She
has seven published compilations of poetry: Still True, A fortress in
my Heart, The Sun is Hot, Through the Ages, Seven Stars, Healing Tree
and To Summon Angels the metaphysical. The featured poem, "Reaching"
will be published next summer in a compilation called Gems, with
PublishAmerica.
Visit Michaela's website for her complete collection of works in mp3 audio files or E-Book. http://msefler-inspiration.net msefler@vdn.ca
Never in Vain ~ Grand Plan
Channeled by Sylvia
Gifted and blessed are those whom attempt to be communicating with the highest realms.
As
you have just been reading elsewhere, and to your delight, some matters
were brought into your attention span, which ring true to you. You
always had the uneasy feeling that there was more to the concept that
you create your own reality. You felt somewhere deep inside of you,
there was simply more to it, for in your mind the concept as given was
just too barren, to stripping out the juice of the life, as your saying
goes.
Indeed,
there is a grand plan you set up beforehand, before you came into your
life here on this earth. And this does explain the concept of why
everything has a meaning, and that nothing is in vain – that no
experience whatsoever is ever in vain - for there is a reason behind
every experience, which simply, is that you set this up for yourself
beforehand.
You
setup what you intend in great lines anyway, to experience, and there
are diverse ways of sticking to your intended experiences. You very
much so, do create your own reality, however, this is done and based
upon the background of the scheme, of what was agreed on, and planned
on, beforehand.
Do
you not wonder why it is you happen to read these bits of information,
at just this time in your ongoing process, why you come across them –
it, that; also has a purpose behind it – it sets you off into other
avenues, it helps you to define what you already know, deep down inside
of you. It makes it form a clearer picture for you – to you, it rings
true – it provides additional information to your already gathered up
information.
We
are so happy you followed your own trail provided by your higher self,
to you personally. We are so glad you followed up on it for it did make
certain issues clearer to you. You are providing yourself a sort of
convincement of what you already knew. You, of course, do not enter
life without any scheme set up beforehand. How could this be so? What
would your purpose for coming here then be? There has to be some kind
of purpose to it. You cannot come into life by means of carrying with
you an open void. Nothing to attain, nothing to achieve. Nothing to
learn. Nothing to experience.
You
do come here to experience, that is the whole purpose of it. Now you
need some form of frame, or plan, or setup to stick to. You would gain
nothing out of saying, “Oh, I shall go to earth, and do some
experiencing, with nothing in mind.” It would be very random, have no
meaning to it. So you enter with a sort of a list on which you have
certain items, or points, or things, which you aspire to experience.
These can be infinite topics, experienced in infinite ways. Since you
are already also experiencing other experiences ‘elsewhere’, you do not
choose randomly. Now while you are busy experiencing, you do tend to
work off your list - your list has diverse options – you have certain
options which you could follow, by way of your path to experience
certain topics.
There
is not one solely prescribed route to take, there are various routes
you might embark on to experience some topic. One topic can be
experienced in many, many, infinite different ways and approaches to
it. While you are following certain paths to gain certain experiences,
you do along the way, create your own reality simply to set into motion
the diverse probabilities, or options, one has as routes setup in the
scheme. And the management of these routes is done by yourself, on a
deeper level. You are driven by your intuitive self, your higher self,
your better self; however you wish to call it, it is still You.
The
art of attaining the guidance of your self is very much also, to a
certain degree – we are careful in our words now – to a certain degree
not set in concrete also, a bit optional to yourself. However, you are
always in the position to gain the knowledge of your higher self. You
might have put in a few options on your list to make this a bit
difficult, in that you reach your higher self by way of diverse routes
first to be experienced. Therefore, we are not saying here, that you
would sometimes not be able to reach your higher self, because that
would have been something that you had decided on beforehand.
You
are always under the guidance of your self, always, and you can always
tap in to your higher self. We are only saying that some of you just
build in a few difficulty factors, that is all, this does not mean you
cannot reach your higher self. The in-between road; the difficult part
to reaching your higher self, might just be the experience you were
seeking out, via this in-between period, you might gain some valuable
insights, experiences, by the various difficulties you experience, in
reaching your higher self.
So
just be happy to know that you did beforehand acquire a plan, a route,
a means, and that you always, are doing exactly that which you set out
to experience, which you set out to do, as your ‘goal’. You are always
being assisted herein by your higher self, whom is constantly directing
you, leading you, urging you on, giving you hints, and tapping you on
the shoulder, waking you up, setting you into your intended direction,
nudging you, sending you messages. By way of any little thing from a
book, to a program on TV, to internet, to a person, to a conversation,
any thing. And if you are trying to find your way in this particular
kind of endeavor, or any other ‘spiritual’ walks in life, you can
safely assume this was your intention to do so.
Nothing
is for nothing. Nothing is in vain for you experience, and gain wisdom
by what you experience, which was also a part of your setup ‘plans’,
and all has a reason. Everything has a reason behind its doings, and
there are, very much so, higher beings which are really higher selves
of You. Imagine the grandness of being assisted in all ways in life, by
this very grand higher self that YOU are.
Do
please come to terms with the fact that your life is not in vain; you
are living it the way you planned. However, as mentioned before, there
are diverse routes, or options to be taken along the way to gaining a
certain experience. It might take you an awful long time, in your
linear years, to reach a certain point, or to gain a certain knowledge,
or to be able to reach some achievement of something, and if so, well,
then this was just another one of the many routes, paths, options you
choose to walk and created for yourself to experience.
Now
some of you do not reach a certain aspired point, do not pick up on
your own ‘lessons you set out to learn’, there is nothing negative or
faulty about this at all. Do not forget you are in a physical density,
and you did forget certain things on purpose. So sometimes, it is hard
to stick to your own plan, nothing wrong with that, no harm done. You
will supply yourself with many other opportunities yet, to achieve
another time around. You have many lives, and there are many, many
you’s. Consider that.
Do
not let yourself be ‘stripped of the juices’ that make life wonderful
living. Do please hang on to your own beautiful beliefs, which assist
you further in your evolving process into your grander self.
If
you believe in angels, so do so. They exist. If you believe in higher
beings, so do so, for they exist. For there is more between heaven and
earth than ‘just’ the creation of your own reality.
Feb. 2009
Psychic Experiences
by Rama
I am sure
each individual who has invoked the Seth experience has a unique story
to tell. I would like to relate my psychic experiences.
In
1973, I joined an organization in East Malaysia for the purpose of
flying an aircraft that had fired my imagination, the Grumman
Gulfstream II. I was at that time living in Kuala Lumpur, married with
two children and an examiner with the Department of Civil Aviation.
Leaving the family with scant ceremony, I moved to East Malaysia. The
environment I gravitated to was hostile but such was the desire that I
overcame whatever angst was directed toward me. In hindsight that
proved a boon. In the initial stages, the pure excitement of new
technology and the heady experience of circumnavigating the globe
overcame the irritations of a form of ostracism.
The
excluding effect turned me to esoteric studies, a practice that I
embraced easily. What progressed the investigation in to the “unknown”
was a book on psychosomatic yoga by Mumford. Now previously I had made
tentative forays into meditation from a sure knowing that there was
something more “out there.” There was an advertisement in Popular
Mechanics, a publication that I used to read avidly during my school
days, by the Rosicrucian’s that carried the highly evocative words,
“Thoughts Have Wings.” It all seemed obvious to me, a natural enough
viewpoint given the general acceptance of “The Spirit World” in our
neck of the woods! And my existences in incarnations that had more to
do with the inner environment than the tip of the iceberg.
I
threw myself with enthusiasm into the exercises outlined in
psychosomatic yoga. I was equally interested in Kundalini Yoga, the
natural progression from these exercises. I had spoken of this
phenomenon to my Father previously, who warned me of the difficulty and
danger of the undertaking. I suppose it is a stubborn streak that
pushed me to acquire what is generally held to be difficult, whilst on
the other hand I have difficulty with lesser challenging tasks! A
dichotomy that I think I have resolved. I also became interested in
Astral Projection. My interest in this phenomenon led me to discuss
this with any and all who showed interest. On one occasion, I was in
the company of a young American engineer who was on an assignment in
East Malaysia. As usual, I mentioned my interest. He said, “Oh yes I
have a book that was given to me on the subject. I frightened myself
when I found myself dissociating from my body on putting into practice
the exercises outlined therein. You are welcome to the book.” Journeys
Out of the Body by Monroe reinforced the exercises I was now fully
engaged in. The most important development was the state of relaxation
and focus I acquired. Lucid dreams followed that were recalled in
detail and noted down. I thought that those were the most wonderful
experiences I have had. Each night after dinner, a lighted candle in
front of a diagram and recalling the figure with eyes closed,
visualizing a cube and seeing all of its faces at once all helping
toward a state of confidence and at one-ment.
Whilst
I was progressing in the exercises, the organization I was working for
disbanded. I visualized into existence certain outcomes. One, as an
exercise in what can be achieved, was to teach a lesson to one
colleague whose arrogance put mine in the pale! I visualized him being
my copilot. I forgot about this and subsequently joined the Malaysian
Airlines System and remained in East Malaysia.
I
continued with my meditations and took up Tai chi, but some questions
were beginning to intrude. One day I was on a layover in Kuching. After
breakfast I lay down for a rest when powerfully the question “What is
the Nature of Reality” surfaced. As if compelled by some force, I got
up and went to the little bookshop in the hotel I was staying. It is
usual practice when I stopped over to purchase a book to while away the
time. I approached a bookstand, the rotating kind, and flipped it. When
it stopped rotating, facing me was the spine of the book, “The Nature
of Personal Reality.” The experience was electric enough to cause the
hairs on my arms to stand. With mounting excitement, I extricated the
book and looked through the index. Every topic that was uppermost in
mind was covered. Suffice it to say that there was no lunch or dinner,
so engrossed was I in the book that answered all my questions and some.
It was most pleasing to have a position in life vindicated through
reading of “The Seth Books.”
I
was subsequently posted back to Kuala Lumpur and the family. There is
mention in the Seth materials a state where one can feel the growth of
events. This I have experienced.
I
settled in. Not soon after, what I had visualized came to pass. For who
should act as my copilot but my previous Director. I had no doubts now
as to the awesome power lying untapped within us. Although this was a
frivolous exercise, it served as a stepping-stone to furthering my
understanding of the power of visualization.
Now
things were swinging along with mind, body and soul acting in unison. I
would like to mention an occurrence that I believe was a pointer of
things to come. One morning after breakfast, I was lounging in my
study, my favorite part of the house and half-asleep when I was
startled into instant wakefulness by a vision. It was of a warrior with
an upraised sword rushing toward me. It was vivid. I pondered the
meaning of the vision but soon forgot about it. A few days later, after
a flight about midnight as I walked through the door, I felt a
sensation. I stopped, closed my eyes and felt a presence behind me. In
my mind’s eye, I saw a towering figure; reminiscent of a figure I used
to see in my dreams at the age of five or so. Mentally I said, “You are
here to tell me something.” At this point, the vision and sensation
disappeared. I went to bed and woke up at about 7am with a lethargy and
feeling of depression I had not experienced in a long time. After
coffee, I gravitated toward the workshop, which I had been meaning to
clean up. Listlessly I rummaged about, and as I fumbled through one of
the drawers, I came upon a small clear plastic bag. On picking that up
my lethargy vanished and recalling the experience of the night I
thought, “This is what you had come to show me.” Opening the bag, I
found brimstone, camphor and a rolled up copper sheet. I took them to
the kitchen where my wife was preparing lunch and showed her the items.
It was obvious to me what all this meant. I proceeded to burn all the
items including the copper sheet, which contained Arabic script and
some numbers, in the belief it would nullify the effects of what was an
attempt to put a hex on us. This is common practice in Malaysia. I was
more interested in who rather than what, believing that my outlook on
life would not attract such unfriendly acts. The incident was soon
forgotten.
Prior
to my return to Kuala Lumpur, my wife became infatuated with the idea
of migrating to Australia where she had an aunt who had virtually
brought her up, as her mother had passed away in childbirth. In pursuit
of this desire, she became acquainted with an Indian soothsayer from
Madras (now Chennai) who encouraged her with the feasibility of
pursuing the idea. On my infrequent home visits, I would accompany her
for consultations. With only my date and time of birth, he would answer
whatever questions interested us. His method of divination was based on
answers that had been written on palm leaves some hundreds of years
ago, he claimed. Unerringly he would pick out a leaf carrying the
answer to a question. It came to pass that we made some visits to India
to fulfill certain obligations in pursuance of the desire to migrate.
It must be pointed out that I was not fully committed to the idea
however. I was also not overly accepting of the idea that much reliance
was being placed on others for help. Subsequently we filed papers with
the Australian high commission in Kuala Lumpur. It also came to pass
that our home was put on the market, so certain was the soothsayer of
our acceptance by Australia. About two weeks after accepting a deposit
on the house, we received a letter of rejection from the high
commission. To say that my wife was distraught is putting it mildly.
Seeing her dismay, I resolved to do something about this. I assured her
I would handle the matter and went off on my flight that entailed a
layover. That night after dinner, I meditated and visualized the
granting of the necessary papers. It was conducted into the wee hours
of the morning with breaks in between. At about 4am there was a feeling
of lightness and accomplishment. On my return home, I said to my wife
that the matter had been sorted out. She gave me a strange look, which
implied that I had finally flipped. Within a week, we received a
telephone call from the high commission inviting us for an interview,
which led to the granting of the visa.
We
migrated on 6 December 1980. The trials and tribulations we went
through nearly drove me to suicide but that will keep as I continue
narrating my psychic adventure. You will recall the talisman I found in
our home in Kuala Lumpur. In the midst of the trials, I felt that there
was some effect from the article still haunting me. After 9 years, I
made a trip back to Kuala Lumpur followed by a visit the next year with
my wife. We were visiting with an ex colleague of mine when I mentioned
the incident. His sister said that there was some one who could help.
Off trooped four of us. It was about an hours drive to a place called
Batu Caves, a place holy to the Hindus. We arrived close to midnight.
Finally, it came to our turn. In what little Tamil I knew, I recounted
my tale. Now a little about the psychic. He was a goatherd as best as I
could figure and one could say unlettered. When he goes into a trance,
he takes on the personality of Goddess Kali (a much-misunderstood
Entity) and I was to refer to the personality as Amma (Mother). He
would also lapse into, as far as I knew, Sanskrit in his prayers. There
was no need for regaling him with details, as he was aware that on my
previous visit to Malaysia I had sought help from another source. There
was no earthly way that that information was communicated to him. As my
vacation was ending shortly, I requested an early ceremony. He was
evasive and noncommittal. I was not fully aware of the reason but had
had a clue in the behavior of my Father. He had always been happy to
visit us in Australia or have us visit him. On this occasion, he
appeared aloof. When I questioned this, he waved it off and changed his
attitude. Within a few days, my Father had a massive stroke and passed
away. As the first-born, I conducted the necessary ceremonies.
It
is customary if a death occurs in a household, no temple would receive
any one from that house for 16 days. With much difficulty and many
telephone calls through an intermediary, I made preparations for the
exorcism. An extension of vacation was applied for, for conducting my
Father’s rites, and coincidentally mine. On the day, the four of us
from the previous visit arrived at about 11p.m. and had a bit of a wait
as other devotees were attended to. Finally my turn came. I was asked
to come forward and sit in front a platter of flowers and fruit, the
money for which I had remitted a few days before. I was instructed to
rummage through the flowers to check for any hidden articles. It
appeared innocuous enough. I was made to stand and led about three feet
to one side for an invocation at which time I had my back to the
offering of flowers and fruit. I was returned to my seat next to my
companions who had at all times full view of proceedings from about 5
or six feet. The offering was now placed in front of me and the
psychic, for want of a better term, placed his foot on it and pressed
down three times. I was once again invited to rummage through the
flowers for which a knife was handed to me. From within the flowers I
unearthed two large rusty nails tied together with hair and fiber. I
was told that the hair and clothing were my wife’s and mine and this
talisman had been placed in our garden. I had found only one and the
purpose of these articles were to cause dissension and separation
between my wife and me. This apparently was the work of two people not
related to us. One had passed away and it would become apparent in time
who were responsible. I received further instruction on the disposal of
the now bundled items. I was to find a river and throw it backward into
flowing water. On our return journey, we came across what appeared to
be a little stream running across and below road level. There are
rails, about hip height, on either end of the road. With my back to the
rail, I threw the bundle backward. It appeared to hit something solid
at shoulder height and dropped behind me! Mystified I repeated the
operation successfully.
I
mercilessly questioned the other three if they had witnessed the whole
ceremony without a lapse. I was particularly interested in any lapse
that might have allowed the assistant; there were only six of us in a
rather small room, to have slipped the prepared nails into the flowers.
All three swore that he had not.
I have recounted these experiences to friends and relatives but the relief of putting this down in writing is far greater.
In
the last 28 years, I have attempted to recapture the state of being I
experienced prior to my migration. The peace that passeth
understanding, strangers in a crowded lift telling you that there is
something about you, waking up each morning with a feeling of joy, all
appeared like a dream. What kept all from completely disintegrating
were the wonderful philosophy outlined in the Seth Books. At one stage,
I wrote to Jane Roberts who graciously replied with blessings and
energy.
Painful
as some of these experiences have been in a way I am glad for them, for
they confirm the existence of a reality that is far richer and
extensive than the dry and dead worldview that science portrays.
One
other valuable lesson that’s come out of all of my experiences is to be
faithful to one's SELF, the going against which I believe, is the true
meaning of blasphemy against the Biblical Holy Ghost.
Blessed be,
Rama
We shine so bright
by Nardine
we shine so bright
as love-filled light
yet fear we might
be such a sight
and yet we can
know - I am
godness divine
pure crystalline
let’s shine our light
as diamonds bright
appreciate
& choose to make
our every word
a whisper heard
from inner voice
integral choice
reflecting to
the light in you
the love in me
for you to see
may hearts of all
rejoice this call
and breathing in
one-verse to sing
let’s celebrate
in joy chreate
a blessed earth
of love-filled mirth
090109
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
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Brought together as a group of people with similar
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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.
Wisp e-zine is now in print; issues 1-3 in Volume One, and 3-6 in Volume Two: http://wisp.focusphere.net/wisp-ezine-in-print-volume-1-and-2
The April-May issue is online. Feel free to browse the archives at http://wisp.focusphere.net/ and who knows... you may want to get involved :)
Online Energy Games
Join Dale Evans each Tuesday 4-5 p.m. (Eastern) on
Yahoo Instant Messenger for Group Energy Games. Connect with
IntuitiveFacilitator on Yahoo IM for an hour of energy fun and games.
Free and open to the public.
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 http://www.itallbeginsnow.com/Home_Page.html
SUMARI SHOPPING
A collection of products and services offered by Seth fans around the world.
If you have a product or service you'd like to see listed here, feel free to contact us at mailto:SNJ@newworldview.com
Welcome to the Magnificent Art of Orna Ben-Shoshan
Artist Orna Ben-Shoshan conceives the images she
paints through channeling. All of her paintings are completed in her
mind before she transfers them onto the canvas.
Her metaphysical work infuses deep spiritual
experience with subtle humor. Her major motivation as a visual artist
is to share her visions with others, to expand their consciousness and
inspire new ways of thinking.
In addition to her oil paintings, she creates
digital art, which is transformed into limited edition prints on
canvas. Currently she also works as a free-lance illustrator and
graphic designer.
To see more artwork, visit her website: http://www.ben-shoshan.com/ Or view a video presentation of Orna's artwork on YouTube: Art Creation - Orna Ben-Shoshan.
During 2008, Orna embarked on a new and challenging
project: Her artwork became the theme of a new set of reading cards:
"King Solomon Cards", a new and innovative divination tool which
combines her metaphysical art with ancient Kabalistic symbols.
Please visit: http://www.k-s-cards.com/ to learn more.
New from Sharon Hackleman, author of Marion the Magnet
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"We are all connected...intertwined...by a universal energy so divine." - Sharon Hackleman
Free Seth CD from New Awareness Network
This CD contains additional Seth excerpts that are not on the sethlearningcenter.org website)
This CD contains selections of Seth speaking on a variety of topics
along with explanatory notes by Rick Stack, former student of Seth and
Jane Roberts and President of New Awareness Network. For ordering
information, Click here.
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
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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
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A former newspaper reporter and the author of five
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Party Like It's 2012
Just one of the great metaphysical t-shirts, bumper stickers, greeting cards, buttons, mugs and clocks available from the Conscious Creation Shop by Kristen Fox and John McNally
SETH CONNECTIONS
Meetings of both the physical and non-physical kind.
If you have a Seth group or are planning a get together for Seth fans, and would like to see it advertised here, email us at SNJ@newworldview.com
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.
Seth Network Japan
Photos and audio recordings from the Maine Seth Conference
At Seth Network Japan's website you can have a look
at photos and listen to most of the presentations from the Maine Seth
Conference, held in York Beach in April/May 2009.
Photos
Audio 1
Audio 2
Have fun, :-)
Masa
Greetings from the Portland-Metro Seth Readers' Guild
We meet the 2nd and 4th Tuesdays of every month. Our
first meeting of the month is for reading aloud and commenting. Right
now, we are reading "The Seth Material" in the first half of the
meeting, then we take a break for drinks and treats and conversation.
During the second half of the meeting we have started reading "Seth
Speaks".
We end the meeting variously with a psy-time, or
reading from the Seth deck of cards. Of course the reading goes slowly,
because we always have a reason to stop the flow for comments--current
events, family or personal tie-ins, etc. This is how we use the
material, and it seems to work.
Our second meeting of the month is what we call the
experiential meeting, which can range from a past-life hypnosis
psy-time, to a video of interest on a current topic, or a time of
general discussion. We did some remote-viewing experiments with pretty
good results.
Our meetings start at 7 PM and go to 10 PM. The host
provides tea, coffee or other drinks, and we bring finger food. There
is networking, friendship, and stimulating talk on all kinds of
subjects during the break. We aim to keep our focus on our primary
reality, and learn from each other how to deal constructively with the
secondary reality of our greater world.
Drop-ins are welcome--call Marie 503-232-6469 or email harakne@yahoo.com for our meeting locations or any cancellations."
Cool Conscious Creation Resources on the Web
2009 Conscious Creation Calendar of Events
Sethnet Basics - get the most out of Sethnet
Sethnet Archives - lots of free articles and material
Random Seth quotes
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
Essence of Rose Website - The new website for the entity Rose as channeled by Joanne Helfrich. For more about the nature of Rose, see the essence of Rose 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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Art & Photo Gallery: Art of FoxVox
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T Shirt Reviews Tshirt Casserole
A monthly e-zine that highlights the creative energy of over 1600 souls exploring the work of Jane Roberts and Rob Butts.
Volume Fifty-Three
All You Need To Know by Orna Ben-Shoshan
In This Issue:
Sisters of D'Light by Nardine
A Dream, A Question, and A Promise: Chapter 12 by Pamela Gibson
From Dark To Light channeled by Sylvia
Essence by Calliopi
A World of Endless Possibilities: The Magnificent Art of Orna Ben-Shoshan
The Bracelet by Mike Nelson Pedde
Announcements, Links and Shopping
Sisters of D’Light
by Nardine
A gift in time this moment be
To work through fears and bring to thee
The knowing of my sacred vow
To live in bliss my every Now!
Joining hands we stand as one
To shine the light for everyone
Bringing forth God’s holy gift
Encourage all as spirits lift.
To nurture each as blessed voice
Empowers Self with every choice
Believe and make each sacred day
A blissful life of spirits way.
Ancient vows eternal love
Majestically from up above
To live the truth of inner sight
Sisters we shine to all D’Light!
A Dream, A Question, and A Promise
Copyright by Pamela Gibson
Chapter 12
Tuesday, April 19
When the wheels of the green Toyota skidded along
the rainy surface of the H1 freeway between Hennessee and Pearl City, I
screamed, as much to wake myself up as to protest the bald tires of
this junk of a loaner. What the heck, I was alone; nobody around,
probably for miles, if this slippery-footed beast conked out on me.
Screaming loosened the cork on my bottled up stress so I did it again
but this time my throat hurt and felt as dry as October leaves dead on
the ground.
Thanks to the lateness of the normally prompt mid
shift operator, it was half past midnight before I pulled out of
Hennessee’s parking lot. When Gertrude straggled in at 12:20 a.m., she
apologized for the power outage that prevented her alarm clock from
going off. I’d waited and watched the slow seconds tick by, drummed my
fingers against the white console in the alarm room, stared at the
blue, green, and red buttons on the instrument panels, and listened to
the whirr of the reel-to-reel tapes until she made it to work.
I cursed my luck in getting off late and having a
sick VW bug that was about to cost me $300 plus to replace its cracked
exhaust manifold. Only now, forty minutes past midnight when I should
have been curled up beneath the blue-green blanket on my twin bed, was
I braving the dark-as-a-dungeon unlit stretch of freeway between work
and home. Thick clouds blotted out the light from moon and stars,
spewed out rain, and raced like fat monsters toward some unholy feast.
It was a witch’s night, wild and electric. The
normally warm and gentle trade winds condensed into a brittle and
biting breath that screeched through the air at 50 plus miles an hour,
pierced me like a million tiny icicles, and blew my car to the left.
Lightning sizzled through sheets of rain blowing sideways, followed
fast and furiously by booming claps of thunder. I’d cranked the windows
tightly up against this demonic barrage of wind and fire and slowed
down to a slow clip in hopes of staying on the road. The AM/FM radio
yielded only crackling, staticky sounds, so I turned it off and
whispered to myself, “Everything’s gonna be fine. Take a couple of deep
breaths and say your ‘Oms’, girl. Relax. Don’t let your yoga training
fall apart lest you turn into a panty chicken heart.” I giggled at my
silly rhyme.
The pounding in my chest slowed but only for a
moment. Only until a blinding flash of lightning lit up a brown VW van
parked on the right side of the road where the bank climbs up steeply
and the dry weeds mingle with wide-lipped orange blossoms cascading
over the slope. In that long, incandescent moment the sight of
something wrapped and knotted over the place where the license plate
should be seared itself into my brain.
My heart exploded with pounding and the steering
wheel shook like the terrified heart of a captive bird. Then I realized
it was my hands that were shaking at the certainty that this was the
brown VW van Jaaku bragged about belonging to his friends, the toughs
who maimed and mangled anybody and everybody who “crossed” Jaaku. The
van, now parked on the side of the road leading to my home.
How did they know I would travel this road? Had Greg
told Jaaku I’d moved to Wahiawa? A sour, dry taste washed over my
tongue and teeth. Was it me they sought? Were they looking for my VW
bug so they could chase me down?
I remembered Jeff saying, “Fear is just fear” when
he was giving me his spiel about most accidents occurring in the house,
in the bathtub, and I wouldn’t stop taking baths because of that, would
I? But to me it just wasn’t the same. I felt I had good reason to be
afraid because Jaaku would surely send someone after me if I testified
against him. The sight of the van was proof positive to me that he
thought I would take the stand on Vic’s behalf. My worst fears had come
to pass.
“Don’t be a wimp,” I whimpered. “Vic’s already shown
you there’s really no death.” My driving leg jumped like a chicken
still hopping around without her head and I realized it’s not dying I’m
afraid of, it’s being mangled and torn and living with the aftermath of
pain. But this fear was still a fear, and fear, I believed, was the
antithesis of faith. Maybe Jeff was right after all.
Something in me snapped like a rubber band stretched
too tight and I vowed that these thugs wouldn’t defeat me without a
fight. I pushed the pedal to the metal, felt the Toyota jump and buck
against the wind’s fist, and rattled away as fast as steel and bald
rubber could carry me to the Aiea exit.
The nearest payphone was a dark booth beside a
greasy-spoon diner in Aiea Shopping Center. After a long hesitation
while I wondered if the cops would think me totally off my rocker and
if the van really had anything to do with me, I determinedly plunked my
quarter in the slot and dialed 911. The calm voice of the woman police
dispatcher on the other end was like a sedative to my racing heart as I
stammered on about the brown van. When I asked her to send a black and
white to check things out she politely said, “No.”
I sliced at her calm certainty with my splintered
voice, telling her about my involvement in a murder case and that the
van’s license plates were hidden and didn’t that seem strange? And I
talked about Jaaku’s criminal Mafioso friends and the strange phone
calls I’d been getting since he made bail, and, yes, I’d told the
investigating homicide detective about it and he’d told me to call the
police immediately if Jaaku bothered me. She finally agreed to send a
patrol car and notify Jeff in the morning if the cops found anything.
I drove home by way of the old two-lane,
pothole-riddled Kamehameha Highway. My breathing slowed and my
white-knuckled grip on the wheel relaxed as I realized how blessed I
was not to be driving my recognizable VW bug. It dawned on me that I
owed Gertrude big time for making me so late that the tough guys
probably thought I’d taken another road home. Which I resolved to do
from here on out, or else stay at Robin’s house on base.
I had a hard time getting to sleep and woke up tired
before 6 a.m. After cooking myself a breakfast of oatmeal and bacon, I
sipped coffee and watched the red headed Cardinals and sassy Mynah
birds hop across the green lawn outside my patio. I watched them from
inside my new apartment, all mine, built like a fortress with locks on
the sliding glass doors and protected with the loud bells of a security
alarm, a haven from Jaaku as long as he didn’t find out where I lived.
When I figured Jeff would have made it to work, I
pushed the new me into gear, the strong me who felt the fear and fought
back anyway. I forced my fingers, shaking from caffeine and
uncertainty, to dial the number Jeff gave me on the day Vic was
murdered.
“Homicide,” a gruff voice said. I halfway felt like hanging up but said, equally gruffly I hoped, “Jeff Yamaguchi please.”
Five minutes crept by. I was toying with the idea of
hanging up because Jeff wouldn’t know it was me who called when he
finally announced “Yamaguchi” in that no-nonsense, strong voice of his
that never failed to grip me like a vice and shake the cobwebs out of
my thought processes. I asked him about the van and wished my heart
would quit pounding so hard.
“The police didn’t find anything, Pam.” His voice was uncharacteristically gentle.
I tried to speak but couldn’t make a single word come out of my mouth. Defenseless, I waited for him to continue.
“The van was already gone.” His voice still kind.
I adored him for acknowledging that the van was
really there. I hoped he also believed it wasn’t just some random van
made sinister by a hysterical woman’s imagination. “I had a loaner, so
Jaaku’s friends didn’t recognize my car,” I ventured. “They probably
got tired of waiting. It was past 12:40 a.m. when I drove by.”
“You can’t be sure those were Jaaku’s friends.”
His words shattered my fragile hope. I had to bite
my tongue to keep from saying, “Yes, I can. Yes, I’m sure.” But he was
right; I had no proof. And proof was obviously required by this
detective who seemed to be a “just the facts, ma’am” kind of guy.
But was he? After I hung up the phone, I pondered
that question. The rumor mill had it that he was a devout born again
Christian and the facts seemed to corroborate that he was a religious
man. For one thing, he certainly knew how to hurt my conscience. I
thought of that day at the station when he asked me, “But what if Vic
was your brother? Would you tell the truth about him, tell the truth
for him, if he was your brother?” And when he saw me flinch at that, he
said, “Oh, so you have a conscience.” And when he took my statement at
the police station, he asked, “Does your conscience feel better now?”
Coffee cup in hand, I paced up and down my living
room. Jeff had told me that I shouldn’t have written him that letter,
said I should have called him instead. But there was no way I could
talk to him about dreams and spirits over the phone. “Guess I’ll just
have to find a way,” I thought, “to talk to him in person. But what if
the rumors are wrong and he turns out to be an atheist? Or one of those
right wing Christians who’s totally into dogma, or doesn’t believe that
personal spiritual experience is valid? He’ll either think I’m a nut
case or firmly in the Devil’s grasp.”
I opened the sliding glass doors that led to the
patio, sat down on a lawn chair, sipped my coffee, and sighed. I wished
someone like Seth would pop into my consciousness and clue me in on how
to talk to HPD’s finest detective.
Wednesday, April 20
I arrived at the community room just as they were
about to stop serving dinner. The firemen had finished eating so I sat
down at an empty table and glanced outside through the glass windows. A
boy and girl were playing on the thick green lawn. They jumped up and
ran circles around their mother, who sat with her back against a palm
tree. She rocked a baby in her arms and smiled at her kids, who stopped
to hug her and pat the baby’s head before turning to the business of
somersaulting down a grassy slope.
Lydia, a jolly, elderly woman who worked in the
kitchen, sat at a nearby table, the contents of the cash box stacked in
tall silver and green mounds before her. She shook her head and
muttered under her breath as she recounted the crumpled one and five
and ten dollar bills. Everybody liked “Ma”—that’s what we called
her—for her upbeat outlook but she wasn’t too good with numbers and
often had a hard time making her cash box balance. Hoping to jar her
out of her disgruntled mood, I said, “Look at those children playing.
Doesn’t that look like fun?”
“When you’re old like me, you don’t think about
playing. You just hope the day hurries up and gets over so you can
rest.” She scowled and pointed to the bills. “I done counted them bills
three times and I come out with different figures every time. I swear,
I got a fearsome headache.” She held her white-haired head in her
hands, a morose expression on her face.
“I’ll count them for you if you like,” I offered.
A look of joy spread across Ma’s face. She nodded so
I joined her at her table and counted bills between bites of black-eyed
peas, chicken and cornbread. She cackled in delight.
“You don’t really mean what you said, do you?” I
asked her. I thought about the numerous times she playfully scolded the
strapping firemen when they forgot to pay or neglected to rinse their
dishes, telling them they’d better behave or else she’d have to spank
them, “Didn’t I used to see Vic and you having a great time playing?”
A smile creased Ma’s round face. “Well, that’s true.
I used to tell him, ‘Vic, if I was 25 years younger, you’d be in big
trouble.’ And he’d say, ‘Aw, you stop that, Ma, or I’ll have to spank
you.’” She cackled again.
Suddenly the lights in the hallway that led from the community room to the front office blinked off and on.
“Stop that, Vic,” Ma said.
A crop of goose bumps popped out on my arms and my head tingled. “Why did you say that?”
“Why, because that’s how Vic always used to tease
me, that’s why. He’d wait until my back was turned, flick the lights
off and on in the hallway, run into the front office before I could see
him, cut through the men’s bathroom and back into the community room
and, when I turned around, he’d be sitting down at one of these tables,
looking like nothing had happened. Then, when I’d scold him, he’d put
on this innocent face and say, ‘Why, Ma, whatever are you talking
about?’”
Chills ran up and down my spine. “Ma.” I hesitated,
wondering how she’d take it if I told her what I was thinking. Then I
decided, what the heck, if she thinks I’m loony she won’t be the only
one. “I think Vic’s here,” I blurted out, “right now. I feel him.
That’s why the lights flickered.”
Ma made the sign of the cross across her chest and
gave me a knowing smile. “That’s right. He’s here. And it isn’t the
first time, God bless him.”
Such a feeling of joy overtook me that I almost
cried. The very air around me felt rarefied, charged as it was with
energy and awareness. Something made me glance outside. The boy and
girl outside now stood with their noses pressed flat against a window
pane, staring at Ma and me. “Children are so sensitive,” I thought.
“They must feel a presence, too.”
I smiled and waved. The children laughed and waved
back, ran back to their mother, kissed her on the cheek, and ran away
to play some more. A glance at the firemen who sat sprawled out in
recliners, talking and sleeping in front of the large screen TV, told
me that they hadn’t noticed anything unusual.
For a moment I wondered at this but then thought,
“Of course they don’t feel Vic, even though he’s so joyfully present,
still playing like he did when he was in the flesh. They didn’t love
him enough to tell the truth for him, so why should he bother to reveal
himself to them now? Children are naturally intuitive but Ma and I love
him so he moseyed on by to play and to remind us he still exists.” I
figured that Vic, like William James in Jane Roberts’ “Afterdeath
Journal of an American Philosopher”, understood how awfully lonely
people who had an emotional tie with him felt now that he was dead.
In my mind I told Vic, “You’ll always be my dear
friend and my hero and I’ll love you forever.” Tears filled my eyes. Ma
noticed, scooted her chair closer to me, and wrapped a comforting arm
around me. “It’s all right, Pam,” Ma said. “Vic is with God now and
Jaaku will pay. I just know he will.” She handed me a tissue.
I blew my nose. “I think you’re right but even if
Jaaku’s convicted we’ll never get Vic back. Jaaku just can’t pay enough
to make up for murdering Vic, even if he rots in prison for the rest of
his slimy life. Which I doubt he will.”
“Jaaku will pay the full price for what he did.”
Again, Ma made the sign of the cross. “God don’t have trouble with
figures like I do; He’ll see to it.”
I thought that was incredibly profound. “Right on,
Ma,” I said. “I believe in God’s justice, too. But I miss Vic now. At
least, it’s comforting to know that he exists, isn’t it? Still as happy
as when he was alive, still a tease.” I took a bite of my cold peas.
“In a way, it’s ironic. When Jaaku killed Vic, he thought he was doing
away with Vic forever and ever. But Vic lives in spirit, so when Jaaku
thought he was murdering Vic he was actually killing whatever good was
left inside himself.”
Ma frowned. “That philosophy stuff’s too heavy for
me. All I know is, murder’s the Devil’s work. I say several “Hail
Mary's” for Vic every Sunday but I know his spirit’s not at peace
because he died a violent death at the hand of his best friend. He
won’t be at peace until Jaaku’s in prison where he belongs.”
“But it doesn’t feel like Vic’s a tormented spirit.
It feels like he’s joyful. Seems like Vic comes around to visit people
who love him, to comfort us so we’ll know he still exists even though
we can’t see him.”
“That’s a sweet thought, dear,” Ma smiled at me.
“But Vic belongs in Heaven. If ever anybody deserves to be there, that
dear man does. Never did one mean thing to nobody, always a smile on
his face. It must be so glorious and beautiful in Heaven; do you think
he’d hang around here less’n he had to? No, he’s still got something to
do here or he’d be gone.”
“Makes sense to me,” I said, and thought, “I bet Ma’s right. Vic still has me to protect from his murderer.” The
idea that I was the reason Vic still hung around on earth filled me
with both joy and guilt. It was so delightful to feel him around that,
selfish woman that I was, I didn’t want him to move on and take the
magic that I felt when I was in his presence away.
Thursday, April 21
My conscience worked me over as I contemplated Ma’s
words. I woke up thinking that perhaps, if Jeff knew Jaaku’s real
motive for killing Vic, Vic would finally be free to move on to higher
realms. After a hurried breakfast, I paced the floor of my living room
and tried to gather courage, not wanting to delay even one more day in
telling Jeff my whole truth regarding the murder. “He told me I
shouldn’t have written that letter, that I should call him instead,” I
said aloud. “But I just can’t tell him about dreams and spirits over
the phone.” I pondered this dilemma but the only thing I could
come up with was to repeat the request I’d written in my letter, that
Jeff meet me some place away from the police station so I could freely
talk.
With sudden resolve, I dialed homicide before I could change my mind. “Homicide. Ledbetter.” Andy answered, his voice gruff.
“Hello, Andy. This is Pam Gibson.” My voice trembled in spite of myself. “Is Jeff in?”
“No, he’s not.” Andy’s voice sounded decidedly unfriendly but, after all, he was a cop.
I asked him to have Jeff call me when he got in. He
said he would. For about five minutes I shook in my shoes and wished I
hadn’t called. Then the phone rang. My “hello” was followed quickly by
Jeff’s clipped, angry voice saying, “Yamaguchi.” Cop voice.
Sudden fear at his anger seemed to short-circuit my
brain and freeze my vocal chords. The only words I managed to blurt out
were, “Could we meet somewhere and talk?”
“What do you want to talk about?” Jeff barked, stressing every word.
“It’s something besides physical evidence.” The words were coming out badly. “But—“
He interrupted, “But what?”
“I…I…just can’t tell you over the phone,” I whispered.
“Pam.” His voice sounded even angrier than before. “I don’t do that stuff!”
My mind spun around on itself, asking, “What stuff? What’s he talking about?” but
in the face of his anger my thoughts splintered and I ignored his
confusing words in order to stay focused on my reason for calling him.
My voice shook as I said, “Why won’t you—?”
I intended to add, “—meet with me so I can talk to
you face to face?” so it took a few seconds after he interrupted me
with, “Because I’m happily married” for the meaning of his answer to
penetrate my agitated mind. Shock at the realization that he thought I
was trying to seduce him and frustration at my inability to clearly
represent my intentions kept me tongue-tied. A few moments later he
broke the silence, adding, “And even if I wasn’t, I don’t do that
stuff!”
I barely had time to stutter, “You…don’t…” before he banged down the receiver.
“Understand,” I finished. Tears stung my eyes. “Boy, I’ve really blown it,” I thought. “What am I going to do now?” Softly, I replaced the receiver in its cradle, plopped down on the overstuffed couch, and replayed Jeff’s words in my mind.
“Stop and think,” I told myself. “Don’t just react.”
I took several deep, yoga breaths until my racing heart slowed its pace
a bit. “What kind of man wouldn’t ‘do that stuff’ even if he were
single?”
It hit me like a slap in the face. Of course! A
religious man. A certainty that Jeff, with his talk about conscience
and his skill in hurting mine, was indeed a devout Christian filled me
up. “The rumor mill must be right,” I thought. “My only option is to
write him a letter because he sure ain’t gonna talk to me face to face
now, no way, no how, no, never.”
It only took a few seconds to pull a writing tablet
from my desk drawer and sit down at the dining table. The words flowed
quickly from my pen:
April 21
Detective Yamaguchi,
There are things I can’t tell you as a detective.
Things that I can only tell you as one Christian to another so that
you, at least, will understand. I know you told me not to write you any
more letters but this is part of my whole truth.
The morning Vic Lazzarini was murdered, I went home
and prayed to God to send me a dream that would tell me what Vic and
Jaaku were arguing about. God answered my prayer, but I didn’t know it
then, because He sent me a dream seven months before I prayed.
Earlier this month, I was looking through my dreams
(I write them down) and I found a dream I’d dreamed last July on the
very night my ex-boyfriend Abe moved to the Big Island. It was more
than a dream. It was a vision of things to come! The dream:
I dreamed that Jaaku kicked the front door open of
my apartment on Ward Avenue. He forced his way into bed with me. I
protested but he raped me. Then the scene switched to the living room.
Jaaku was laughing and joking and I was afraid that people wouldn’t
understand, that they’d think I had invited him in. All of a sudden, a
giant, very muscular, man’s arm came through the window from outside
and grabbed me on the shoulder. His touch was warm and reassuring and
filled me with joy. I knew that, whomever the arm belonged to, he
understood that I hadn’t, would never have, invited Jaaku in.
That arm belonged to Vic Lazzarini! He died
protecting me! He protects me still, in death as in life. I have felt
his presence. His spirit still lingers on the earth.
I know you’re a religious man. You spoke with the
voice of my conscience during those first traumatic weeks following
Vic’s death. I struggled between fear and conscience. You helped me by
hurting my conscience and so I told you what I knew about Jaaku and
Vic.
Jaaku has a friend in the station, a local boy. I
told him a bunch of lies—that I’m living on base with friends now, that
my ex-boyfriend is coming back to be with me—because I want him to
think I’m not living alone in my apartment. And I don’t want Jaaku
sending somebody after me again, somebody who will try to follow me
home. Jaaku would have no qualms about getting rid of me if he thought
it meant he wouldn’t have to go to prison—believe it! Jaaku doesn’t
take responsibility for his actions. Besides the crimes I’ve told you
about, the firemen tell me he’s committed lots of other crimes. But it
doesn’t do any good for me to tell you about that, does it? Because
that’s secondhand information and only hearsay.
Every time Jaaku runs into somebody from the fire department, he tells them that the argument was about me.
I hope he tries to call me again soon at the station. If he does, I’ll be waiting for him with my recording device.
Signed,
Pamela Gibson
I sealed the envelope and addressed it to Jeff but
omitted a return address. “If he knew it was a letter from me,” I
thought, “he might not even open it. He might just tear it up and throw
it away.” A few minutes later, I drove to Honolulu, where I dropped the
letter in the mail slot of a post office close to the police station.
That way, I reasoned, the letter would bear a “Honolulu” postmark and
Jeff would have to open it, hopefully tomorrow, to see who it was from.
Friday, April 22
During a quiet spell in the alarm room when the
phones and alarm bells were silent, I sat daydreaming, my mind
meandering like a slow-flowing stream. An impression that someone was
thinking about me with strong intention came over me so I closed my
eyes and silently chanted “Om.” A peaceful feeling possessed me and in
my mind’s eye I saw Jeff, his eyes closed, a devout expression upon his
face, head lowered and mouth moving in prayer, holding my head gently
between his hands. The feeling of peace intensified. I took several
slow, deep yoga breaths and happily breathed in the welcome feelings of
serenity and safety.
After dinner, Assistant Chief Bob popped into the
alarm room, winked, and said, “I received some reassuring news the
other day from Eric, Gertrude’s husband.” He lowered his body into the
chair behind the back desk.
“Isn’t Eric an ex-cop?” I asked.
“Yes. And he knows Jeff Yamaguchi.” Bob fairly
beamed. “Eric said Jeff’s the best homicide detective HPD’s got. He’s
absolutely brilliant so HPD turns over their toughest cases to him.”
“Lucky for us isn’t it?” I already knew most of that but
Bob seemed so excited I didn’t want to rain on his parade. “With Jeff
on the case I’ll bet Jaaku’s got less chance of getting off than a
snowball’s chance in Hell.”
“Let’s hope so,” Bob said. “Remember when I told you
rumor had it that Jeff’s a devout Christian?” I nodded. “Eric confirmed
it. He says Jeff’s very active in his church and coaches boy’s
basketball when he’s not working long hours on the job.”
Bob kept talking but I didn’t hear him, heard only
my own thoughts saying that his words confirmed my vision. A feeling of
gratitude to All That Is for providing a Christian detective who
understood my dream and prayed for me quite overwhelmed me. I silently
prayed, “Thank You for Your abundance in providing two warriors good
and true to more than counter balance one evil little worm. And thank
You for keeping me safe from harm.”
Later that night, round about 2 a.m., I dreamed I
was in an interview room with Jeff at the police station. Andy was
there, too, and said to Jeff, “She’s finally here.” “Yes,” Jeff said.
He smiled and held my hand. Andy left and Jeff played me some tapes
he’d recorded of people’s statements. “Listen to this one,” he said. I
listened to a woman’s voice telling a long, bizarre story. Suddenly I
heard a crime being committed outside of the room. Someone yelled,
“Give me your money!” and then what sounded like shots were fired.
“What’s that?” I screamed, frightened. “Is there a crime going on?”
Jeff shook his head and said, “Oh, Pam, not in the station. That’s
cable TV.”
The dream shocked me out of sleep. I reached for the
journal on my nightstand, groggily scribbled in my dream notebook, and
then lay back down. Sleep stubbornly refused to return so I rose from
the bed, plodded across the floor, grabbed my journal from the
bookshelf, then plopped down into a dining room chair and started to
write whatever came to mind. It was a routine I’d followed on many a
sleepless night which usually resulted, after the journaling pinpointed
whatever was troubling me, in my being able to go back to sleep.
Now I wrote about how reassuring Jeff’s hand felt in
my dreams and how, only two and a half months earlier, Vic placed his
warm hands around my neck and sent chills up and down my spine. On the
day before he was murdered, before my heart shattered like a china cup
dropped on a cement floor.
Tears misted my eyes at the thought. Soon I was
crying, my tears forming two tiny puddles on the wooden table’s dusty
surface. I let go of my pen because my vision blurred until I couldn’t
see to write. “I keep going on these crying jags,” I sobbed. “I haven’t
been myself since Vic died.”
I lay back down on my bed and cried and cried. I
missed Vic and felt so lonely. Steve Winwood’s words, “You just roll
with it, baby,” traveled across my mind. I tried to let the waves of
pain roll right on through.
As grief surged through my body, it felt like a big
hard knot inside my chest gradually broke apart and dissolved, leaving
me exhausted, wrung out and red eyed, but feeling better. Crying had
given me a headache so I got up and swallowed a couple of aspirin with
a glass of warm milk. It wasn’t long before my headache lifted and I
drifted into sleep. The last thing I remember was Carole King singing,
“It’s going to take some time this time,” somewhere inside the caverns
of my mind.
Saturday, April 23rd
I ate breakfast on the patio and watched the Mynah
birds hop across the lawn and red-headed Cardinals peck at the bird
seed I’d scattered there. The day was bright and clear and so, after
washing breakfast dishes, I prepared for my daily walk. It was about 10
a.m. when I tied a floppy hat on my head and tennis shoes on my feet,
activated the burglar alarm system, and locked the door behind me. My
VW bug carried me to a residential area in Mililani beside a large park
where I made a fast U-turn so I could park in the shade of a sprawling
banyan tree. A few moments later I was walking back down the street I’d
just driven up, enjoying the caress of a cool breeze that crinkled the
edges of my straw hat.
I’d only walked about 20 yards when I spotted a
police car driving down the road on the wide, main thoroughfare of a
street that ran perpendicular to the narrow street where I walked. The
car was about 50 yards away, moving slowly, and I could clearly see the
officer peering down the street where I walked, his head moving rapidly
back and forth as his eyes scanned the area, searching for something.
The instant his eyes fell on me I recognized Jeff Yamaguchi. It was so
unexpected to see him in a policeman’s uniform and car that I froze,
except for my right hand which automatically raised in a hesitant wave.
Even at that distance I could clearly see an expression of compassion
and empathy on his face, mixed with a kind of shock at being made.
After staring at me for a few seconds, he sped on down the road and
disappeared from view.
It dawned on me that Jeff must not have anticipated
me making a fast U-turn so that I was walking toward him, and that he’d
probably tailed me all the way from my apartment. I felt elated as I
continued walking briskly around the park. “Well, what do you know? I’m
being tailed by HPD’s finest detective,” I thought. “He must know that
what I wrote him was the truth. I wonder if it’s the first time he’s
followed me. Maybe he’s been watching me for awhile.”
But then the thought, “Jeff’s too good of a cop to
follow me for no reason,” erased my former elation and replaced it with
dread. Did he think I was still in danger from Jaaku? If Jeff believed
it then it almost certainly meant I was.
Monday, April 25th
Round about 9 a.m., I was playing a Seals and Croft
record album I’d inherited from Vic. As I listened to the soulful
words, “We’ll have children of the Kingdom, they won’t be torn by war,
nor will they fail to love justice,” I got all choked up at the thought
of the children Vic and I would never have. The ringing phone pulled me
back into the present. I blew my nose and tried to compose my voice
before I picked up the receiver.
The caller identified herself as Susan Brown from
the Victim and Witness Kokua Center. She wanted to make an appointment
to meet with me and talk sometime before the trial, which, she said,
was still set for the week of June 4th. We made an appointment for the
following Thursday at 10:00 a.m. “You can make a list of questions to
ask me, if you like,” Susan said. “My job is to help you in any way I
can, so don’t hesitate to call me any time if there’s any way I can
assist you.”
After copying down her address and phone number and
hanging up the receiver, I turned off the stereo and started ironing a
blouse for work. “Dad said I wouldn’t have to appear in court because
all of my testimony would be hearsay,” I thought. “Looks like Dad was
wrong.”
Maybe it was ESP or perhaps a simple coincidence,
but a few minutes later the phone rang again. It was Dad. He asked me
if I had any news about Jaaku.
I told him about the appointment with Susan. His
voice heavy with apprehension, he asked me if that meant I’d have to
testify. When I answered that I didn’t know but that Susan had said I
could bring a list of questions, Dad told me to ask them how they could
possibly use my statement as evidence in court when every bit of it was
hearsay.
“As soon as you get back home, call me. If it turns
out you have to testify, we’ll decide if you should move back home for
awhile. If you’re going to take the stand, I’ll fly over to Hawaii for
the trial. And if I decide you’re in any danger from that nut case, I’m
moving you lock, stock and barrel back to Nevada with us.”
I could always count on Dad for support. I loved him
for that, and for his obvious affection, and for wanting to look out
for me. Nevertheless, his words tied a knot in my stomach. I thought,
“Why don’t you ask me what I think about your plans for me?” He
continued, “You can always find another civil service job here in
Nevada. Either that or I’ll come to Hawaii and shoot the son of a
bitch.” Nothing like feeling protected.
“You’re the best, Dad.” I meant it but my defensive
shield was firmly in place now. “Don’t worry.” I thought of Jeff in the
cop uniform tailing me and added, “The police will protect me.” Too
late, I realized that was the wrong thing to say.
Dad snorted, “Horse feathers!” My mom, who was
listening in on the other line, said, “Your father wants to support
you, dear,” to which I replied that I very much appreciated that Dad
and her were there for me. I really meant it. But I wasn’t going to let
my father take my choices away.
I promised to call as soon as I returned home from
my appointment and asked them to promise me that, in the meantime, they
wouldn’t worry. After I hung up the phone I wondered if Mom was right.
She’d said I could be as stubborn as a mule and I felt that way now,
more determined than ever not to let anyone force me from my home. “Not
even you, Dad,” I thought. “And certainly not that little worm Jaaku.”
Thursday, April 28th
“Will I have to testify?” I asked Susan Brown.
Her big blue eyes looked at me from across the span
of an executive desk which held about 20 separate tidy stacks of
papers. There were stacks of paper on the floor of the small office as
well, through which a path had been cleared to enable passage to her
desk. I wondered which stack I belonged to. “Anyone who makes a
statement to the police is a potential witness and is referred to us
for counseling.” She smiled at me encouragingly. “We explain how the
legal process works and inform you of your rights.”
Susan handed me pamphlets, diagrams with flow
charts, and several brochures which I glanced at as she continued,
“This brochure explains what we at the Victim and Witness Kokua center
do. This is a felony case flow chart and this is a pamphlet with points
of relevance for prospective witnesses. However, if you are subpoenaed,
the prosecutor, Daniel Soon, will meet with you personally before you
actually go to court to testify.”
“But why would I be subpoenaed?” Here was my
opportunity to ask Dad’s question. “Aren’t all of my statements hearsay
evidence and therefore inadmissible as evidence in court?”
“That all depends on what Mr. Cardoza’s defense is.”
She flashed me a dazzling smile. “True, your statements are hearsay but
they’re first-hand hearsay; they’re what Christian Cardoza told you. If
Mr. Cardoza’s defense is that he never committed any crimes besides
this one, then you might be called to testify in order to discredit
him. And the judge will decide whether or not your testimony will be
admissible as evidence.”
“Thank you for clarifying that for me.” At last I
understood why Jeff had pushed me so hard to make a statement. “Can you
tell me if anyone else besides, possibly, me will be subpoenaed from
the fire department?”
“The three firemen who were at the preliminary hearing, Lino Badua and Mike Aguiar and Emilio Helikihi. Possibly Chief Jacobs.”
“Mike Aguiar’s moving to Washington State next week. He’s that scared,” I said. “Will he have to come back for the trial?”
A look of disgust erased the smile on Susan’s face.
“I met two of those so-called ‘men’ from Hennessee Fire Department. One
was so stoned he could hardly talk. Now the other’s running away to the
mainland.” She thought for awhile before adding, “Mr. Aguiar won’t have
to come back since he’d just be corroborating the other firemen’s
testimonies.”
I remembered Jeff’s words, “They’re all panty over
there.” Well, I couldn’t fault them for that; I felt panty as well. I
said, “Quite a few guys at work are scared. It bums me out that they
won’t tell the police anything. Jaaku told lots of firemen the same
stories he told me, and more, but nobody will make a statement.”
Susan shook her head. “That’s too bad, because
that’s the best way to ensure that Mr. Cardoza will be locked up and
not out walking the streets again.”
I didn’t know if that was true or just the spiel
that the cops and now Susan gave victims and witnesses but, since it
seemed to be the best chance we had for seeing Jaaku behind bars, I was
all for full disclosure. “Yes,” I agreed. “I want to see Jaaku in
prison where he belongs.”
“That’s the spirit, Pam!” Susan’s smile reappeared.
I felt grateful for this positive woman’s support and thanked her for
her help.
As soon as I arrived back home, I phoned my parents.
“Dad, I’ve got great news,” The index and middle fingers on my right
hand were tightly crossed. “You were right. I don’t have to testify.”
“That’s just great!” Dad sounded relieved and happy. “What did those people say? Why did they have you come down?”
I uncrossed my fingers and said, “They call in all
the people who’ve made statements and talk to them about the legal
process because each person who makes a statement is a potential
witness.” Then I crossed them again and added, “But, in my case, since
the only statements I made are all hearsay evidence, they’re not going
to use me.” Well, that might be true.
“I told you they couldn’t use your testimony in
court.” Self-assurance filled Dad’s voice. “Then I won’t have to fly
over there.”
Yes, that was exactly what I wanted. Being raised by
an authoritarian father who demanded an unquestioning obedience to
orders had created a rebelliousness in me that emerged whenever anyone
told me what to do. Things were better between my father and me now
that I was an adult but it was still next to impossible for me to say
no to Dad. For the sake of my fragile sense of autonomy, I had to
prevent him from calling the shots, even if it meant reverting to my
childhood ways of coping—doing what I wanted to do on the sly or lying
to get my way.
Dad continued, “Is the trial still set for June 4th?”
Fingers uncrossed, I said, “Right now it is. But the
defense can file for a continuance and try to have it postponed at any
time.” Fingers crossed again, “I was thinking, since I don’t have to
testify, I’m not going to go to the trial.”
Dad’s voice grew deeper. “That’s exactly what I was going to suggest.”
As if I didn’t know.
“You don’t want that nut case seeing you and
thinking, ‘She wants to see me to go prison.’ You don’t want him
blaming you for anything.”
No, I didn’t, but Jaaku probably blamed me already
and, anyway, wild horses couldn’t have kept me away from the trial. But
I didn’t want my parents to worry themselves silly, which was why I’d
kept the van incident from them and why I was lying to them now. With
my fingers still crossed, I said, “Plenty of people from the fire
department will go to the trial so I’ll just ask them what happened.”
“We’re so happy for the good news,” Mom said in her characteristically gentle voice. “Keep us posted on any new developments.”
I promised I would and I meant it. Well, sort of. As
long as it wasn’t the kind of news that would propel Dad onto the next
Hawaii-bound flight, determined to whisk me far away from Hawaii’s
sparkling shores.
Pam welcomes feedback on her story. Please feel free to email her at lyricpam1@yahoo.com
Pam writes: February witnessed the 25th
anniversary of “Vic’s” death. It just doesn’t seem possible that so
much time has passed. I’m delighted to be telling his story at long
last. I’ll always be grateful to Sethnet Journal for giving me this
golden opportunity.
Sometimes life and work, with their incessant
demands on my time, get in the way of my writing. It’s challenging to
find the time to make my chapters the best they can be. However,
All-That-Is invariably finds a way to inspire me. This month Spirit
came through for me in the soulful words of interim editor Nardine
after I submitted Chapter 11 to her.
Nardine wrote: A wonderful read, such
beautiful sharing. I was deeply touched by your dream on April 10, and
I truly honour the lovelight within which you and Vic have walked and
shared across all time and space. You honour him with your very breath
and, I trust, do also honour your beautiful and courageous Self, every
day.
This time in your life held heartache and love and
purpose, and your divine gift to All-That-Is unfolds in truly magical
ways. And how wonderful that we, the reader, got to hear of Vic’s
humble and heroic nature.
Pam writes: Thank you, sister in spirit
Nardine, from the top, sides, and bottom of my heart. Your words lifted
me up when I needed a boost and reminded me of the reasons why I’m
writing “Vic’s” story in the truest and most compelling way I can. I’m
especially touched by your words, “You honour him with your very
breath.” I truly feel that I do, since I believe he’s the reason I’m
breathing at all. Now I’m standing up for him like he stood up for me,
and hoping and praying that my words do justice to his memory.
See the April issue of Sethnet Journal for the first chapter in the true story of “A Dream, A Question, and A Promise.”
From Dark To Light
by Sylvia
As
you do attain these higher states of awareness, bring forth that which
you bring unto yourself to others. Bring forth your highest self and
good, in light and in your being, onto all others. Be praising of all
else’s needs and pains and sufferings, and bring them the most blessed
light, that you yourself posses within your being, shining brightly and
profusely, and shine these upon the others whom are so desperately in
need of this.
Go
forth and be whom you are, your most beautiful self shining unto
others, so that they may take of you, a grain of this beautiful shining
light which you do emit. Go forth in peace and tranquility, and bring
forth your happiness unto others.
Go
forth and be a blessing to all those around you, take them in your wake
of your blessed self, and do unto them not what they would be doing
unto themselves. Forever be proud in your stance and your wisdom, and
forever, remember that you are – very much so – a beautiful being of
light, of divine light yourself.
Radiate
about you this divine light, and shine through gazing forth under your
eyelashes, and glimpse the most wondrous glimpses there are to be
glimpsed. Go forth into wonders coming yet, in all their fullest glory
and being of light, divine light. Creator of worlds - creators all of
you, divine in your creations - be creating of your own lights, and
shine fiercely upon those whom do not shine so fiercely.
Take
glory in your stance, your pride, your dignity, and be proud. Stand up
and be whom you are supposed to be. Let it shine through what you are,
the inside of you. The being that you are, of highest purest light and
wisdom, so fine, so pure, that you could not imagine the beauty of it
radiating from it, which is not visible any more, not touchable any
more, it is just light, fine and bright, almost fluid...
Imagine
yourself to be in this light, imagine, feel it surrounding you, feel it
filling up your being. Reach out and touch this light, it is there for
your touching of it. So do so.
Let
wonders and miracles happen, for they do happen, every day of your
life. Miracles appear in their most divine wisdom, so touch upon their
wisdom, and let it flow through you. You are made of it, yet you do not
acknowledge it, while it is you. The goddesses that you are, are high
and mighty, and proud, and wise. And in all of your failings remember,
there is no failure, there is only the achievement of yet another
miracle. You do yourself your highest good.
Let
it be known unto the whole world, that glory shall prevail in all its
wisdom and holiness. It will arise above the other. Let it be known
mankind shall not be doomed, mankind will succeed in shining the light
upon the darkness, and will bring most glorious miracles to the world.
None will be left out and behind. All shall grow into great beings of
light and wisdom, it is the great achievement and the way of mankind.
Man-angel can do no other but, that which is, be felt in his soul, in
his being.
Let
there be light on all of you, for whom may read this message, for this
message is for you, you who are reading this. Let this light shine upon
you, for it is you, in all your angel-ness and all your glory. You are
looking and gazing upon yourself, your light, your angelhood, your
being. You are writing this message to your self, for you are the
divine creators of divine-ness, of all of yourselves.
Let for once and all be known, you – mankind – the human is
the angel, the pure and holy, brightly shining angel. You are the
highest one you could ever hope to be. There is no higher than this –
than what you are – you are your highest self, your highest being.
Let
it be known to all, you shall achieve what you all came down on earthly
realms for – to achieve – it shall be done, it shall prevail. It shall
overcome any darkness lurking yet upon your beautiful planet. The
darkness shall and will be overcome. The light is magnificently
stronger than any ray of darkness can ever be. Harm shall un-do no man.
Light shall be the overcoming of all dark.
And
so it shall be. Be praised and follow my light, my blessings, and just
splendor in my breath, for it is the breath you are breathing. Praise
you, praise mankind, praise the angels that you are.
The
nature, my dear, of this message was of quite a different tone than you
may be used to. No matter, it was and is of the highest good, and
brought unto you as the highest good.
Be
aware, and let it be the so much needed acknowledgement you were
seeking for, your proof, as you may call it, has been delivered. There
is no higher proof to be given to you. It was of the highest good and
light. Rest, forever assured that within this message you are being
acknowledged. Very much so.
This,
again, was another being, one you are not accustomed to. It is not
usual for this light being to appear and give praise. Therefore, it may
dawn upon you – into your mind – how very much appreciated, my dear,
you really are. Let this be sufficient proof to you that you are loved,
that you are being assisted, that you are being helped in most precious
ways you do not even begin to realize yet. So do get it inside your
head now, that you can and you will become adept at your capabilities.
Do
not attempt to go into your depressed moods because of not being able
to achieve for a day or so – the string, the rope, my dear, cannot
always be stretched – just appreciate what has been given to you in the
message, dwell in it, sleep in it, dream in it, it will carry you and
lift you, and help you overcome your most profound, deep dark doubts of
yourself.
Get
it into your head, my dear, you are very beautiful inside, you have a
most gifted heart – however much trampled upon in your opinion – the
mere fact that you are reciting this is proof in itself, what more
would you want? Give up the notion of it not being real.
You
are a wondrous person. Love thyself, it is all that matters. Love
yourself, lift those dark veils, those dark clouds which always hang
over your pretty head, give them up. You have held onto them for so
long it has very much so become a habit, a habit most difficult to
lose. Affirm yourself, be positive, be happy, most of all be praising
of your own abilities, which you are letting up and out, you are.
Cannot
you see how much of an achievement that this is, my dear? Can you in
any way, even see and begin to perceive that? How you have reached out
from way down out of your most dark hours and touched onto something
brighter, and higher, than you would have ever dreamed of? Acknowledge
this my child, it is your way, it is your doing in life, you will
achieve. Let it be known to all, this child will achieve and step out
her most dark hours, and will reach more light she has ever known to
exist within her upon this earth time.
Take
in the beauty of life, for it is there to be taken in, all of it. See
the wonders of your nature, your earth, her divine-ness, she is so
beautiful you cannot imagine how beautiful. It is of a grand design and
creation, magnificent in all her splendor. Embrace yourself, my dear,
and embrace all that happens to you, for it is not in vain, it is never
in vain. It is all a part of the package you composed for yourself, it
is your journey, it is your path. Marvel in the fact that this is your
own special and chosen path.
Hurt
is part of the package, hurt is here for you to learn from, to gain
knowledge from. How else would you be able to give unto anyone else the
knowledge, if you had not first experienced it yourself? See the
importance in the wisdom of this fact – which lies behind the hurt – it
is there for reasons. You must, you will, and are acquiring just that
which you need in order for you to be able to be of service to others –
by way of your writings. Know what is to be lonely – what solitude is –
know what it is to feel small, nobody, and insignificant, to know what
pain is. You learn from it, you gain wisdom, and wisdom is what you
need.
You
are a very old soul, you have learned much, you have done and learned
and gained much of that which is to be gained and learned from in life.
You have been the one and the other, you have experienced the opposite
ends of the poles. You chose for it to be difficult for you are a grand
master, and you aspire the most wisdom you could ever hope to attain
from physical life.
Therefore, be proud. Be proud.
You are doing this aspiring more than you know, more than you give
yourself credit for. Don’t you understand deep down why you do it all,
go through it all? Don’t you see? Imagine the being of light you are achieving to become, and are, and are.
You just forgot, that is all, you will remember once again, I promise
you will. You will then know it was not all in vain – all for nothing –
for it is not, it is not. For all your tiredness, all your
black moods, all of it is a part of the package, you chose this. You
chose this to evolve even further than you already have evolved.
This will be all for now, my dear. We love you.
Essence
by Calliopi
Go beyond the pain and touch love.
Go beyond the shame and touch love.
Life is beautiful you can see it now.
Life is wonderful you can feel it now.
The illusions are gone,
The veil has dropped.
You can see,
You can feel,
You can be.
Love is beyond physicality.
Love is beyond compassion.
Love is you, love is me,
Love is the tree, love is the sea.
Look around and you’ll see,
Look inside and you’ll be.
Love is everything!
A World of Endless Possibilities: The Magnificent Art of Orna Ben-Shoshan
As
an auto-deduct artist, my work is not attached to any particular
location or time frame, and is free from any familiar set of rules. It
is a medium of transferring knowledge about things that are beyond
linear time and thinking.
I am often asked about the source of my inspiration
and if the unearthly themes I paint appear in my dreams. There is
nothing extraordinary about my dreams, and I usually forget them
shortly after I wake up.
Imagination would be the easy answer to these
questions, but only if we view imagination as an expansion of
consciousness that encompasses a wider spectrum of experience. My
source of inspiration is experiences from alternate states of existence.
I am blessed with the ability to see things that
originate at another realm in which, to my belief, I existed before. In
a meditative state, I tune in and can see glimpses of information that
are channeled to me from there. Although the landscapes, figures or
objects look familiar, they obey a different set of rules.
My
major motivation as a visual artist is to translate the channeled
information into a visual form so it can be shared with others, and
perhaps expand their consciousness and inspire new ways of thinking.
This is my contribution to society as an artist.
My painting process starts with a clear vision of a
location, a situation, a process, an experience, or a ritual that
exists somewhere in time-space. I ask the guides to send me a vision,
and then wait. Thereafter, during routine activity a picture may
suddenly appear in my mind, clear and vivid.
Once the visualization process is complete, painting
the picture is simply a technical task. I cannot fully explain most of
the motifs I paint. Nevertheless, I strive to expand my perception in
order to comprehend how entities behave in this mysterious environment.
I
have learned that the figures I paint are constantly exploring life in
a realm of boundless possibilities. Can you imagine life without
limitations, where mind power is so dominant that it can control
matter? Released from the bounds of gravity, the objects in my
paintings move freely in space.
No normal feet are necessary, just a pair of cones
that allow bouncing from one point to another. There are many bodies of
transparent energies or entities, defined within colorful threads.
These invisible energies or entities play major roles in the alternate
reality.
Angelic figures perform duties for which they were
created. Their faces are innocent and pure, their existence is lucid -
they can appear from nowhere, quietly do what they were called for, and
disappear.
The process of energetic cleansing is present in
many of my visions. On-going rituals of rejuvenation are performed by
entities in order to maintain vitality and free flowing energy.
Another important topic of exploration concerns the transformation from
one dimension to another. What symbolizes this transformation is either
a scene of a journey, or a door opening into another world.
Guardian angels are depicted as flying figures that
observe and direct the flow of events. There is a continuous
interaction between guidance and quest. Wooden birds, representing
thought patterns, are flying in some of the paintings. These thoughts
are transformed into realities.
Though there is a lot of activity and development in
my paintings, the overall sensation they create is peacefulness and
reconciliation. From studies of esoteric philosophies I have learned
that all humanity shares the same pool of experiences.
There is a "collective memory" shared by everyone who ever existed, exists now or will exist in the future.
In
our regular state of consciousness we can only conceive a small
fraction of the universal experience or "cosmic intelligence". An
artist, who is blessed with the tool of painting, can be a vessel that
transforms this knowledge into a visual form. The main purpose of all
arts becomes an important teaching tool.
It is said that observing metaphysical art induces
lucidity and reduces stress. Many people who view my artwork comment
that they can deeply connect to what they see, even though they do not
necessarily understand it. In others it simply evokes positive and
uplifting feelings as they are influenced by it subconsciously. It is a
rewarding and elevating experience when I succeed in channeling this
knowledge and create a positive impact on the viewer.
“Having an Orna Ben-Shoshan painting on your wall is
like having a window to another dimension. This is a natural result of
Orna’s process, which involves opening her consciousness and channeling
images that come to her from a different realm of existence. “Michal Zilberman, McGill University”
Orna Ben-Shoshan
was born in 1956 at Kibbutz Yifaat in Israel. She acquired her training
as a graphic designer in Tel Aviv. In 1982, Orna moved with her family
to the U.S.A. where she lived for nearly fifteen years. Since her first
one-person show in Lancaster, PA., in 1983, Orna has exhibited her work
in museums and galleries throughout America and abroad and won several
awards. Her artworks have been published in magazines and editorial
articles in Israel and the U.S.A.
Orna
returned to Israel at the end of 1996, and continues her work at her
studio in Raanana. She holds several solo exhibitions a year winning
remarkable reviews. Her paintings are on exhibit in galleries around
Israel, America and Europe. Her work infuses deep spiritual experience
with subtle humor. Critics remark that each one of her images is a
world onto itself.
Like other surrealist artists, Orna creates links
that are only possible in a different dimension of existence, taking
the conventional and weaving it with unique and inimitable stitch. Her
images are executed with intractable detail and seasoned by a multitude
of colors and decorative Patterns.
Her career as a fine artist over the past
twenty-seven years has created a large body of work and she is
presently focusing on oil painting. In addition, she creates digital
art, which is transformed into limited edition prints on canvas. She
also works as a free-lance illustrator and graphic designer.
During 2008, Orna embarked on a new and challenging
project: Her artwork became the theme of a new set of reading cards:
"King Solomon Cards" a new and innovative divination tool that combines
her metaphysical art with ancient Kabalistic symbols. Please visit: http://www.k-s-cards.com to learn more.
The Magnificent Art of Orna Ben-Shoshan
Website: http://www.ben-shoshan.com Email: orna@ben-shoshan.com
The Bracelet
by Mike Nelson Pedde
It had come to him again; in a way he knew it would.
The pattern unchanging, the details never the same. He would fight for
breath, unable to move, unsure of wake or dream until he found himself
again in his room, lying on his bed, swimming in a pool of his own
sweat. The way it had been as long as he could remember. How many
times, now? He had long since forgotten. The memories of the future
past always came in dream. Some said it was a gift from God. Others a
curse. For him it was Life.
Rising
from the bed, he took a moment to orient himself in the darkness, then
dressed in silence. Black, as was his habit, right to the boots.
Absentmindedly he reached for the collar on the dresser, fingered it
for a moment, then returned it gently to its place. He had always been
an enigma to his superiors, anyway. No one would suspect. His old felt
hat completed his head, and as he turned to leave, the moon shone
silver on the bracelet by the table. 'Old friend, how could I leave
without you?'
In an instant the memories tumbled unbidden into his
mind, crowding each other out and vying for position. So long ago. He
had been sent to 'save' them, but how much they had given in return.
More than he could ever truly appreciate. Likely more than he would
ever know. On his last night among the People, the old drunk on the
street had pressed this into his hand and stumbled away into the
darkness. Thanks? Farewell? Of this too, he was unsure. Who was really
playing the fool in that exchange? He had held up his palm to the
distant light and so beheld it for the first time - the wolf hammered
into the ribbon of silver. The old man had said they would come to him
now. Blind muttering? Who would come? Or what?
He could feel them around him again now; they were
never very far away. By some unwritten rule, pack law, they had
accepted him as their leader and he had come to return their respect
and their love. Always just unseen, he could sense them as they entered
the room and gathered around. When he had left the northern forest for
a jungle of concrete, wood, and steel, he had thought they might be
reluctant to leave. He was wrong. Home was. Their pads and claws made
inaudible clicks as they walked just above the sidewalk. How the night
would end was never shown, and he wondered again how they would react,
what they would feel. Would they mourn, howl, or move on with the night?
A good kid, his mother had called him. He had always
tried to be, but sometimes life just dumped on you. There was no way
around it. It wasn't his fault, after all. School was hard, confining.
They couldn't expect him to just sit there, all day, every day,
listening to one or the other babbling on and on and on. Bored him to
tears. He'd rather party! Yeah!! That's the life. No worries. No
hassles. It had started that way, anyway. One night Snake had brought
that shit and they'd passed the pipe around. Heaven. He wanted it now.
Had to have it. Crack was life! Everything else was emptiness. His
insides turned to water and his veins burned his skin. Who'd want that?
Sure, he could quit any time he wanted to. Just didn't want to! Hah!!
They just couldn't understand. Yeah, he'd taken money from his mother's
purse, but it was only a little, and he was going to pay her back. Not
anymore. Screw her. Screw them all. He'd show them! All he needed was a
little to keep himself going. Just a little touch-up and he'd be fine.
These thoughts all jumbled against each other in his
mind, knocking names, places, dates out of order. It was cold in the
alley, but the skid provided some shelter, and the papers he took from
the dumpster provided a little cushion. Too bad there was no food in
there, but he couldn't much eat anyway. Too dark, though. Too dark. He
could use his lighter for a bit, light up the night, but he needed to
save the fuel for later. Just a little fix and he'd be okay.The moon
rounded the corner of the alley and illuminated his little piece of
paradise. In the pale light he reached his hand into his jacket and
pulled it out again. Here the moon shone silver on the cold blue steel.
His mother's new boyfriend had said he needed it for protection. That's
just what he was going to do. Protect his interests. Namely him. It
wasn't like anybody would get hurt. He'd just grab the cash and go.
Snake would know he was good for the rest. But what if he didn't? No,
it would work. It had to.
Footsteps coming down the street. A long, easy lope.
Not yet. Not yet, not yet, NOW! "Hold it right there!” "Just gimme your
money and nobody gets hurt!” The kid knew that the tremor in his voice
didn't sound convincing, but hey. He was the one with the gun. He had
control of the situation. "Oh, there you are. I've been looking for you.” The
voice rolled out, just above a whisper. "Looking for me? What you
talkin' about? Just give me your damn money!” Panic had started to
creep into his voice. "I'm sorry, son. I can't help you. I don't have any money. And yes, we have been inexorably drawn down this path together."
"Inex what?” His eyes had adjusted to the dimness of the street, and he
looked beyond his hands, beyond the barrel to the mark who was standing
before him. About six feet, all dressed in black, with flowing silver
hair and a long white beard. The brim of his hat covered his eyes. That
wasn't good. Snake always said to look for the terror in their eyes,
but this man showed nothing.
Meanwhile, he stood shaking in a cloud of his own
fear. "I'm not fooling around here, mister! Just fork over the money!”
An edginess had crawled into his throat, his voice tense. "It's as I told you. I have no money. You can check if you like." "No tricks! Okay, how's about that bracelet, then. Toss it over!" "Son,
this bracelet is an old friend of mine, but it's not worth much. You
could strip this old carcass clean and fetch maybe $20. Is that how
much life is worth to you?" “ I ain't your son! And I'm tired
of fooling around here!” He knew he was losing control, and a part of
him wanted to turn and run. That part was slowly winning.
He heard the old man's voice again, gaining through the fog of his mind. "Look,
kid. You have three choices. No one's been hurt yet, so why don't you
put that away and we can take a little walk. I can get you some coffee,
maybe even something to eat. I know some people near here who can help
you . . ." "I don't need no people! I just want your money!” The voice, soft and low, broke through again. "Choice
number 2, you're going to shoot me. That's possible, your choice, but
those wounds will heal, and you know my friends here will find you
again.” Friends? What friends? There was nobody around for blocks. That old man was a fool to be walking out there anyway . . .
From the corner of his eye he thought he saw
movement. Shadow. Must have been a cloud or something. Then another.
Then another. He was starting to sober fast, and the pain was rising in
him again. "Choice number 3, you're going to send me to my maker.
You don't want to do that, because the ghosts of those memories will
haunt you forever.” The words cut right through him, and he jumped
back involuntarily, but cocked the hammer at the same time. "You can't
frighten me! I'm not afraid of you! I don't believe in no ghosts!" Very
slowly, the head tilted back, just enough to reveal the eyes beneath
the brim. A curious mixture of gray and blue, hints of green, but not
flat like most people's eyes. These were deep caverns into the soul. "No . . . No, I don't believe you do. But I suspect you will, soon."
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.
Wisp e-zine is now in print; issues 1-3 in Volume One, and 3-6 in Volume Two: http://wisp.focusphere.net/wisp-ezine-in-print-volume-1-and-2
The next issue is planned for March. Till then, feel free to browse the archives at http://wisp.focusphere.net/ and who knows... you may want to get involved :)
Online Energy Games
Join Dale Evans each Tuesday 4-5 p.m. (Eastern) on
Yahoo Instant Messenger for Group Energy Games. Connect with
IntuitiveFacilitator on Yahoo IM for an hour of energy fun and games.
Free and open to the public.
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 http://www.itallbeginsnow.com/Home_Page.html
SUMARI SHOPPING
A collection of products and services offered by Seth fans around the world.
If you have a product or service you'd like to see listed here, feel free to contact us at mailto:SNJ@newworldview.com
Welcome to the Magnificent Art of Orna Ben-Shoshan
Artist Orna Ben-Shoshan conceives the images she
paints through channeling. All of her paintings are completed in her
mind before she transfers them onto the canvas.
Her
metaphysical work infuses deep spiritual experience with subtle humor.
Her major motivation as a visual artist is to share her visions with
others, to expand their consciousness and inspire new ways of thinking.
In
addition to her oil paintings, she creates digital art, which is
transformed into limited edition prints on canvas. Currently she also
works as a free-lance illustrator and graphic designer.
To see more of her artwork, please visit: http://www.ben-shoshan.com
During
2008, Orna embarked on a new and challenging project: Her artwork
became the theme of a new set of reading cards: "King Solomon Cards", a
new and innovative divination tool which combines her metaphysical art
with ancient Kabalistic symbols.
Please visit: http://www.k-s-cards.com to learn more.
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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when ordered on mindtimecards.com
"We are all connected...intertwined...by a universal energy so divine." - Sharon Hackleman
Free Seth CD from New Awareness Network
This CD contains additional Seth excerpts that are not on the sethlearningcenter.org website)
This CD contains selections of Seth speaking on a
variety of topics along with explanatory notes by Rick Stack, former
student of Seth and Jane Roberts and President of New Awareness
Network. For ordering information, Click here.
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.
Party Like It's 2012
Just one of the great metaphysical t-shirts, bumper stickers, greeting cards, buttons, mugs and clocks available from the Conscious Creation Shop by Kristen Fox and John McNally
SETH CONNECTIONS
Meetings of both the physical and non-physical kind.
If you have a Seth group or are planning a get together for Seth fans, and would like to see it advertised here, email us at SNJ@newworldview.com
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.
Seth Network Japan
Dear friends, I'm happy to announce that Seth Network Japan,was
created in December 2005 by a small group of Japanese Seth fans. We
also have a website that introduces the Seth Material to our visitors.
If you know any Japanese speaking person who might
be interested in Seth books, we'd be glad to welcome him/her on the
site. For those who feel like having a look at Japan, we have a small slide show that presents different parts of the country.
So, you are all welcome. :-)
Cheers,
Masa
Greetings from the Portland-Metro Seth Readers' Guild
We meet the 2nd and 4th Tuesdays of every month. Our
first meeting of the month is for reading aloud and commenting. Right
now, we are reading "The Seth Material" in the first half of the
meeting, then we take a break for drinks and treats and conversation.
During the second half of the meeting we have started reading "Seth
Speaks".
We end the meeting variously with a psy-time, or
reading from the Seth deck of cards. Of course the reading goes slowly,
because we always have a reason to stop the flow for comments--current
events, family or personal tie-ins, etc. This is how we use the
material, and it seems to work.
Our second meeting of the month is what we call the
experiential meeting, which can range from a past-life hypnosis
psy-time, to a video of interest on a current topic, or a time of
general discussion. We did some remote-viewing experiments with pretty
good results.
Our meetings start at 7 PM and go to 10 PM. The host
provides tea, coffee or other drinks, and we bring finger food. There
is networking, friendship, and stimulating talk on all kinds of
subjects during the break. We aim to keep our focus on our primary
reality, and learn from each other how to deal constructively with the
secondary reality of our greater world.
Drop-ins are welcome--call Marie 503-232-6469 or email harakne@yahoo.com for our meeting locations or any cancellations."
Cool Conscious Creation Resources on the Web
2009 Conscious Creation Calendar of Events
Sethnet Basics - get the most out of Sethnet
Sethnet Archives - lots of free articles and material
Random Seth quotes
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
Essence of Rose Website - The new website for the entity Rose as channeled by Joanne Helfrich. For more about the nature of Rose, see the essence of Rose 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
Shop Powered By Tshirts
Kristen's weblog: FoxVox
Art & Photo Gallery: Art of FoxVox
Art & Photo Prints: Deviant Art
T Shirt Reviews Tshirt Casserole
A monthly e-zine that highlights the creative energy of over 1600 souls exploring the work of Jane Roberts and Rob Butts.
Volume Fifty-Two
Sound to Light by Orna Ben-Shoshan
In This Issue:
Angel On My Finger by Marcia Nelson Pedde
Transmutation by Greybear
Artwork: Sound to Light by Orna Ben-Shoshan
A Dream, A Question, and A Promise: Chapter 11 by Pamela Gibson
Light - Excerpt from Revelation: Joseph’s Message channeled by Michael G. Reccia
Announcements, Links and Shopping
Angel On My Finger
A true story by Marcia Nelson Pedde
She entered our lives ten days ago. Magic brought her to us. Marvel
kept her with us. As I relate this story to you my eyes fill with tears
of joy.
My dear friend Laurie and I were attempting to burn off the excess
calories we had consumed during a leisurely luncheon. Time spent
together was precious to us both and so we chatted continuously while
introducing bites of food intermittently. We laughed as we gave in to
our sugar cravings and ordered dessert. Cadillac cheesecake was
appropriately named and received accolades from our taste buds. By the
time the last forkful had entered our mouths, we realized that we had
overdone it.
We still had a good portion of the afternoon to share and so we
chose to walk through a nearby wooded area known for its groomed hiking
trails and tranquil ambiance. We were not disappointed. Our usual fast
pace slowed to a calm saunter and, at times, to an actual dawdle. Our
breathing took on a deeper quality. Even our conversation ceased for a
time while our senses enjoyed the beauty around us. We didn’t need
words to connect with each other.
The autumn season was just five days old. Close enough to summer,
the sun’s rays sparkling through the branches warmed us. Fall colours,
however, were evident in the rusts, reds, purples and yellows scattered
about the forest. Berries and moss, mushrooms and leaves had each taken
on their particular tones and shades, hues and textures. Our eyes were
drawn first one way then another, at once up and then down in an
attempt to see and appreciate them all.
Several feet ahead of us and to our left a vibrant orange object
caught our attention. We stepped off the trail and marched through
underbrush and gingerly around living plants to reach it. It appeared
as though someone had scooped a large chunk of sea coral from a
tropical reef and plunked it unceremoniously upon the soil yet snuggled
amidst the exposed roots of an ancient beech tree. We admired the
texture of this entity, which we were to learn later was a lichen. Both
of us commented that we originally thought it to have been much bigger,
even from a distance, than it was close up. Laurie also mentioned that
it was now a pale peach in colour, yet we had been drawn by its
intensely deep orange shade only moments before and from farther away.
The disparity struck us as being rather odd.
Chatting about this we resumed our journey but in a slightly different direction.
Our
altered path took a rather circular route and graced us with the
majesty of many grandparent trees. We felt as though we could learn so
much history, so much wisdom, if only we knew the language of these old
ones, if only we had the ears to hear them. These wonderful trees must
have been the reason, we surmised, for being drawn to the lichen.
Another purpose we had yet to discover.
Not far around the bend from a very elderly cedar and by the edge of
the landscaped walkway, was an unknown group of foliage about knee
height (my knees, that is, as Laurie is taller than myself and this
plant arrangement came to a spot noticeably lower than her knees).
Sitting still as could be, as invisible as possible, was the prettiest
sight I had yet seen, even here with all this splendor. I put my right
index finger to my lips to catch Laurie’s attention and to stop her
from speaking. When she looked at me questioningly, I pointed to the
object of my delight. Her eyes widened as much as I’m sure mine already
were. We knew instantly this discovery was the true reason for our
detour.
Laurie and I had been walking and laughing just seconds before yet
this little being didn’t seem to notice. She was perched ever so
delicately upon an outer branch. I approached her cautiously, slowly,
so as not to startle her. No motion. I sensed her to be alive but began
to doubt that instinct as she allowed me to touch her without her
moving at all. Then suddenly her small body came to life and she walked
roughly but promptly onto my extended finger. A tremendous joy surged
through me. Then something unusual and fleeting happened. The face of a
young woman entered my mind’s eye. This woman’s name was Liz. This
particular day would have been her birthday. Let me digress for a
moment.
Fifteen months prior to the telling of this tale, the sweetest, most
wonderful man in my life got called to the bedside of his older sister.
He and I drove from Toronto to Ottawa where, with his parents, we
boarded an airplane for Kelowna, British Columbia. We did not know if
Liz would survive her illness. Michael and I had been together as a
couple for a mere seven months and I had not had the privilege of
meeting the sister he so obviously adored. Michael’s Auntie Dona met us
at the Kelowna airport and drove us directly to the hospital in nearby
Vernon. Time was precious. Liz was dying. After his parents had spent a
few moments by Liz’s unconscious form, Michael was needed to help
console them. Auntie Dona, not realizing I had never met Liz, took me
in to see her.
The woman Michael spoke so lovingly of was a vibrant, caring,
sensitive person whom I had been looking forward to getting to know. I
wanted to see Liz and Michael interact and kibitz with each other. I
wanted her to relate stories of them both as children, giving away
family secrets that weren’t secret to anyone and that they enjoyed just
in the telling. I wanted to say thank you to her. It is my belief to
this day that it was Liz who encouraged this amazing man to be so very
sensitive and aware and receptive to all the needs of a woman. But the
person on the bed was not the Liz I had anticipated. I wanted her to
know how much I loved her brother. I wanted to hug her. All I could do
was touch her cheek and hope that wherever her spirit was at that time,
she would know in her heart all the things I couldn’t say.
Next thing I knew, Auntie Dona was leading me away from the room to
allow Michael time with his sister. Liz’s vital signs stabilized the
moment he spoke to her. She had held on to life long enough for Michael
to get to her. He stayed with her for a long time. Liz died peacefully
just hours later.
As soon as he knew she had let go of her struggle, Michael headed
outside to walk, to be, to connect with nature. Liz’s body ceased to
exist but Liz’s spirit survived. Being out in the open Michael could
feel her presence and touch her in her new expanded form. Only moments
after leaving the building, a beautiful tiger swallowtail butterfly
approached him and flitted about him. She stayed close to him as he
walked and, for the rest of our visit, which lasted two weeks, a
swallowtail was always to be seen nearby. We felt the butterfly to be a
gift from Liz.
We have few swallowtail butterflies in Ontario but we do have
monarchs. This lovely little angel balanced precariously on my finger
was a monarch butterfly. Her brilliant orange wings with their dramatic
black markings and distinctive white dots lining her wings and
predominantly marking her body allowed easy recognition of her regal
lineage. On the anniversary of Liz’s birth date, a butterfly lites into
my life and proceeds to walk onto my hand and into my heart. No
coincidence. But there is more.
Laurie and I discovered that this tiny creature could not fly. She
stepped unsteadily up my arm and settled on my chest - a living brooch
who had already touched me deeply. She should have been in flight to
Mexico, migrating as monarchs do each fall. But she physically could
not do so and there was no food for her in the surrounding area to
provide nourishment for her survival.
Dilemma. Should I leave her to die? She would have, had we not come
by. Should I take her home with me where I knew she would be cared for
and safe, though captive, until the spring when she could be released
outside again? Had the vibrant orange energy we had seen earlier been
the butterfly’s call for help? We would not have found her had we kept
to our original route. I made every effort to place her on tree, bush,
rock, anything stationary. She would have no part of any of them and
would only plant herself further up my hand.
So, decision made, the three of us headed back to the car. It was
understood, without discussion between Laurie and I that I would take
this delicate beauty home with me. Michael was delighted. Lauralite,
named in honour of my friend Laurie, promptly strode up Michael’s arm,
onto his beard, up his mustache, across his glasses, over his brow and
stationed herself on his head. As he moved through his daily activities
she remained perched proudly atop him.
For ten days we cared for her. Michael fed her over-ripe nectarines
and bananas, slit by knife to allow easy accessibility of her proboscis
- her mouth - to consume the juice. He provided drops of water to
quench her thirst - each drop placed upon his hand for her to drink.
Each day her strength grew and she would attempt to fly, every day a
little more stable, longer in duration than the day before. She was
also missing two of her six legs which greatly altered her sense of
balance and her landing capabilities. By the seventh day of her visit,
however, we were feeling certain that she could make the flight to
Mexico. We had to give her the chance. Keeping her captive didn’t seem
fair. Every attempt at flight, Lauralite would head immediately
south-west and crash herself into our living room window. She had no
concept of human structures.
The weather report for Sunday, October 6th forecast perfect
temperatures for a trip south - a warm sunny day plus a comfortable low
for the coming night - not too cold for her to survive. Saturday night
we agreed to release her back to her natural element at noon the next
day. When Sunday morning arrived with a slightly overcast sky but mild
we headed immediately to see Lauralite. She seemed strong. I even
commented on how chunky her body had become from days of good food. But
there was a stain of liquid on her bottom right wing, as though she had
defecated and messed herself. This should have forewarned us but it did
not.
Lauralite drank copious quantities of water from Michael’s hand as
usual. She ate for a long time from the fruit he provided. By 11:30
a.m. we felt she was as ready as she could be for her long journey.
Twelve noon was flight time. Neither of us spoke of how much we would
miss her. We didn’t talk of wanting to be with her when she arrived in
Mexico, so that we might know her trip to be a success. We didn’t
verbalize to each other our hope that she might return to our home in
the spring or summer, just briefly, maybe bringing her offspring with
her. These things we shared later that same day.
At 11:49 a.m. I went into the livingroom to check on Lauralite. She
often propped herself on a shamrock leaf but was laying on the
window-sill under the legs of an oriental glass decoration - her wings
spread open as she basked in the faint sunlight. Landing in that
position must have been awkward but her take-off would be more complex,
so I asked Michael to reach in to pick her up and move her. I went to
sort laundry. A moment later Michael entered the laundry room with
Lauralite on his hand. She wasn’t sitting with wings haughtily
fluttering. Her little body looked as it had on the window-sill.
Michael’s eyes told me everything, but I still didn’t believe the
situation even with the words he spoke.
Lauralite was dead.
Both of us were stunned. Our bodies froze momentarily as the reality
of her death settled into that place in our being that knows and that
feels life’s experiences - the joys and the pain. The level of our pain
was in direct proportion to the pleasure this little butterfly had
brought into our lives. Ten beautiful days. Ten days of delight in
another being - a wisp of seemingly weightless wonder. Several hours
later Michael quietly asked if this unusual and precious occurrence
could have been a gift to us from his sister Liz. With a true knowing,
and being of one heart, we knew the answer to be a resounding YES!
And now, having shared this tale, I place a finger to my lips then blow a kiss to the universe in thanks. Farewell sweet angel!
Transmutation
by Greybear
I awake slowly to the enormity of my task.
It seems like yesterday I walked in a haze.
I puzzled over the things of this world.
How can it be, that these inequities exist?
Now I perceive changes in myself. Slowly
My body begins to reach out into other realms.
I sense energies coursing through me that
I do not recognize. I am often very tired.
Yet I know things that I cannot know. The
Mind that I hold cannot entertain them. I
Feel a stretching, a yearning, a desire to
Break forth into realms I've never known.
Birthed you are in human form; couched
In the energy of the Divine. No more
Are there mysteries that puzzle you, for
Your awakening is at hand, even now.
Behold, it is given to you to know Truth,
And to confront deception; for you are
Of the very Spirit of Truth. It is given
To you to know all things, for you ARE.
The heritage of Melchizedek is within
You; your spirit leaps in anticipation
Of your birthing. A new birth, not a
Rebirth, but a movement into fullness.
As I begin to look deeply, I see new channels
Not revealed by fleshly senses. I look directly
Into the hearts of those who transgress. My
Reach is to lovingly hold them and caress them.
Slowly tears may come. Recognition is made,
And errant hearts are turned to knowledge of the
Truth. As we heal together, we expand our
Reach and touch another errant soul.
Divine light emerges. Transmutation has begun!
Artwork - Sound to Light
by Orna Ben-Shoshan (Shown above)
Artist Orna Ben-Shoshan conceives the images she
paints through channeling. All of her paintings are completed in her
mind before she transfers them onto the canvas. Her work infuses deep
spiritual experience with subtle humor. Her paintings release the
imagination and extend the limits of ordinary perception.
In Sound to Light, an oil painting 80x100 cm, created in
2006, two musicians demonstrate how sound at a certain frequency is
converted into light at a similar frequency. The long red strings that
go beyond the harping instrument carry the music vibration and turn
into electrical cords. The light bulbs at the ends symbolize the light
energy. Orna says, “As far as I understood the image when it was
channeled into my vision, I think that I was asked to depict a process
of energy transmutation.”
Orna Ben-Shoshan is an auto deduct artist for the past 30 years. Her
artwork has been exhibited in numerous locations in the USA, Europe and
Israel. To see more of her artwork, please visit: http://www.ben-shoshan.com/
During 2008, Orna embarked on a new and challenging mission: Her
artwork became the theme of a new set of reading cards: "King Solomon
Cards" a new and innovative divination tool. The King Solomon Cards
were first introduced to the public in September 2008, and were eagerly
anticipated with great enthusiasm. Please visit: http://www.k-s-cards.com/ to learn more.
In March Sethnet Journal, more of Orna’s channeled images
will feature along with an article sharing her desire to enlighten,
teach and heal through her art.
A Dream, A Question, and A Promise
Copyright by Pamela Gibson
Chapter 11
Friday, April 7
The air felt warm and moist against my skin as I walked through the
Wahiawa police station parking lot. But when I pushed the heavy front
door open and walked into the large, empty lobby, I felt like I’d
stepped into a freezer. I shivered as I hurried across the polished
wooden floor to a brown oak door, stood on tiptoes, and peered through
a small, high glass pane above a black-lettered sign that read:
“Criminal Investigation.” Detective Cabral’s eyes locked with mine.
From his seat behind a desk, he pushed a stack of papers aside. With a
sweep of his hand, he motioned me inside.
For a moment, I hesitated. It seemed so surreal that I, a child of
the sixties, accustomed to thinking of cops as bureaucrats at best and
Blue Meanies at worst, stood shivering in a police station, seeking
their protection from a murderous sociopath. Well, life had changed me.
I breathed a sigh of relief that The Man was here, pushed the door
open, and walked with wobbling steps over to Cabral. No sooner had the
words, “I received another phone call” exited my mouth than my whole
body started trembling. I felt faint and asked if I could sit down.
“Of course! Excuse me.” He shot up from his chair and pulled a straight-backed wooden chair close to the desk for me.
I gratefully sat down. “I tried to call Jeff this morning, five or
six times, but he wasn’t there.” I frowned. “He’s never there. He’s
always busy.”
“He’s got a very heavy caseload.” Cabral’s brown eyes searched my face. “Tell me about this phone call.”
I relayed the details of the previous day’s phone call. “When Jaaku
had that girl say, ‘I need a friend,’ I realized that he still thinks
I’m his friend.”
Skepticism wrote itself across Cabral’s face. “How you figure that?”
“He has no reason to think otherwise. He doesn’t know what I told
the police. I always pretended to be his friend; it was the way I
protected myself.” I smiled. “Looks like I deceived the deceiver.”
“Don’t be too sure.”
His words sent fear rushing into me like water through a broken dam.
My certainty quickly drowned and I trembled all the more. I whispered,
“You’re right. I can’t be sure of anything.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Cabral shrugged. “And maybe you’re not. Main thing you need to do now is take precautions.”
“No joke, Sherlock,” I thought. But I nodded politely and
said, “I drove home by the back roads last night. If Jaaku calls again
and I record the conversation, can it be used as evidence against him?”
Cabral’s emphatic “Yes!” followed by the question, “Do you have a
recording device?” met with another nod from me. “A friend made me
one,” I said. “He gave it to me this morning.”
“Did you test it? Does it work?”
“Yes and yes.”
A look of admiration replaced the one of skepticism on Cabral’s
face. I felt flattered and continued, “If Jaaku calls again, I’ll
attach the device to the phone in the office next to mine and record
the conversation. I intend to lie to him; tell him I didn’t tell the
police anything. To protect myself.”
“Yes! Say whatever you feel you have to. After you finish your
conversation and he hangs up, then say your name, the time and date,
and where this was recorded.”
I agreed to follow his instructions to the letter. He walked me to
the door. “Do you still live in the Terrace Apartments a few miles from
here?”
“Yes. In apartment B-103.” Clever of me, I thought, to mention my apartment number.
“You still haven’t seen any strangers hanging around your apartment, have you?”
“No.” I rapped my knuckles against the oak door. “Knock on wood.”
As I drove home, I imagined plain clothes policemen staking out my
apartment, keeping an eye on things. Now that he knew my address, I
wondered if Cabral would have my place watched. I also wondered if I’d
been reading too many detective novels.
Saturday, April 8
Life kept on truckin’ at the station despite the fact that Vic’s
life had come to a screeching halt. I was still having trouble
attaching the words “shot and killed” to him. At least he wasn’t dead
and gone. On the contrary, Vic was alive and everywhere present, at
least for me.
The announcement from a fireman sitting in for me in the alarm room,
“In-flight emergency, C-5 tail number 350, hot brakes, landing runway
four left in three minutes,” made me jump up from my dinner. The
community room quickly emptied as the guys ran to their rescue and
firefighting rigs and I sprinted toward the alarm room. I took over the
radios as the airfield trucks screeched out of the station.
As always, it hit me like a hard punch to my gut when a voice said,
“Ramp 11 10-8, Control.” It was not Vic’s voice; would never be Vic’s
voice again. “Never, never, never,” I thought. A lump formed in my
throat. “Gone, gone, gone.”
“Ten-four, Ramp 11.” I tried to keep my voice steady.
After the obligatory half-hour standby while the plane’s brakes
cooled down, the last truck wheezed into the station, its huge engine
roaring as it backed into the large open bay garage. A moment later
Robert, still decked out in his hot silver turnout gear, stuck his head
into the alarm room. “Hey, Pam. Did you hear Eddie ran into Jaaku at
Queen’s surf?”
I swallowed my sadness. “No. When? What did he say?”
Sweat dripped from Robert’s forehead. “I don’t know. Ask Eddie. I’m gonna hit the showers.”
I liked Eddie, a cocky Puerto Rican who enjoyed baiting me. A few
minutes later, I spotted him strolling slowly past the picture window
so I pressed the intercom button that connected to the airfield truck
stalls. “Would you mind stopping by the alarm room?” I asked.
A mischievous smirk spread across his round face. He blew a kiss at
me through the picture window and sashayed into the alarm room. “Yeah?”
he asked, in his why-are-you-wasting-my-time tone of voice.
“I heard you ran into Jaaku at the beach—“
“So?” he interrupted. “What’s it to you?”
“I want to know what he said.”
“None of your business.” Eddie stroked his bushy black mustache. “Why do you want to know?”
I kept cool. “If I tell you, do you promise to keep it confidential?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Big mystery, huh? Okay, mum’s the word.”
“I think Jaaku’s trying to contact me. No, I’m sure of it. Did he say anything about me?”
Eddie’s smirk dissolved. “Yeah, he asked me where you’re living now.
He said another car was parked in your driveway when he drove by.”
If I hadn’t been sitting down I probably would have fainted. “What did you tell him?” I whispered.
“Relax,” he smiled. “You’re white as Casper.”
I glared.
He shrugged. “I told him I didn’t know.”
“Oh, thanks a million, Eddie!"
He shrugged again. “The truth is I don’t know where you live.”
Now I remembered that Eddie hadn’t been part of the group of guys
who moved me from old to new apartment. “I sure hope Jaaku doesn’t ask
anyone who knows. Anyone who would tell him.”
Eddie made tsk, tsk, tsk sounds with his tongue and teeth and shook his head. “Is somebody running a wee bit scared?”
I decided it was best not to remind Eddie how shook up he’d been the
night Jaaku made bail. He’d signed for the bunkroom key with shaking
hand and locked himself in so Jaaku couldn’t shoot him in his bed. “How
would you like it,” I asked, “if a murderer was trying to find out
where you live?”
That got to Eddie. He said he was sorry for teasing me and only did
it because I took it so seriously. “If I run across bruddah Jaaku
again, I gon tell him, ‘Hey, bruh, I went find out Pam stay Waikiki
now. Yeah, dat’s right, bruh, in dat humongous building corner of
Hobron and Kalakaua. Yeah, dat’s one secured building and, no, I nevah
know which apartment she stay in.”
I chuckled and thanked him for making me laugh. But as Eddie
sashayed out of the alarm room my mind was fully occupied with the fear
that Jaaku would run into someone who would blurt out my new address
without so much as a second thought.
Sunday, April 9
Nine a.m. saw me lifting the last cardboard box from its storage
place in my walk-in closet, ripping the masking tape that held it shut,
and marring the black marking-penned words “dishes/glasses/linens” in
the process. I unwrapped newspaper pages from around glasses and placed
each dish and pillowcase in its rightful spot in the kitchen cabinet
and linen closet. My domestic duties complete, I sank into the blue and
purple flower-print fabric of my new couch, a housewarming gift from my
generous sister Patty. I looked past the living room patio at cascades
of golden and red umbrella tree blossoms swaying in a brisk tradewind
breeze. That compelling sight propelled me off the couch, out the patio
door, and down the sidewalk to the corner of Leilani Drive where I
could take a 360 degree look around.
The sky stretched its azure dome from horizon to horizon, its deep
blue the color of Vic’s eyes. Atop the peaks of the Waianae Mountains
to the west, white clouds perched like fluffy chickens. An overwhelming
desire to embrace the day, to inhale it through every pore, to run as
fast as the trade winds blew, possessed me. A few minutes later, I set
the alarm, locked my front door, and told myself that, as long as I
steered clear of well-traveled streets, there was little to no chance
that Jaaku or one of his spooky friends would spot me.
I knew zilch about where Jaaku might be hanging out on such a
glorious day but imagined him either carousing with some lowlife
friends on the windward side or heading my way if he’d managed to find
out where I lived. Although the latter possibility probably existed
only in my overly active imagination, I was determined to take every
measure to remain safe so I’d at least live long enough to testify
against him.
A few miles away, a neighborhood park that ran the length of a long
city block beckoned to me whenever I drove past on my way to work in
the afternoon. I’d fantasized about walking barefoot through its thick
green grass, past paper-bark trees, hibiscus bushes and children
climbing and chattering on jungle gyms, skidding down slides, soaring
up and swooping down on swings.
Now the wheels of my VW bug just naturally rolled in that direction.
I donned a floppy-rimmed straw hat and was walking briskly down the
sidewalk there, past some picnic tables, when a sudden gust of wind
picked up some leaves and swirled them around on the ground a few steps
away, creating a mini-whirlwind. The spinning cylinder of leaves blew
toward me and circle-danced around my feet. I stopped and watched,
enchanted by the green, red, brown and golden twirling leaves. A sudden
change of temperature, the wind cooler now, coupled with a
characteristic tingling in my head told me that Vic had moseyed on by.
“You decided it was a nice day for a walk, did you?” I spoke aloud
because no one was nearby. “Thanks for the dancing leaves; they’re
lovely. Shall we walk some more?”
My floppy hat blew off my head and raced down the sidewalk in front
of me. I ran after it, laughing as it swirled away each time I reached
for it. Finally I snatched it and pulled it securely down around my
ears. “Vic, you’re such a tease!” I extended my left hand. “Shall we
continue our walk?”
I walked like that until a car approached. Not wanting to draw
attention to myself, I dropped my hand. “They just wouldn’t
understand,” I told Vic, “that my dearest friend is invisible. Oh, Vic,
your being here feels magical. I’m in seventh heaven when you mosey on
by.”
Monday, April 10
I yawned, rolled over on my side, and squinted at the clock’s
fluorescent green letters. My first thought was that 5 a.m. was much
too early to wake up, especially on a day off. I’d almost drifted back
into sleep when the memory of a dream reawakened my mind. I wondered if
Spirit had prodded me into wakefulness so that I would consciously
remember.
I dreamed Vic and I hugged. My heart pounded quickly, hotly, and Vic
radiated joyfulness. Then we were dancing in a huge circular ballroom
on a shining black and white mottled marble floor. The ceiling
metamorphosed into a night sky sprinkled with glittering stars. A full
moon looked down on us like an eye in the sky, round and radiant,
lighting up white flecks in the marble floor and igniting a fire in
Vic’s azure eyes. Red danced beside us, Annie in his arms; the four of
us laughing and talking, two couples in love on an enchanted night,
dancing under moon and stars.
A gilded mirror stood tall and oval on one side of the room, its
depths opaque and misty. I couldn’t see into its swirling darkness, nor
did I want to try and plumb its depths, afraid that Jaaku’s scarred
face might pop into view. The mirror dissolved in the loving feeling of
Vic hugging me again. I gazed into his eyes, those luminescent
eyes, until they filled my vision. Their startling blueness sparked a
joy within me that overflowed and streamed out to fill the round room
and the sparkling night sky with joy. An energy vortex swirled at the
base of my spine, faster and faster, and then shot up into my heart,
carrying with it such heat and ecstasy that happy tears poured from my
eyes.
Wide awake now, I basked in the memory of that glorious dream and
gratefully said a prayer of thanks to Vic and All That Is for letting
me experience love’s ecstasy. I’d never known love like this before,
never imagined that I’d ever know it. In my younger days, my heart
ached all too often, weighted down as it was by my fears (I was afraid
of being jilted so I naturally attracted love ‘em and leave ‘em guys)
and insecurities (I didn’t believe I deserved the best.) Now my fears
dissolved (Spirit would never forsake me), my inner eyes opened up, and
I felt blessed.
I wondered why I’d been allowed to feel such bliss and hoped it was
because I’d told the whole truth (finally) although I feared for my
life. Telling my truth and risking repercussions from Jaaku had
terrified me, but feeling the fear and doing it anyway seemed to have
been the key factor in propelling me out of darkness and into the
light. I’d thrown the I-Ching coins after telling Jeff everything. The
hexagram I received was: “You are in a state of grace.” Now I truly
felt that I was.
A feeling of peace washed over me and sent me tumbling back into sleep.
Tuesday, April 11
An oven fire somewhere in base housing kept me in the alarm room
until 6:20 pm, almost time for the kitchen to close. Luckily for me,
some watery collard greens and greasy creamed chicken still lay hot in
metal containers on the warming tray. Air Force chow hall gourmet for
sure. I paid the cashier and glanced around the community room. Except
for one straggler stuffing mashed potatoes into his mouth at a nearby
dining table, the tables had been vacated by the firemen, most of whom
now lay stretched out on recliners in a semi-circle in front of the
large screen TV, their eyes riveted to the sportscaster’s round face.
As I walked toward the straggler’s table my heart thumped out a
rapid warning beat. I had to take a couple of deep breaths before
asking the young airman, Greg Kahala, if I could join him for dinner.
He smiled, nodded, and gestured toward an empty chair. I sank into it,
my heart beating even faster as I mentally rehearsed my speech.
Nineteen-year-old Greg, a small-framed, Hawaiian/Filipino man, spent
hours in the weight room. He rippled with muscles and his physique made
him the envy of some of the bigger but less muscular firemen. Greg’s
good looks attracted many a young girl and some of the guys probably
envied him for that as well.
I, however, now saw only the ugliness of his main character
flaw—that of being an abysmally poor judge of character. Jaaku’s crude
and rude comments seemed to be a source of great amusement to Greg, who
laughed uproariously at anything that little worm said, no matter how
sadistic. Greg epitomized the stereotype that haoles had about
locals—that they stuck together for no other reason than that they were
locals. Come to think of it, that’s what the locals said about the
haoles as well.
A swig of milk washed the mashed potatoes down Greg’s throat. “What’s happening, Pam?”
“Oh, lots of things. For one, I’m living on base now.”
“Nah! I thought you went move into one apartment up Wahiawa side.” His eyebrows formed bushy arcs of surprise.
My heartbeat quickened even more as I thought, “Does he know exactly where I live,” and
“Oh my God, did he tell Jaaku?” I struggled to keep my voice steady. “I
did. But my friend Robin asked me to stay on base with her for a couple
of months while her husband’s on TDY so I can help her with her kids.
So I rented my apartment out for awhile.”
“Nah!” Greg’s big brown eyes grew even bigger. “For real?”
“Yes. And guess what else? I just got a letter from Abe. He may get
a job in Honolulu and if he does, he’s coming back in a few months.” I
tried to infuse my voice with enthusiasm. “Oh, I’m so excited.”
“Alright, Pam. Your old man coming back, eh? Cool.”
“Maybe. I’ll know in a few weeks if he gets the job. I sure hope so.”
After dinner, Assistant Chief Bob, seeing my pasty face as I stumbled back into the alarm room, asked, “What’s wrong?”
My answer was that I was all shook up from trying to sound
convincing to Greg. “Now I’ll watch and see if the word gets around.
The drawback is that I’ll have to tell everybody the same lies. But
it’s worth it if the story gets back to Jaaku and it stops him from
sending someone to follow me home.”
Bob chuckled. “Well, it certainly won’t be the first time a false
rumor circulated through the station. I can’t see as how it’ll do any
harm. And it may do you some good.”
Wednesday, April 12
Waking at 9 a.m. is rough when bedtime is 4 a.m. Work the night
before was finished at midnight but my mind remained in high gear and I
couldn’t sleep. I felt exhausted so I called the fire station and asked
Mad Max if I could take leave on the upcoming mid shift. Because there
were more than enough firemen on shift for one of them to cover the
alarm room, he said yes. I slept for a couple of hours and then curled
up on the couch with a mystery that had been calling my name for
several months. Time sped by until day’s end was heralded by a loud
flap of wings accompanied by shrill cries from birds congregating in a
crimson shower tree across the street.
A glance out my patio door convinced me to lay my book aside, stroll
outside, plop down in my white vinyl lounge chair, and gaze at the
orange, pink and purple sunset that The Creator was painting in silent
splendor above the Waianae Mountains to the west. The sweet scent of
mock orange blossoms drifted past me and songbirds exuberantly sang
their sundown songs. I sighed, stretched, and relaxed amid these
sensory delights of sight, sound and scent. “Nice to have the night off
from work,” I thought. “How much nicer if Vic had been here to share it
with.”
My mind drifted to the station where, I imagined, the firemen
followed their usual after dinner routine. Some sat together around a
table in the community room and played cards, backgammon, or chess.
Some retreated to the front office to use the computers and study. Some
played volleyball in the sand court outside the community room until it
grew too dark to see, and some pumped iron in the weight room. Some
sprawled out on recliners in front of the TV, and some scooped out one
more serving of ice cream in the kitchen.
A few, like Jaaku, paced restlessly through bunkrooms, front office,
community and weight rooms, looking for trouble. Sometimes I thought
the station environment fostered guys like him, what with its dearth of
structured activities during their down time. Until 4 p.m., the men
were busy working and drilling but, for the remainder of their 24-hour
shift, if no alarms came jangling into the dispatch room to send them
scrambling for their trucks, they could pretty much do what they
wanted. While some applied themselves to schoolwork, hobbies, or
sports, others, bored and restless, stalked excitement like lions
stalking deer.
The rumor mill had Jaaku and some of the other firemen drinking
booze and smoking pot in the bunkrooms. If Jaaku’s words could be
trusted, it was true, and maybe cocaine and speed were mixed into the
mood altering blend. I thought of the night that Jaaku appeared like a
bad dream at the doorway of the alarm room. His beady black eyes
nervously scanned all corners of the room to see if anyone else was
present. With a twist of thumb and forefinger he twirled the light
switch so that the room grew dark, then reached into his pocket and
pulled out a joint. “I brought this just for you, pretty lady,” he
said, and stretched his hand toward me.
My heart thumped like crazy and thoughts swirled in my mind. Could I
say no without offending him? What would happen if one of the bosses
walked in right about now? Should I accept the joint and throw it away
after he left? But if I did, would I get busted if the security police
happened by with their dogs? I took a deep breath and managed a smile.
“How sweet of you! I appreciate it but…I don’t smoke. But thanks so
much for thinking of me. You’re a pal.”
He shoved the joint into his pocket and frowned. “How about your old
man, Abe? He one bruddah, yeah? You cannot tell me he nevah like smoke.”
“He used to. But he quit when he got a job driving trucks because
they randomly tested him for drugs.” I hoped the lie passed the idiot
test.
I must have sounded convincing because Jaaku shrugged. “Too bad; you
missing out.” Still frowning, he shook his head. “Dis here’s some primo
shit. Da boys in da Costa Nostra went turn me on to dis here pakalolo.”
“I bet it’s a real score if you’re into the ganja.” I raised my
eyebrows and tried to look impressed. “I sure appreciate the offer.”
That Jaaku had set a trap for me, I had no doubt. That was how he
operated; talking people into doing something illegal or immoral, then,
later, holding it like the blade of a guillotine over their heads.
“Me and da bradduhs, we stick together.” Pride filled Jaaku’s voice
and I breathed a sigh of relief that he’d gone off on this tangent.
“Dey don’t take no shit from nobody.”
He traced the jagged scar that ran across his pockmarked face from
eye to mouth with one dirt-caked fingernail. “See dis scar? I was in
one bar and some crazy shit-faced fuckuh went tell me he seen me lift
his wallet. I went warn him, ‘Fool, you nevah know who you messin’
wit!’ But he nevah listen. Dat drunk asshole went pull out one knife so
fast, he cut me before I could even blink. Fuckah!”
“What a jerk. “ I fell into my characteristic act-like-a-friend mode.
He nodded, spread his legs wide, crossed his arms across his large
belly, and looked importantly off into space. “I went tell da bruddah's
what went happen. Dese guys real heavy dudes; ‘bout six of dem, dey
drive one brown VW van. Dey went track da asshole down and broke both
his arms. Now, da fuckah listen.” Jaaku’s ragged laugh made me shudder.
One of the firemen had told me that Jaaku actually cut his face on a
piece of coral when he was trying to learn to surf, but I widened my
eyes and said, “Guess you taught him a lesson, huh?” I imagined the
part about him ripping off somebody’s wallet was true because the
grapevine had it that Jaaku was a sneak thief. The firemen had learned
the hard way to keep their valuables under lock and key in order to
bypass Jaaku’s sticky fingers. The grapevine also had it that Jaaku
dealt large quantities of all types of drugs, which he scored from the
syndicate.
An in-flight emergency finally ejected Jaaku from the alarm room. As
I dispatched, I marveled that Jaaku got away with all the criminal
things he did. “It’s because he’s underhanded and acts on the sly,” I
thought, “stealing wallets and cutting Bob’s brake lines and who knows
what else. Or else he sends his goon friends to do his dirty work.”
Like a black cat, he brought bad luck and trouble whenever he
crossed someone's path.
The sudden chill of the night air pulled my mind back to the
present. I gazed up at the ebony sky sprinkled with clusters of bright
stars, and at the Milky Way spread like a glowing ribbon across the
sky. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves in the trees lining
the street and the metallic tinkling of the wind chimes dangling from
the patio roof. The contrast of my serene home with my turbulent
memories filled me with gratitude. “Thank you, All That Is,” I
whispered, “For keeping me hidden from Jaaku.”
Later that night, I reached for the switch on the lamp beside my
radio alarm clock. One a.m.; time to catch some serious zzzs. The night
was perfectly still except for the gentle plop of occasional raindrops
on the patio floor outside my window but my noisy mind was chattering
nonstop. I wanted to shut it off. So I inhaled to the slow count
of four and exhaled to the count of 8, several times, saying “Om” on
the exhale, my goal being to center and relax my mind.
It must have worked because I’d drifted into sleep when a swishing
sound coming through my window made my eyes pop open and blink at the
only light in the room, the clock’s fluorescent green letters. Half
past one. “Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh,” went the sound again. My curiosity
turned to terror when I realized that the sound was that of footsteps
on the grass beyond my patio. I lay perfectly still, my heart wildly
pounding, covers pulled up to my neck, afraid to pull the curtains back
and look out past my patio onto the wet grassy lawn beyond. “Someone’s
walking on the grass,” I thought, and shook so hard the bed squeaked on
its box springs. “Jaaku finally found me.”
Determined not to go down without a fight, I wobbled into the living
room. The bones in my legs had morphed into rubber but I managed to
dial 911. Less than five minutes later, a loud knocking on my front
door sent me scurrying to the peephole, after which I deactivated my
security alarm, unbolted and unlocked the front door, and flung it open.
The sight of two large men in police uniforms with holstered guns,
the blue lights on their cars flashing in front of my apartment, made
me feel safe. “The noise has stopped now,” I told them, “but would you
mind checking my bedroom patio to see if there are any footprints? I
was afraid to pull back the curtain. The patio’s wet so footprints
would show, don’t you think?”
The policemen looked at each other and shrugged, then nodded. One of them said, “All right, ma’am.”
We walked to the back of my bedroom. I unlocked the door lock at the
bottom of the glass doors and pulled the curtains back. The green lawn
behind my apartment sloped up to meet the street, beyond which ran
another sidewalk and, beyond that, a high-rise building. There was no
one to be seen. One of the officers shone his flashlight onto the
patio. “There are no footprints, ma’am,” he said. “And there would be,
if someone had walked there, because the grass is wet from the rain.”
He gave me a look that was, I thought, a wee bit skeptical.
“Well, I didn’t actually hear someone on my patio.” The two men
glanced at each other and I hoped they didn’t think I was a space cadet. “I just heard someone walking on the grass and was afraid it might be someone planning to break in.”
“What did the noise sound like?” one of them asked.
“Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.” I wished I could mimic the sound more closely.
“Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh?” the policemen asked, in unison.
“Someone must have been walking on the grass,” I repeated, feeling
slightly foolish. “The night was so still, I heard the noise loud and
clear. Maybe I’m a little nervous. I had some chairs and plants stolen
off my patio last week.” This was true and better, I thought, than
trying to explain my connection with Vic’s murderer.
“Better safe than sorry,” one of the officers said.
I walked them to the front door and thanked them for checking out
the patio. “I was afraid to open the curtains and look out.” Afraid
Jaaku might be standing there, I thought, and shuddered.
“This place is built like a fortress,” one of the officers remarked
as I opened the front door for them. “That should make you feel a
little more secure.”
“It does. A little.” An idea flashed in my mind and I asked, “Do you
work at the Wahiawa police station?” They nodded. ”Would you please let
Detective Cabral know that you came here tonight?” They looked at me
with curiosity. I explained, “I talked to him recently about another
matter and he told me to call the police if any strangers showed up
around my place.”
One of them said, “We’ll let him know, ma’am.”
I thanked them for coming, latched the door behind them, reset my
alarm system, and walked back to the bedroom. Then I plopped down on
the bed and started laughing hysterically. “Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh!” I
gasped. “I bet they think I’m a Nervous Nellie. But it is an odd time
to be walking across the lawn in the back of these apartments.”
My laughter subsided and I felt very tired. “I guess I’m more
stressed out than I realized,” I thought. “Why is this happening in my
life? If Vic were still alive, he would have come over before now for a
housewarming party. Like we planned.” That thought brought tears
to my eyes and in a moment I was crying as hysterically as I’d been
laughing a moment before. “I hope I’m not cracking up,” I
thought, and prayed, “God, please don’t let me go crazy, at least not
until Jaaku’s behind bars, in case I have to help put him there.”
Praying brought me peace. Drained of all feeling but fatigue, I
turned off the lights. I had a hard time going back to sleep, and when
I did, I dreamed of a fat-bellied, scar-faced man who chased me,
screaming, across a wide stretch of tall, green grass.
Friday, April 15
I mentally dissected the problem named Jaaku as I sat, my head
cradled in my hands, my elbows resting on the console. Ten days had
passed since I’d received a phone call where the party on the other end
hung up without a word. Nine days since the local woman asked me to
switch to a non-recording line. Eight days since I began answering each
phone call with the hope that it would be Jaaku and that he’d say he
needed a friend and plead, desperation in his voice, for me to switch
to the phone in the assistant chief’s office.
“Sure,” I planned to say as I pulled out the recording device I kept
tucked inside my Levi pocket and silently connected it to the phone in
the adjoining room. “Anything for a friend.”
My disappointment at his not calling was tempered with the unwelcome
news I’d heard a few days before from Robin, that a recording device
used without the prior approval of a judge cannot be used as evidence
in a court of law. “But the police can do a voice scan and determine
beyond a shadow of a doubt that the voice belongs to Jaaku,” Robin
said, perhaps in an attempt to soothe the disappointed detective inside
me. I resolved to keep trying for a recording anyway, because plotting
gave me a way to fight the suffocating feeling of helplessness at my
inability to influence the case against Jaaku. That feeling hung like a
shroud over my heart.
That evening, I sat down with Red, Mark and Sam at one of the green
vinyl-topped dining tables in the community room. “Have you heard
anything new about Jaaku?” Mark asked. A swig of milk turned the bottom
of his brown mustache white.
“Last thing I heard was that Greg and Morry ran into him at Bellows
Beach. Did you hear about that? Morry said it made him sick the way
Jaaku was saying he didn’t kill Vic; his gun did. And joking about Vic
being six feet under, may he rest in peace.” I thought it best not to
mention the mysterious phone calls and my conversation with Eddie. “But
that was three weeks ago.”
“Sure wish I knew what Jaaku’s up to now,” Sam said, “and what the
two of them were arguing about. The argument must have been going on
for days before Jaaku shot Vic.”
“What makes you think so?” The hope of learning something new,
something that would make the puzzle pieces fit together more snugly,
made me lean forward in anticipation.
“Because Vic was on edge. He got into two arguments the last couple
of days before he was murdered. Vic, the guy who made it a point never
to let ‘petty bullshit’ affect him.” Sam handed his empty dinner plate
to the kitchen worker who hovered over the crowded tables, bussing
dishes. “He yelled at Keith in front of everybody for leaving Ramp 11
dirty. That wasn’t like Vic. His way was to take a guy aside and talk
to him one on one. Vic got into it with Peewee, too. Peewee was running
one of his numbers, trying to be the big boss, telling everybody what
to do. Typical Peewee. Vic always ignored Peewee, pretended like he
wasn’t there, you know? But this time Vic told Peewee to shut up.
Needless to say, Peewee shut up.”
I thought about Vic coming to me the day before he was killed,
sticking those large hands of his right in my face, saying “Look at the
size of these hands!” Trying to tell me that he was big enough and
strong enough to protect me. And he was, from everything but a
murderer’s bullets.
“The mystery is, what were they arguing about?” Sam forked out a chunk of cherry pie.
“Vic said something to me the day before he was murdered that really
makes me wonder now.” He stuffed a large bite of pie into his mouth.
Somehow I managed to suppress the words “What? What? What?” that tried to escape from my mouth.
Finally, Sam swallowed and continued, “He said Jaaku would be back
at work Friday, even if he had to drag him there. I figured Vic was
looking out for Jaaku because that punk was going to be fired if he
didn’t come back to work that day. When Jaaku called in sick the
Wednesday before, he spoke to the chief, who came down on him hard
because he’d been taking so much sick leave. Chief told him he’d better
show up Friday with a doctor’s excuse if he wanted to keep his job.
Jaaku promised he’d be at work Friday. But maybe, considering Vic’s
remark, Jaaku was planning to call in sick again.”
“Interesting,” Red said. “I wonder what Jaaku was planning to do that Friday, if he wasn’t coming to work.”
“Rape me, that’s what,” I thought but of course didn’t say.
“Something Emilio told me made me think Jaaku was going to come to
work that morning to murder some of the supervisors,” R
