Getting Into The Vortex Quotes

But family life sometimes had a vortex, like weather. It could be like a tornado in a quiet zigzag: get close enough and you might see within it a spinning eighteen-wheeler and a woman.

It's hard to describe, but I imagine the way I am at this moment is a lot like getting sucked into a vortex. Everything dark and churning, but slow churning instead of fast, and this great weight pulling you down, like it's attached to your feet even if you can't see it. I think, This is what it must be feel like to be trapped in quicksand.

Your head could fit in the muzzle of this thing," Vik said, awestruck. "Seriously. Come on and let's see." "I'm not sticking my head in a cannon thing. Stick your own head in." "I have highly temperamental hair. It'll get nestlike. You don't care when your hair gets nestlike, Tom. You can't possibly.

There are seven and a half billion people on this earth - somebody's got to get sucked into a vortex.

Give up on me " he begged her. "I don't like people dropping in to see me without warning, I have forgotten the rules of seven tiles and kabaddi, I can't recite my prayers, I don't know what should happen at a nikah ceremony, and in this city where I grew up I get lost if I'm on my own. This isn't home. It makes me giddy because it feels like home and is not. It makes my heart tremble and my head spin." "You're a stupid, " she shouted at him. "A stupid. Change back! Damn fool! Of course you can." She was a vortex, a siren, tempting him back to his old self. But it was a dead self, a shadow, a ghost and he would not become a phantom. There was a return ticket to London in his wallet, and he was going to use it.

At cocktail parties, I played the part of a successful businessman's wife to perfection. I smiled, I made polite chit-chat, and I dressed the part. Denial and rationalization were two of my most effective tools in working my way through our social obligations. I believed that playing the roles of wife and mother were the least I could do to help support Tom's career. During the day, I was a puzzle with innumerable pieces. One piece made my family a nourishing breakfast. Another piece ferried the kids to school and to soccer practice. A third piece managed to trip to the grocery store. There was also a piece that wanted to sleep for eighteen hours a day and the piece that woke up shaking from yet another nightmare. And there was the piece that attended business functions and actually fooled people into thinking I might have something constructive to offer. I was a circus performer traversing the tightwire, and I could fall off into a vortex devoid of reality at any moment. There was, and had been for a very long time, an intense sense of despair. A self-deprecating voice inside told me I had no chance of getting better. I lived in an emotional black hole. p20-21, talking about dissociative identity disorder (formerly multiple personality disorder).

would not have deliberately attracted if you had been doing it on purpose, but much of your attraction is not done by deliberate intent, but rather by default…. It is important to understand that you get what you think about, whether you want it or not. And chronic thoughts about unwanted things invite, or ask for, matching experiences. The Law of Attraction makes it so. Relationships, or co-creating with others,

The Bible says that man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward. Well, trouble followed me like sharks trailing a slave ship. Even when I tried to get away it was there swirling in a vortex around me.

That's lucky?" Tom repeated bitterly. "Lucky now means 'worst case scenario ever,' then. That's great. Good to know." "Sir," Blackburn corrected. "You outrank me. You shouldn't call me 'sir.'" "Raines, you'll address me as 'sir' or I will stick you back down in that cell next to the census device until 'sir' is the only word you remember." Tom bristled. He'd never hated someone so much. "Sir, yes, sir. I'll use 'sir,' sir. Is that all, sir?" "Oh, I'd say that's all. Get into the simulation with the others." Blackburn jabbed at his forearm keyboard. "It irritates me just looking at you." Back at you, Tom thought.

Don't you guys ever get sick of sucking face?

I shared a womb with someone... does that mean we shared a soul? Maybe half my soul is buried, deep under the ground, and I'll never get it back. I'm cold when it isn't. I hear storms that aren't there. There's space in me I can't fill. Empty. Cold. Storms. And then I smell the carpet, hear deep breaths that aren't mine. When I open my eyes, she's still gone.

Cassidy's heart tried to leap out through his taught skin and hop into his wet hands. But outwardly it was all very calm, very serene, just as always, and it seemed to last a tiny forever, just like that, a snapshot of them all on the curved parabola of a starting line, eight giant hearts attached to eight pairs of bellows-like lungs mounted on eight pairs of supercharged stilts. They were poised on the edge of some howling vortex they had run 10,000 miles to get to. Now they had to run one more

Fucking hell. Shit sounds like I’m writing for ladies who lunch on Fifth Avenue. Unending vortex of ugly? Holy sensationalism, Batman! Who the fuck am I writing for? I could move in closer, get to the real Singer, but I’ll just fail like every other journalist

Are we getting close to a rest stop?" Loerlai wants to know. "We just stopped an hour ago!" Michael protests from the driver's seat. "Well, gee, my apologies for being the only one on this trip with female issues," she spits back hostilely.

It's not over, is it?" Silver said quietly to Leo, as they floated out of Minchenko's way. "Somehow I thought our troubles would be over if only we could get away from Mr. Van Atta." Leo shook his head. A jubilant grin still kept crooking up the corner of his mouth. He took one of her upper hands. "Our troubles would have been over if Brucie-Baby had scored a hit. Or if the vortex mirror had blown up in the middle of the jump. Or if- Don't be afraid of trouble, Silver. They're a sign of life. We'll deal with them together - tomorrow".

The less you think of trouble, the less of it you get. The less you think of your parents trying to control you, the less they try to control you. The more you think of things that please you, the better you will feel. The better you feel, the better things will go for you.

If I start to sound a bit megalomaniacal, forgive me.” Her eyes shone. “You’re the greatest arcane vortex that has ever existed. I understand.” I winced. “Er, perhaps, but I’m really just a fellow who gets paid to translate what other people find. I ordinarily try to save my insane ranting for grant proposals.

Increasingly she's finding it harder to tell the 'real' NYC from translations like Zigotisopolis... as if she keeps getting caught in a vortex taking her farther back in time into the virtual world. Certainly unforeseen in the original business plan, there arises now a possibility that DeepArcher is about to overflow out into the perilous gulf between screen and face.

When you discover the best version of yourself then you can be a living magnet to gravitate your ideal partner to your vortex because you always attract for who you are being as per the law of attraction.

would not have deliberately attracted if you had been doing it on purpose, but much of your attraction is not done by deliberate intent, but rather by default…. It is important to understand that you get what you think about, whether you want it or not. And chronic thoughts about unwanted things invite, or ask for, matching experiences. The Law of Attraction makes it so. Relationships, or co-creating with others, is

Sometimes I don't know exactly how to navigate what I'm feeling. I don't know if what I'm feeling is real or right or how to go on around it. I feel several things about one thing and it's a vortex and I get stuck in it.

When the artist leaves a painting on a wall with the full confidence that the mastery of his skill, soul and vision will draw others into its vortex long after he is gone, he is using the grip of seduction. When the musician’s performance, the manipulation of her instrument and the command of her talents are so raw and uninhibited that onlookers feel connected to the cosmos, bridged by the pure genius they are now experiencing, she is using the mystery of seduction. The unexplainable feeling fans get when the athlete ceases to be an athlete and rises to the level of the untouchable magician that can make anything happen, is nothing less than the power of seduction at work. The immense value of seduction is its ability to skillfully allure others into one’s world . . . .

Between the Gardening and the Cookery Comes the brief Poetry shelf; By the Nonesuch Donne, a thin anthology Offers itself. Critical, and with nothing else to do, I scan the Contents page, Relieved to find the names are mostly new; No one my age. Like all strangers, they divide by sex: Landscape Near Parma Interests a man, so does The Double Vortex, So does Rilke and Buddha. “I travel, you see”, “I think” and “I can read’ These titles seem to say; But I Remember You, Love is My Creed, Poem for J., The ladies’ choice, discountenance my patter For several seconds; From somewhere in this (as in any) matter A moral beckons. Should poets bicycle-pump the human heart Or squash it flat? Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart; Girls aren’t like that. We men have got love well weighed up; our stuff Can get by without it. Women don’t seem to think that’s good enough; They write about it. And the awful way their poems lay them open Just doesn’t strike them. Women are really much nicer than men: No wonder we like them. Deciding this, we can forget those times We stayed up half the night Chock-full of love, crammed with bright thoughts, names, rhymes, And couldn’t write.

Don't get caught up in a vortex of 'should haves'. Regret is Fear's big sister. The one that should never be let in the door. Watch Regret from the safety of an interior window, watch her stand there on the stoop beneath the light waiting, patiently, always patiently, to be let in, her long hair prematurely gray, stiff with cold.

You can get a running start on a day of aligned Energy as you put yourself to bed the night before: Find things in your immediate vicinity—such as your bed, your bed linens, and your pillow—to direct your appreciation toward. Then set your intention to sleep well and to awaken refreshed. When you find yourself awake in the morning, lie in more appreciation for at least five minutes, and then refresh yourself by bathing and eating. Then, sit for 15 minutes and quiet your mind. Feel whatever resistance you may have fall away, and feel your Vibration rise. Then open your eyes, and sit for five or ten minutes writing a list of things you appreciate about your life.

It’s hard to describe, but I imagine the way I am at this moment is a lot like getting sucked into a vortex. Everything dark and churning, but slow churning instead of fast, and this great weight pulling you down, like it’s attached to your feet even if you can’t see it. I think, This is what it must feel like to be trapped in quicksand.

Those who live in retirement, whose lives have fallen amid the seclusion of schools or of other walled-in and guarded dwellings, are liable to be suddenly and for a long while dropped out of the memory of their friends, the denizens of a freer world. Unaccountably, perhaps, and close upon some space of unusually frequent intercourse—some congeries of rather exciting little circumstances, whose natural sequel would rather seem to be the quickening than the suspension of communication—there falls a stilly pause, a wordless silence, a long blank of oblivion. Unbroken always is this blank; alike entire and unexplained. The letter, the message once frequent, are cut off; the visit, formerly periodical, ceases to occur; the book, paper, or other token that indicated remembrance, comes no more. Always there are excellent reasons for these lapses, if the hermit but knew them. Though he is stagnant in his cell, his connections without are whirling in the very vortex of life. That void interval which passes for him so slowly that the very clocks seem at a stand, and the wingless hours plod by in the likeness of tired tramps prone to rest at milestones—that same interval, perhaps, teems with events, and pants with hurry for his friends. The hermit—if he be a sensible hermit—will swallow his own thoughts, and lock up his own emotions during these weeks of inward winter. He will know that Destiny designed him to imitate, on occasion, the dormouse, and he will be conformable: make a tidy ball of himself, creep into a hole of life's wall, and submit decently to the drift which blows in and soon blocks him up, preserving him in ice for the season. Let him say, "It is quite right: it ought to be so, since so it is." And, perhaps, one day his snow-sepulchre will open, spring's softness will return, the sun and south-wind will reach him; the budding of hedges, and carolling of birds and singing of liberated streams will call him to kindly resurrection. Perhaps this may be the case, perhaps not: the frost may get into his heart and never thaw more; when spring comes, a crow or a pie may pick out of the wall only his dormouse-bones. Well, even in that case, all will be right: it is to be supposed he knew from the first he was mortal, and must one day go the way of all flesh, As well soon as syne.

He couldn't bear the scope of regret and other changes and other choices that might verily crush him if he considered them. He'd chosen to live without regret. He'd chosen to believe he had nothing to regret. He'd had opportunities, but he also had values. His whole marriage, he was repeatedly punished for honoring his values, for not getting sucked into the vortex of want with the people around him. He didn't want to think about possibility anymore. Possibility was a trap. (113)

We have written the equations of water flow. From experiment, we find a set of concepts and approximations to use to discuss the solution--vortex streets, turbulent wakes, boundary layers. When we have similar equations in a less familiar situation, and one for which we cannot yet experiment, we try to solve the equations in a primitive, halting, and confused way to try to determine what new qualitatitive features may come out, or what new qualitative forms are a consequence of the equations. Our equations for the sun, for example, as a ball of hydrogen gas, describe a sun without sunspots, without the rice-grain structure of the surface, without prominences, without coronas. Yet, all of these are really in the equations; we just haven't found the way to get them out. ...The test of science is its ability to predict. Had you never visited the earth, could you predict the thunderstorms, the volcanoes, the ocean waves, the auroras, and the colourful sunset? A salutary lesson it will be when we learn of all that goes on on each of those dead planets--those eight or ten balls, each agglomerated from the same dust clouds and each obeying exactly the same laws of physics. The next great era of awakening of human intellect may well produce a method of understanding the qualitative content of equations. Today we cannot. Today we cannot see that the water flow equations contain such things as the barber pole structure of turbulence that one sees between rotating cylinders. Today we cannot see whether Schrodinger's equation contains frogs, musical composers, or morality--or whether it does not. We cannot say whether something beyond it like God is needed, or not. And so we can all hold strong opinions either way.

Any movement toward wholeness begins with the acknowledgment of our own suffering, and of the suffering in the world. This doesn’t mean getting caught in a never-ending vortex of pain, melancholy, and, especially, victimhood; a new and rigid identity founded on “trauma”—or, for that matter, “healing”—can be its own kind of trap. True healing simply means opening ourselves to the truth of our lives, past and present, as plainly and objectively as we can. We acknowledge where we were wounded and, as we are able, perform an honest audit of the impacts of those injuries as they have touched both our own lives and those of others around us.

I would really like to return to halcyon days of pre-2016, when I actually did a reasonably good job of focusing and turning in books on a schedule that would not make production people hate me and burn me in effigy, so if you live in the United States, and you are reading this prior to November 2020, please do me a favor and (a) Register to vote, or check to make sure your registration is still valid, (b) Remember to vote on election day (or before if you take an early ballot) and (c) Try not to vote for anyone who is a whirling amoral vortex of chaos. I would really really really appreciate it, and you would also probably get more books from me.

Before every elementary school classroom had a 'Drop Everything and Read' period, before parents and educators agonized more about children being glued to Call of Duty or getting sucked into the vortex of the Internet, reading as a childhood activity was not always revered. Maybe it was in some families, in some towns, in some magical places that seemed to exist only in stories, but not where I was. Nobody trotted out the kid who read all the time as someone to be admired like the ones who did tennis and ballet and other feats requiring basic coordination. While those other kids pursued their after-school activities in earnest, I failed at art, gymnastics, ice skating, soccer, and ballet with a lethal mix of inability, fear and boredom. Coerced into any group endeavor, I wished I could just be home already. Rainy days were a godsend because you could curl up on a sofa without being banished into the outdoors with an ominous 'Go play outside.' Well into adulthood, I would chastise myself over not settling on a hobby—knitting or yoga or swing dancing or crosswords—and just reading instead. The default position. Everyone else had a passion; where was mine? How much happier I would have been to know that reading was itself a passion. Nobody treated it that way, and it didn't occur to me to think otherwise.

But the reality is that it is impossible to explain, to verbalize, to articulate the fear that they instill in you. The people who judge, the people who criticize, who don’t get it—you have to understand, they’re coming at the situation from a position of safety, of security, of self-esteem. You cannot imagine, when you’re well and safe and contented, that you could ever feel otherwise. When you’re in it... it’s like a vortex, a dark, whirling whirlpool that swallows up everything that you ever thought was you, your thoughts, your values, your beliefs, and leaves you with an empty, shattered shell. And that shell, you realize painfully, gradually, is you.

When the candle burned low, and the rats began to eat, I would put out the light and lie awake in the dark. I would listen to Mum and Dad snoring on the bed. Sometimes when I fell asleep a lighter part of me rose up from my body and floated in the dark. A bright light, which I could not see, but which I could feel, surrounded me. I would be lifted out of my body, would find it difficult to get out through the roof, and would be brought down suddenly by the noise of the rats eating. Then I would sleep soundly. One night I managed to lift myself out through the roof. I went up at breathtaking speed and stars fell from me. Unable to control my motion, I rose and fell and went in all directions, spinning through incredible peaks and vortexes. Dizzy and turning, swirling and dancing, the darkness seemed infinite, without signs, without markings. I rose without getting to heaven. I soared blissfully and I understood something of the inhuman exultation of flight.

I brushed my teeth like a crazed lunatic as I examined myself in the mirror. Why couldn’t I look the women in commercials who wake up in a bed with ironed sheets and a dewy complexion with their hair perfectly tousled? I wasn’t fit for human eyes, let alone the piercing eyes of the sexy, magnetic Marlboro Man, who by now was walking up the stairs to my bedroom. I could hear the clomping of his boots. The boots were in my bedroom by now, and so was the gravelly voice attached to them. “Hey,” I heard him say. I patted an ice-cold washcloth on my face and said ten Hail Marys, incredulous that I would yet again find myself trapped in the prison of a bathroom with Marlboro Man, my cowboy love, on the other side of the door. What in the world was he doing there? Didn’t he have some cows to wrangle? Some fence to fix? It was broad daylight; didn’t he have a ranch to run? I needed to speak to him about his work ethic. “Oh, hello,” I responded through the door, ransacking the hamper in my bathroom for something, anything better than the sacrilege that adorned my body. Didn’t I have any respect for myself? I heard Marlboro Man laugh quietly. “What’re you doing in there?” I found my favorite pair of faded, soft jeans. “Hiding,” I replied, stepping into them and buttoning the waist. “Well, c’mere,” he said softly. My jeans were damp from sitting in the hamper next to a wet washcloth for two days, and the best top I could find was a cardinal and gold FIGHT ON! T-shirt from my ‘SC days. It wasn’t dingy, and it didn’t smell. That was the best I could do at the time. Oh, how far I’d fallen from the black heels and glitz of Los Angeles. Accepting defeat, I shrugged and swung open the door. He was standing there, smiling. His impish grin jumped out and grabbed me, as it always did. “Well, good morning!” he said, wrapping his arms around my waist. His lips settled on my neck. I was glad I’d spritzed myself with Giorgio. “Good morning,” I whispered back, a slight edge to my voice. Equal parts embarrassed at my puffy eyes and at the fact that I’d slept so late that day, I kept hugging him tightly, hoping against hope he’d never let go and never back up enough to get a good, long look at me. Maybe if we just stood there for fifty years or so, wrinkles would eventually shield my puffiness. “So,” Marlboro Man said. “What have you been doing all day?” I hesitated for a moment, then launched into a full-scale monologue. “Well, of course I had my usual twenty-mile run, then I went on a hike and then I read The Iliad. Twice. You don’t even want to know the rest. It’ll make you tired just hearing about it.” “Uh-huh,” he said, his blue-green eyes fixed on mine. I melted in his arms once again. It happened any time, every time, he held me. He kissed me, despite my gold FIGHT ON! T-shirt. My eyes were closed, and I was in a black hole, a vortex of romance, existing in something other than a human body. I floated on vapors. Marlboro Man whispered in my ear, “So…,” and his grip around my waist tightened. And then, in an instant, I plunged back to earth, back to my bedroom, and landed with a loud thud on the floor. “R-R-R-R-Ree?” A thundering voice entered the room. It was my brother Mike. And he was barreling toward Marlboro Man and me, his arms outstretched. “Hey!” Mike yelled. “W-w-w-what are you guys doin’?” And before either of us knew it, Mike’s arms were around us both, holding us in a great big bear hug. “Well, hi, Mike,” Marlboro Man said, clearly trying to reconcile the fact that my adult brother had his arms around him. It wasn’t awkward for me; it was just annoying. Mike had interrupted our moment. He was always doing that.

He was standing there, smiling. His impish grin jumped out and grabbed me, as it always did. “Well, good morning!” he said, wrapping his arms around my waist. His lips settled on my neck. I was glad I’d spritzed myself with Giorgio. “Good morning,” I whispered back, a slight edge to my voice. Equal parts embarrassed at my puffy eyes and at the fact that I’d slept so late that day, I kept hugging him tightly, hoping against hope he’d never let go and never back up enough to get a good, long look at me. Maybe if we just stood there for fifty years or so, wrinkles would eventually shield my puffiness. “So,” Marlboro Man said. “What have you been doing all day?” I hesitated for a moment, then launched into a full-scale monologue. “Well, of course I had my usual twenty-mile run, then I went on a hike and then I read The Iliad. Twice. You don’t even want to know the rest. It’ll make you tired just hearing about it.” “Uh-huh,” he said, his blue-green eyes fixed on mine. I melted in his arms once again. It happened any time, every time, he held me. He kissed me, despite my gold FIGHT ON! T-shirt. My eyes were closed, and I was in a black hole, a vortex of romance, existing in something other than a human body. I floated on vapors.

Like all disappearing forms, art seeks to duplicate itself by means of simulation, but it will nevertheless soon be gone, leaving behind an immense museum of artificial art and abandoning the field completely to advertising. A dizzying eclecticism of form, a dizzying eclecticism of pleasure - such, already, was the agenda of the baroque. For the baroque, however, the vortex of artifice has a fleshly aspect. Like the practitioners of the baroque, we too are irrepressible creators of images, but secretly we are iconoclasts - not in the sense that we destroy images, but in the sense that we manufacture a profusion of images in which there is nothing to see. Most present-day images - be they video images, paintings, products of the plastic arts, or audiovisual or synthesized images - are literally images in which there is nothing to see. They leave no trace, cast no shadow, and have no consequences. The only feeling one gets from such images is that behind each one there is something that has disappeared. The fascination of a monochromatic picture is the marvellous absence of form - the erasure, though still in the form of art, of all aesthetic syntax. Similarly, the fascination of trans sexuality is the erasure - though in the form of spectacle - of sexual difference. These are images that conceal nothing, that reveal nothing - that have a kind of negative intensity. The only benefit of a Campbell's soup can by Andy Warhol (and it is an immense benefit) is that it releases us from the need to decide between beautiful and ugly, between real and unreal, between transcendence and immanence. Just as Byzantine icons made it possible to stop asking whether God existed - without, for all that, ceasing to believe in him.

It is a well known fact that warriors and wizards do not get along, because one side considers the other side to be a collection of bloodthirsty idiots who can't walk and think at the same time, while the other side is naturally suspicious of a body of men who mumble a lot and wear long dresses. Oh, say the wizards, if we're going to be like that, then, what about all those studded collars and oiled muscles down at the Young Men's Pagan Association? To which the heroes reply, that's a pretty good allegation coming from a bunch of wimpsoes who won't go near a woman on account, can you believe it, of their mystical power being sort of drained out. Right, say the wizards, that just about does it, you and your leather posing pouches. Oh yeah, say the heroes, why don't you... And so on. This sort of thing has been going on for centuries, and caused a number of major battles which have left large tracts of land uninhabitable because of magical harmonics. In fact, the hero even at this moment galloping towards the Vortex Plains didn't get involved in this kind of argument, because they didn't take it seriously, mainly because this particular hero was a heroine. A redheaded one. Now, there is a tendency at a point like this to look over one's shoulder at the cover artist and start going on at length about leather, thigh-boots and naked blades. Words like "full", "round" and even "pert" creep into the narrative, until the writer has to go and have a cold shower and lie down. Which is all rather silly, because any woman setting out to make a living by the sword isn't about to go around looking like something off the cover of the more advanced kind of lingerie catalogue for the specialised buyer. Oh well, all right. The point that must be made is that although Herrena the Henna-Haired Harridan would look quite stunning after a good bath, a heavy-duty manicure, and the pick of the leather racks in Woo Hun Ling's Oriental Exotica and Martial Aids on Heroes Street, she was currently quite sensibly dressed in light chain mail, soft boots, and a short sword.

In English: Some people, who can voluntarily get out of their body, went to "the other side" to see if there was anything there! The exciting testimonies of these explorers of the Beyond revealed that there are countless Worlds on other vibratory planes, in other Dimensions, where live the souls of the deceased living beings!!! But, I went even further and I have discovered that these countless Worlds are, in reality, countless Planets belonging to other Cosmic Universes located in other Spaces and other Times, on other vibratory planes, in other Dimensions! The Beyond is not nebulous but Cosmic!!! The famous "Gate of Heaven" which allows the souls to pass into the Beyond is, in reality, a true "StarGate", a huge Vortex, a Tunnel of Light which crosses the Space and Time, which leads the soul on another planet, in another world, in another Cosmic Universe, in another Space, in another Time, in another vibratory plane, in another Dimension...! I take you to discover the extraordinary adventure of Life, Evolution and Death, through multiple cycles, from life to life, from planet to planet, in an evolutionary spiral that leads souls ever higher, towards the Light...! En Français : Des personnes capables de sortir à volonté de leur corps charnel sont allées voir "de l'autre côté" s'il existait bien quelque chose...! Les témoignages passionnants de ces explorateurs de l'Au-delà ont révélé qu'il existe d'innombrables Mondes sur d'autres plans vibratoires, dans d'autres Dimensions, où vivent les âmes des êtres vivants décédés !!! Mais nous sommes allés encore plus loin et nous avons découvert que ces innombrables Mondes sont en réalité d'innombrables Planètes appartenant à d'autres Univers Cosmiques qui se trouvent dans d'autres Espaces et d’autres Temps, sur d'autres plans vibratoires, dans d'autres Dimensions ! L'Au-delà n'est pas nébuleux mais Cosmique !!! La fameuse "Porte du Ciel" qui permet aux âmes de passer dans l'Au-delà, est en réalité une véritable "Porte des Etoiles", un énorme Vortex, un Tunnel de Lumière qui traverse l'Espace et le Temps, qui mène l'âme sur une autre planète, dans un autre Monde, dans un autre Univers Cosmique, dans un autre Espace, dans un autre Temps, sur un autre plan vibratoire, dans une autre Dimension.

Don't get caught up in a vortex of 'should haves'. Regret is Fear's big sister. The one that should never be let in the door...

If you love a Four, you can’t allow yourself to get sucked into their swirling emotional vortex. You have to remain detached and let Fours do their thing until they’re done—but whatever you do, unless they’re really crazy, don’t leave them. If you do, it only confirms their worst fear, which is that they are “irredeemably deficient.” Fours in relationship need to have their feelings acknowledged and need their loved ones to understand that melancholy is not depression. People who love Fours can help them by encouraging them to look at both the positive and negative sides of things.

Look, Hell is taking over Richmond, and soon, Virginia, not long after, the U.S., and from there, maybe the world. So, get over it. Larry is not fake. He's a demon, plain and simple, but maybe you can't comprehend it. I know I couldn't at first. That means no more people checking out books, no more Christmas, cute fluffy kittens, no more anything good and right for humankind. Just demons, Hell, and the end of life as we know it.

This library is for humans only. I mean, non-human things can't get a library card issued to them.

INTROSPECTION AND INSANITY: A GODELIAN PROBLEM I think it can have suggestive value to translate Godel's Theorem into other domains, provided one specifies in advance that the translations are metaphorical and are not intended to be taken literally. That having been said, I see two major ways of using analogies to connect Godel's Theorem and human thoughts. One involves the problem of wondering about one's sanity. How can you figure out if you are sane? This is a Strange Loop indeed. Once you begin to question your own sanity, you can get trapped in an ever-tighter vortex of self-fulfilling prophecies, though the process is by no means inevitable. Everyone knows that the insane interpret the world via their own peculiarly consistent logic; how can you tell if your own logic is 'peculiar' or not, given that you have only your own logic to judge itself? I don't see any answer. I am just reminded of Godel's second Theorem, which implies that the only versions of formal number theory which assert their own consistency are inconsistent...

may not sound like the most compassionate philosophy in the world, but let me tell you, there’s nothing compassionate about letting yourself get sucked into a vortex of negativity. The best thing I can do to serve the world around me is to keep myself in a state where I can best contribute—and I can’t do that if I’m being dragged down by an environment of cynicism and self-pitying complaint. I want to spend my time with people who have an infectiously positive attitude, who bring energy and vitality to the table, and who brighten the room. There may be some people with whom you’re now spending two days a week where you might decide you need to take that down to two hours. There may also be people with whom you’re spending only two minutes, where you’ll realize you need to spend far more time with them—two hours or two days. And you will find times when what you really need to do is simply disassociate yourself from someone. That’s a part of the Law of Association, too.

Higher emotion equals higher energy. When you become angry you sweat, you stammer your words, and your skin gets hot. Now imagine the vortex of emotions when there’s a murder, rape, or traumatic death. All those emotions now become supercharged. It’s like running the RPMs in a race car into the red zone. It doesn’t have to be the last emotions before death either. The extreme loneliness and depression of a broken heart can put your emotions in the red zone also. An inmate at Ohio State Reformatory set himself on fire in his cell. That was a supercharged emotional event like no other. I believe that the atmosphere becomes imprinted with that severe energy and it becomes ripe for residual hauntings. That’s why you hear screams in haunted places from the supercharged emotional state.

The minute I try to put myself in your place rather than try to understand the situation from your perspective, our empathic connection unravels. Either I get sucked into the vortex of my own emotional difficulties, or, because my experience doesn’t match yours, I doubt what you’re telling me.

Any movement toward wholeness begins with the acknowledgment of our own suffering, and of the suffering in the world. This doesn’t mean getting caught in a never-ending vortex of pain, melancholy, and, especially, victimhood; a new and rigid identity founded on “trauma”—or, for that matter, “healing”—can be its own kind of trap. True healing simply means opening ourselves to the truth of our lives, past and present, as plainly and objectively as we can. We acknowledge where we were wounded and, as we are able, perform an honest audit of the impacts of those injuries as they have touched both our own lives and those of others around us. This can be exceptionally difficult, for myriad understandable reasons. No matter what degree of discomfort our illusions cover over, the truth hurts, and we don’t like hurting if we can help it—even if we sense that something better could lie on the far side of the pain. As Nadezhda Mandelstam wrote in her searing memoir of life under Stalinism, Hope Against Hope, “It is very difficult to look life in the face.” Many of us will be ready to seek the truth only once we have concluded that the cost of not doing so is too high, or once we become sufficiently acquainted with our own ache of longing for the real. The Greek playwright Aeschylus was exquisitely on point when he had his chorus declare: Zeus has led us on to know the Helmsman lays it down as law that we must suffer, suffer into truth.[1] There are exceptions, but I myself have never encountered anyone who was not spurred along their path of growth and change by some setback or loss, some illness, anguish, or alienation. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how we choose to see it—life has a way of delivering the requisite suffering right to our doorstep.

know it must have been traumatizing with everything with Natalie. You know I get it. We’ve both lost parents. Death is a shitty vortex. I’m not judging you for the sudden obsession with Natalie, considering. Just be careful, okay?

Iola isn’t a medium or a mentally ill soothsayer. That child enjoys the goddess’s favor. Don’t pull silly faces, if you please. As I said, your view on religion is known to me, it’s never particularly bothered me and, no doubt, it won’t bother me in the future. I’m not a fanatic. You’ve a right to believe that we’re governed by Nature and the Force hidden within her. You can think that the gods, including my Melitele, are merely a personification of this power invented for simpletons so they can understand it better, accept its existence. According to you, that power is blind. But for me, Geralt, faith allows you to expect what my goddess personifies from nature: order, law, goodness. And hope.” “I know.” “If you know that, then why your reservations about the trance? What are you afraid of? That I’ll make you bow your head to a statue and sing canticles? Geralt, we’ll simply sit together for a while—you, me and Iola—and see if the girl’s talents will let her see into the vortex of power surrounding you. Maybe we’ll discover something worth knowing. And maybe we won’t discover anything. Maybe the power and fate surrounding you won’t choose to reveal themselves to us, will remain hidden and incomprehensible. I don’t know. But why shouldn’t we try?” “Because there’s no point. I’m not surrounded by any vortex or fate. And if I were, why the hell would I delve into it?” “Geralt, you’re sick.” “Injured, you mean.” “I know what I mean. There’s something not quite right with you. I can sense that. After all, I have known you ever since you were a youngster. When I met you, you came up to my waist. And now I feel that you’re spinning around in some damned whirlpool, tangled up in a slowly tightening noose. I want to know what’s happening. But I can’t do it myself. I have to count on Iola’s gifts.” “You want to delve too deeply. Why the metaphysics? I’ll confide in you, if you like. I’ll fill your evenings with tales of ever more astounding events from the past few years. Get a keg of beer so my throat doesn’t dry up and we can start today. But I fear I’ll bore you because you won’t find any nooses or vortexes there. Just a witcher’s ordinary tales.” “I’ll willingly listen to them. But a trance, I repeat, would do no harm.” “Don’t you think”—he smiled—“that my lack of faith makes such a trance pointless?” “No, I don’t. And do you know why?” “No.” Nenneke leaned over and looked him in the eyes with a strange smile on her pale lips. “Because it would be the first proof I’ve ever heard of that a lack of faith has any kind of power at all.

We humans still hunt for the outside-successes, "my job, my title, my house, my car, my boat, my body, my family, my mate..." and all of this is precious. I want it, too! But, we go over board with it. Some dreams just seem to run from us ([...]it's because we are no [vibrational] match [to these dreams] yet)... and we feel like a failure. [...] THE JOY IS IN THE JOURNEY. There is joy to own, while we "hunt"! There is fun in missing the target, AGAIN. There is grandeur, in failing BIG. There is triumph to be had, when we "get" it! There is orgasmic joy, and awe and deep, deep deep satisfaction, when we are in Alignment.

It didn’t work, though. You know how it is. You might be a monster or undead genius or a screaming black vortex under regular skin—once you blink and smack, once you’re awake enough to say well now, you might as well get up and read.

Look at the nuclear arms race as a vortex arising out of the greed of human beings who are isolated in their separate selves and do not feel the connection to other human beings. They are also feeling a peculiar emptiness and become greedy for everything they can get to fill themselves. Hence nuclear industries proliferate because they provide large amounts of money and the greed is so extensive that such people do not care what might happen from their actions.

I grow weary of this talk,” announced Tut, digging around in a bag attached to the camel. “Where are my figs?” Kloo let out a sigh. “That boy and his figs.” “I know,” Cordy said dreamily, staring at his six-pack. “What a tasty slice.” Lex had to get out of there, but she didn’t want to panic anyone. “Remind me again why he’s still with you?” she said, inching away from them. Cordy glared at her. “Because we are an item,” she said testily. “And I’ll thank you to keep your jealousy to yourself. I’m sorry that you ended up with a weird-eyed freak while I got the leader of the ancient world, but that’s just how the camel spits.” She dug her heels into Lumpy and waved. “We’ll see you around, okay?” “We’re leaving?” Poe said, incredulous and bitter. “So soon?” “Silence, Mustache,” Tut yelled down to him. “You irk me.” Poe scowled and started muttering to himself. “I shall shove him into a vortex, I shall. The one at Mount Rushmore, right up Jefferson’s nose . . .

but when we believe we are owed something by life, deserving more than the person to our right or left, we get caught in a vortex of narcissism that makes personal disruption impossible.

Seven o'clock and you watched it and then you turned it off. The Fifties. It's like that in movies and television programs, but its plot there. The characters get some information from the newscaster and then they turn it off so they can speak. But we were the characters then. We still are, I guess, so it's only a matter of time before we start seeing television shows where the people turn on the news to get some information and then, instead of turning it off so they can speak, they leave it on, and we get swept into some endless video vortex, some film loop, which has us by the eyes and won't let us go.

If they get in here, what sort of damage can they do?’ Anji looked at the seriously malfunctioning console and wondered what additional damage might be possible at this point. ‘Oh, if they start monkeying with the primary systems, here in the vortex, that might trigger an interstitial singularity that could suck the entire universe into oblivion like bathwater down a plughole,’ said the Doctor. ‘On the other hand, they might just wreck the controls utterly, leaving us stranded with no way of ever getting home. Of course, since they’ll no doubt tear us limb from limb in the first place, that’ll be the least of our problems.

To discipline without damage, big people must escape the vortex. And to escape the vortex, big people must stop using the disconnect as a disciplinary technique.

Has your perception of being gay changed? One hundred percent. I now think it’s the biggest blessing. I feel bad for my straight friends. For example, they have to deal with the expectation of marriage and kids by a certain age. To some degree, they probably have to continue to adhere to those expectations I’ve held myself to—of being a professional of a certain kind. Achieving a certain kind of success as externally defined, rather than internally defined. Which, when you come out, you unshackle yourself from. Straight men are wonderful, but a lot of them keep each other at arm’s length. They don’t get too close, aren’t that friendly, feel they’ve got to be a certain idea of what it means to be “macho” and a “man.” And a man is solid and not that nice. If they have an emotion, it’s anger and no other emotions besides that. Being gay has helped me understand that, no, being friendly is great. You should be friendly to everybody, you should make relationships with people: straight men, women, nonbinary people, whomever. It’s helped me understand how to not be judgmental. It’s helped me understand how to try to make my own way in life and not to find success according to money or a title, but according to fulfillment. Empirically speaking, when I look at straight men in the world, so many of them seem boxed in by toxic masculinity and this idea of being strong, tough, and not vulnerable. And that’s bullshit. Being gay helps you get out of that toxic masculine vortex and start thinking, What are my values? What kind of person do I want to be? For most, that helps us be friendlier, more open, more positive, more inclined to be supportive of people, and less inclined to judge. Being gay has shaped who I am in a huge way and made me a more positive and optimistic person; someone who can deal with people better, who can be more mature, and more self-confident. I am also a white guy though. I am a beneficiary of that privilege, too, and it behooves me not to put this all on homosexuality as if I get to claim minority status and not recognize the rest of my privilege.

You can get to where you want to be from wherever you are—but you must stop spending so much time noticing and talking about what you do not like about where you are. Be a more selective sifter, and make lists of the positive things you are living. Look forward to where you want to be, and spend no time complaining about where you are. The responsive Universe makes no distinction between the thoughts you think about your current reality and the thoughts you think as you dream of your improved life. You are creating by virtue of what you are thinking about, and so there is no advantage whatsoever to pondering, or remembering, or observing, or speaking of things you do not want. Make your active Vibration be about what you do want and notice how quickly your life changes to match your Vibration.

Although I was angry and frustrated to learn we had a vortex to the spirit world in one of the guest room closets that nobody had told me about, when they explained their reasons, I got it. I still get it.

When his association with L’Indice ended in December 1931—the paper apparently ‘went bust’—he intensified his effort to play an active part in the literary and cultural life of Italy by getting a local vortex going in Rapallo. With Gino Saviotti and half a dozen other collaborators, notably Basil Bunting, Pound organised a ‘Supplemento Letterario’ which appeared every other week as an insert in Rapallo’s weekly paper, Il Mare. For eight months, from August 1932 to March 1933, it was a two-page supplement, and then, from April to July 1933, was reduced to a single ‘Pagina Letteraria’. The promise that it would reappear in October 1933, after taking a summer holiday, ‘with, as always, the collaboration of the best Italian and foreign writers’, was not kept. In its first phase the ‘Supplemento’ was determinedly international, with contributions from and about Italian, French, Spanish, German, and American writers and writing, and could claim to be giving a local focus to the most innovative and avant-garde work of its time. Pound contributed occasional ‘Appunti’, and recycled his Little Review ‘Study of French Poets’ and his notes on Vorticism. In one of his ‘Appunti’ he asserted that Futurism, the best of which satisfied the demands of Vorticism, had to be the dominant art of ‘l’Italia Nuova’.

Scarlett …” The alarming voice of Nickolas sounded from behind her. This girl was looking for her own execution. As much as he dreaded admitting it they had lost. The rebellion failed many and young people sacrificed their lives for this failure. Scarlett was a victim he was not willing to sacrifice. She only turned to him without saying a word. Her gaze was invincible. He saw literal flames burning in her blue eyes. He recognized the emotion immediately. Scarlett’s eyes were burning with rage! Was he seeing things, or were these actual flames? “It’s time for this bastard to pay for being such a treacherous ass!” she spoke. With every word, it was as if the fire in her eyes whirled around her pupils like a vortex. She felt her whole body start to burn. The blood in her veins was boiling like never before. Smoke began to emerge from her skin. It hurt her, she felt as if her whole body had set itself on fire. The pain could not be compared to the first time it happened with her palms. She was fighting the urge to scream as loud as she could, but could not afford even the slightest distraction. Nickolas’s life, as well as Chris’, depended on her. The men around her looked stunned at what was happening. Pratcher realized that nothing had played with his sanity when the soldiers, along with Hammerdell, took a step back after the girl’s body had begun emitting smoke. It was all very real indeed. What the hell was going on? “Get away from her! She will set herself on fire!” Christopher grabbed the man’s shoulders and pulled him back. He knew what was going to happen. He had seen Scarlett burn her palms, but never her whole body. He was afraid for her! The telekinesis with the jeep was a step away from killing her, and with that burning, her death could be inevitable. There was not enough energy in her body to escape without consequences. Scarlett did not stop focusing on her anger. She had to maintain it if she wanted to achieve the desired result. The pain was taking over her, she felt exhausted and gave out smoke. Her eyes did not go down from Hammerdell. At first, her hands were ablaze, and fire spread all over her body as if it had been covered with gas. Her clothes became ash. Scarlett remained naked under the tongues of the red flames. She fell to her knees on the pebble track - the fire swirled, and the pain was growing even more intolerable. “Shoot!” The mayor screamed in a voice full of fear. He had never seen such a thing. What was that hat girl? Definitely not an ordinary person! Seconds before they pulled the trigger, the guns jumped off from the hands of the soldiers all by themselves. A cone of fire separated from Scarlett and flew towards them, enclosing them in a perfect circle. She sacrificed her last drop of strength to create a fiery dome above them, which trapped her enemies and became a lid from which they could not get away. They burned alive with the last shrieking screams of panic, fear, and despair. It was over. Hammerdell had earned his merit. Now, the rebels could finally rest easy. In pain and exhaustion, she left herself get swallowed by the darkness.

I picked one up in demonstration and bit into it, tasted oozy salted egg beyond the soft dough. My daughter crinkled her nose. A fussy eater. Like her mother. It was a constant battle to get her to eat, as opposed to me, where the battle went the opposite way.

Many distractions have an addictive quality—junk food, gaming, endless internet rabbit holes to fall into—but we can’t get sucked in if we never allow ourselves to get too close to the vortex!

Luke knew Tornado Knights used various tools and weapons in an attempt to disrupt tornadoes. From microwave guns, to super-cooled helium grenades, to rifles that fire disruptive beams into the core of the beasts – the Knights had an arsenal of weapons to calm the raging vortexes. But, getting on the ground floor of trying to learn new tactics was exciting to him. It could save thousands of lives.

Perfume is to smells what eroticism is to sex: an aesthetic, cultural, emotional elaboration of the raw materials provided by nature. The ladies of the court, led by Marie-Antoinette, resorted to the only thing that could keep them one step ahead of the commoners, however wealthy they were: fashion. In fact, this is how fashion as we know it came into existence: the latest trend adopted by a happy few for a season before trickling down to the middle classes. Just a touch of the negligence etudiee that distinguishes chic Parisian women from their fiercely put-together New Yorker or Milanese counterparts. Perfume needs to be supported by image. You're not just doing it to smell good: you're perpetuating a ritual of erotic magic that's been scaring and enticing men in equal measure for millennia. Perfumes are our subconscious. They read us more revealingly than any other choice of adornment, perhaps because their very invisibility deludes us into thinking we can get away with the message they carry. These scents severed fragrance from its function as an extension of a female or male persona - the rugged guy, the innocent waif or the femme fatale - to turn it into a thing that was beautiful, interesting and evocative in and of itself. Perfume's advertising relies on the 3 aspiration S: stars, sex and seduction, with a side helping of dreams or exoticism. Descriptions, impressions, analogies, short stories, snippets or real-life testing, bits of history, parallels with music or literature. Connecting a scent with emotions, impressions, atmospheres, isn't that why we wear it? Isn't it all subjective? Just because you don't want it in your life doesn't make it bad. And it's not entirely impossible to consider perfumes beyond their "like/don't like" status. What intent does t set out to fulfill? How does it achieve its effects? How does it fit in with the history of the brand or its identity? How does it compare to the current season's offerings? Does it bring something new? The story told by the perfumer blends with the ones we tell ourselves about it; with our feelings, our moods, our references, our understanding of it. Once it is released from the bottle, it becomes a new entity. We make it ours: we are the performers of our perfume. Both lust and luxury are coupled in the same Latin word: luxuria is one of the 7 deadly sins. The age-old fear of female sexuality. The lure of beauty, set off by costly and deceitful adornments, could lead men to material and moral ruin but, more frighteningly, suck them into a vortex of erotic voracity. A man's desire waxes and wanes. But how can a woman, whose pleasure is never certain and whose receptive capacity is potentially infinite, ever be controlled?

And how I still love him. He's getting to me. I'm officially in the vortex of the suck.

In an entry from late 1979, Dick writes Heuristics is right on. The closer you get to reality the closer you get to (and to seeing) process. Q isn't “what is (esse)?” but “What does?” […] replace each “is” with “does” and ontology vanishes. All you have is a perpetually perturbed reality field! With a self-producing vortex.12

The law of attraction is not the law of magic rather it is an action-based law where you have to be the person you desire to attract to your vortex.

Tornadoes devastate and leave a mess behind, just like your ending, so the instant that 'Psychlone' sees you rebuilding, she's going to spin completely out of control, every time. You can't get sucked into the same vortex twice if you eject the monster from being it's own victim; but until then, I'd pull in your rocking chairs, lock down your trash cans and recycling bins, and take your potted azaleas inside... ... if I were you.

Part Two: When St. Kari Met Darth Vader, Star Wars Dark Lord of the Sith  “What are those?” Kari shouted grasping Luke’s arm as her eyes jolted nervously into the air. “I’ve never seen such pretty planets before.” Luke tracked her line of vision and grimmed as he spotted three Corellian Imperial Star Destroyers coming out of hyperspace into the same vortex that his own damaged ship was whirlpooled into. They appeared to be stabilizing the vortex opening by their anti-gravity wells maintaining their relative positional orbit. “Hey’st, what are those white things? They look like men. Surely they are not ghosters, are they?” pawed Kari at Luke to get him to see. “Imperial troopers,” shot Luke, grabbing her arm back. “There’s too many of them C’mon, we got to hide.” “What’s does that mean? And what are those red light-thingy’s coming toward us?” Instantly Kari and Luke were inundated by a barrage of suppressing E-11 blaster rifle fire. Luke flinched out of reaction while Kari stood upright seemingly oblivious to the inherent danger. He was struck to see the girl-entity pluck a laser bolt out of the air and examine it with an other worldly look, as if it were a rare flower in a garden. “I like this,” she smiled. “I’ll pin it to my cloak.” And doing so she did, it maintaining its fiery penetrating redness that did nothing more than to adorn the girl’s wardrobe for quite some time momentarily puzzling Luke. Usually they burnt out quickly. “Can I get some more of these?” she politely asked Luke. “Not right now,” drawled Luke peering over a boulder. “If they capture us we’ve had it.” “Had what?” asked Kari naïvely. “Them ghost-men you mean’st? Oh, don’t worry, Walker of the Skies, just leave it to me,” and with that Kari pulled her blade and sashayed toward the Imperial clones humming her favorite Top 10 battle hymns. “Wait!” Luke shouted trying to snatch her back but it was too late. Luke never saw anything such as this. Like Han, he had seen a lot of strange galactic stuff in his time. Kari had become a misty blur and was skipping across the battlefield as some sort of sword-brandishing luminescence, hovering for a short time over those she slain. “Hey, Walkersky, these spirits don’t have any souls,” she yelled looking up from her blood soaked garments. What do you want me to do with the rest, kill ’em?” “I, uh ,” was all he managed to get out of his mouth as he rubbed his jaw. Kari shrugged and went back to work, picking off the whole brigade by herself. “See’st? I told’st thou not to worry” Kari said panting, coming up to Luke and sitting besides him. “What now?” “We gotta get outta here before more Imperials arrive.” “Untruth oats?” (Nether Trans. “art thou nuts?”) “Run from battle?—is that that what means?” “It means Vader’s coming—.” go to part ii con't

In the greenhouse at this nursery where I work, there are paths between the plants and the seedling tables. That's so you can get from one place to another. Also so you can work on the plants without stepping on them. Those paths all connect with one another. You can go this way or you can go that. It all has the same beginning and the same ending. Though you can only ever stand in one place at once.

We pour anything. Or if it doesn’t pour, we’ll get you the needle, the inhaler, or a suppository blank.

In this world most have to get their own proof, no Earthling has the authority to hand out proof. I have proof but I can't share. Since I am able to remember many of my experiences I take that as a sign that I can speak about some of them. Many people know something paranormal is going on so I tell a few things that I have experienced to validate that there is something going on for those that are interested. What is proof for me? I have listed some in this tread, I have been inside ET ships. Most of the time I find myself inside the ships with no idea how I got there, I leave the same way. However, I have entered such ships through a vortex that has opened up in my bedroom, from where Extraterrestrials emerge. We talk and then I’m taken into the vortex and find myself inside an Alien ship. Once inside the ship I have patches of memory and no more. I talk about what I do remember, obviously the ETs don't want me or others to come back with more detailed accounts, just enough to know that there is something big going on in our solar system, and that the galaxy is swarming with civilizations millions of years ahead of us. ETs have given me proof and I have never asked for it. They give proof to thousands of people, but most will never admit to it, and many will take what they know to the grave with them. It took me fifty years to talk openly about my involvement. The proof is not "out there" it's right here on this planet for thousands, perhaps millions of people that have experienced it.

The brain is not the source of anything. It is the conduit, the biological computer system, which responds to information stimuli and makes it conscious in terms of fivesense perception and behaviour. Different areas of the brain become activated, or ‘light up’, when energetic information is received that relates to their specific role in decoding and communicating information to the holographic conscious mind. The information can come from the heart and the greater Consciousness (what some call the soul), or it can come from direct Archontic possession and the endless Archontic programs such as education, science, medicine, media, politics etc., etc., etc. Once you open yourself to heart intelligence – innate intelligence, universal intelligence – the ‘opposition’ is routed and the heart and brain speak as one . The fact it is such a ‘revelation’ that the brain is changeable and malleable shows how far off the pace mainstream ‘science’ is and has been. The brain is a hologram and its base state is a 100 percent malleable waveform information field. When the field changes, the ‘physical’ brain must change and it is at the waveform and electromagnetic levels that Archontic possession takes place and the heart most powerfully interacts with the brain, although it does so electrically, too. For the most extreme possession to happen the heart’s influence must be seriously curtailed and that is why the Archons target the heart vortex in the way they have structured society and lock people into the emotional chakra in the gut. Positive feelings and perceptions like love and joy (high frequency) come from the heart while negative emotions like fear, anxiety, stress and depression (low frequency) come from the belly. The idea is to block the influence of the heart by giving people so many reasons to feel fear, anxiety, stress and depression. Stress causes heart disease because it stems the flow of energy through the heart chakra and causes it to form a chaotic field that becomes more intense the longer the stress continues. This distortion is transferred through to the holographic heart and there you have the reason why in a fearful and stressed society that heart disease is a mass global killer. What is called ‘heartache’ is when people feel the effect of the distorted heart-field. The effect of severe trauma, like losing a loved one, really can cause people to die of a ‘broken heart’ because of this. Research by the Institute of HeartMath has shown that the heart’s electromagnetic fields change in response to emotions and, given that the heart field can be measured several feet from the body, you can appreciate the fundamental effect – positive or negative – the nature of that field can have on mental, emotional and bodily health. The heart vortex and its massive electromagnetic field is where human perception has been most effectively hijacked and we need to reverse that. Nothing is more important than this for those who truly want to free themselves from Archontic tyranny. If people think they can meet this challenge with anger, hatred or violent revolution they should feel free to waste their time. No shift from gut to heart = global tyranny. Shift from gut to heart = game over. It is possible to override and bypass the brain altogether and in fact this must be done to go beyond ‘time and space’. I have been doing this since my experience in Peru and it gets more powerful and profound the more you do it. This is what Da Vinci, Bruno and the others were doing. Normally information enters what we call the conscious mind through the brain with all the potential interference, blocks and filters caused by belief, emotion and other programming. But if you move your point of attention from the body out into the infinity beyond the Matrix you can make a direct connection between expanded insight and your own conscious awareness.

I’d seen countless brown eyes in my life, but hers felt different in a way I couldn’t quite describe. They seemed to hold a vortex, a black hole that threatened to hook and drown you.

Would you believe, on the coast the police have electrodes in their heads?" She stiffens in his arms. "Yeah, weird. I thought they only used PPs on criminals and the army. Don't you see, Dee—something has to be going on. Some movement. Maybe somebody's organizing. How can we find out?" He pounds the ground behind her. "We should make contact! If we could only find out." "The, the news?" she asks distractedly. "The news." He laughs. "There's nothing in the news except what they want people to know. Half the country could burn up and nobody would know it if they didn't want. Dee, can't you take what I'm explaining to you? They've got the whole world programmed! Total control of communication. They've got everybody's minds wired in to think what they show them and want what, they give them and they give them what they're programmed to want—you can't break in or out of it, you can't get hold of it anywhere. I don't think they even have a plan except to keep things going round and round—and God knows what's happening to the people or the earth or the other planets, maybe. One great big vortex of lies and garbage pouring round and round getting bigger and bigger and nothing can ever change. If people don't wake up soon we're through!