Sixth Sense Sayings Quotes

I have nothing but contempt for the people who despise money. They are hypocrites or fools. Money is like a sixth sense without which you cannot make a complete use of the other five. Without an adequate income half the possibilities of life are shut off. The only thing to be careful about is that you do not pay more than a shilling for the shilling you earn. You will hear people say that poverty is the best spur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in their flesh. They do not know how mean it makes you. It exposes you to endless humiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into your soul like a cancer.

When we learn to work with our own Inner Nature, and with the natural laws operating around us, we reach the level of Wu Wei. Then we work with the natural order of things and operate on the principle of minimal effort. Since the natural world follows that principle, it does not make mistakes. Mistakes are made–or imagined–by man, the creature with the overloaded Brain who separates himself from the supporting network of natural laws by interfering and trying too hard. When you work with Wu Wei, you put the round peg in the round hole and the square peg in the square hole. No stress, no struggle. Egotistical Desire tries to force the round peg into the square hole and the square peg into the round hole. Cleverness tries to devise craftier ways of making pegs fit where they don’t belong. Knowledge tries to figure out why round pegs fit into round holes, but not square holes. Wu Wei doesn’t try. It doesn’t think about it. It just does it. And when it does, it doesn’t appear to do much of anything. But Things Get Done. When you work with Wu Wei, you have no real accidents. Things may get a little Odd at times, but they work out. You don’t have to try very hard to make them work out; you just let them. [...] If you’re in tune with The Way Things Work, then they work the way they need to, no matter what you may think about it at the time. Later on you can look back and say, "Oh, now I understand. That had to happen so that those could happen, and those had to happen in order for this to happen…" Then you realize that even if you’d tried to make it all turn out perfectly, you couldn’t have done better, and if you’d really tried, you would have made a mess of the whole thing. Using Wu Wei, you go by circumstances and listen to your own intuition. "This isn’t the best time to do this. I’d better go that way." Like that. When you do that sort of thing, people may say you have a Sixth Sense or something. All it really is, though, is being Sensitive to Circumstances. That’s just natural. It’s only strange when you don’t listen.

Evangeline, of course, knew that bells could not speak. But her Mother had told her that bells had a sixth sense. She’d said to always polish them, always mind what you say in front of them and always listen to the bells that ring when they shouldn’t.

Learn to hear your inner voice, be led by your heart and never stop giving back – this way you shall always walk the right path and shall never be walking alone.

You know that movie, where the little boy says 'I see dead people'? The Sixth Sense. Well, I see them all the time, and I'm getting tired of it. That's what's ruined my mood. Here it is, almost Christmas, and I didn't even think about putting up a tree, because I'm still seeing the autopsy lab in my head. I'm still smelling it on my hands. I come home on a day like this, after two postmortems, and I can't think about cooking dinner. I can't even look at a piece of meat without thinking of muscle fibers. All I can deal with is a cocktail. And then I pour the drink and smell the alcohol, and suddenly there I am, back in the lab. Alcohol, formalin, they both have that same sharp smell.

By the end of the war, I could pick out Jewish people almost as if I had a sixth sense about it, even if they had blue eyes and blond hair. I would have been a very valuable Gestapo person.

Didn't someone once say, 'A friend to kill time is a friend sublime'?" "That was you who said that, no?" "Sixth sense, sharp as ever. Right you are.

Rumors exist of what those High-Grades can do: They kill with gaze; they voice the wind; they eat nothing; they’ve seen the source of the universe … Kusha heard in the Old City. She doesn’t have High-Grades or voice or killing gazes. But she has a gift—her prophetic alarms. Most people name it the sixth-sense. Those occasional sensations that come without warning. Then, she finds herself knowing things she isn’t supposed to know. Like now— It happens again. A prophetic alarm comes, and it comes with a silent scream in her head. As if hundreds of frozen needles have pierced her eyes and reached her brain, injecting information she never knew before. Kusha calls it alarms, not sixth-sense. Not even intuition. Intuition sounds High-Grade, something those evolved people may have. The book God-Particle-Or-Thought-Particle says: ‘Intuition is the passing thoughts downloaded from the universe.’ Kusha isn’t confident enough to believe it can happen to her. No way could she download anything as an unevolved, untouchable, Low-Grade.

Fuck me, Sailor Brennan. You really did a number on my heart. I guess what I’m trying to say—while offending the ears of every middle-aged housewife in this state—is that this is real. It’s always been real. You said I never wanted you, but the truth was, I never wanted anyone but you. Not really. But I hadn’t realized it until you walked away, and for the first time in my life, I couldn’t eat, sleep, or breathe. I see you, aingeal dian, even when you’re trying to hide. Especially when you are trying to hide. I cannot unsee you. I’m like that kid from The Sixth Sense. Only you’re not dead, and I’m not hella annoying.

You say that convention is all that really keeps you straight in this “woman proposition”; but it’s more than that, Amory; it’s the fear that what you begin you can’t stop; you would run amuck, and I know whereof I speak; it’s that half-miraculous sixth sense by which you detect evil, it’s the half-realized fear of God in your heart.

Diary entry, summer 1973. It may be there in a distracted glance out of an open window or in the split second of an absent look when you speak to her, or in the guarded inflections of her voice as she replies, or in the subtle chemistry of touch or smell or the taste of her skin in your mouth, or in some unspecified sixth sense that you can’t name, but when love is over, its signals are louder than disclosure, if only you are willing and open enough to acknowledge them. But of course we shake off these feelings as if they were mere irritations, as if they were unimportant and uninvited guests at a feast. “Not now,” you say, fobbing them off with shallow excuses and feigning more urgent business elsewhere. But they linger long after the party, and skulk in a corner where they plot and fester and return to ask their impertinent questions in the still of night, when she’s sleeping and wearing her child’s face. When she looks so beautiful and vulnerable with her mouth slightly open, and her hair a mess on the pillow, but as you reach to touch her, she turns unconsciously away toward the window, and then the questions start again, and you can’t sleep….

Of cicadas, she would say that they looked like dead leaves fluttering, felt like paper crackling, sounded like fire roaring, smelled like dust rising, and tasted like the devil frying in oil.... You see, in five ways she could sense the world... But it was always the sixth way, her ... sense of importance, that later caused troubles between us. Because her senses led to opinions, and her opinions led to conclusions, and sometimes they were different from mine.

Money is like a sixth sense without which you cannot make a complete use of the other five. You will hear people say that poverty is the best spur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in their flesh. They do not know how mean it makes you. It exposes you to endless humiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into your soul like a cancer.... I pity with all my heart the artist, whether he writes or paints, who is entirely dependent for subsistence upon his art.

Erle Ellis of the University of Maryland and Navin Ramankutty of McGill, argue that thinking in terms of biomes defined by climate and vegetation—temperate grasslands, say, or boreal forests—no longer makes sense. Instead, they divide the world up into “anthromes.” There is an “urban” anthrome that stretches over five hundred thousand square miles, an “irrigated cropland” anthrome (a million square miles), and a “populated forest” (four and a half million square miles). Ellis and Ramankutty count a total of eighteen “anthromes,” which together extend over thirty-nine million square miles.

Making money in the markets is tough. The brilliant trader and investor Bernard Baruch put it well when he said, “If you are ready to give up everything else and study the whole history and background of the market and all principal companies whose stocks are on the board as carefully as a medical student studies anatomy—if you can do all that and in addition you have the cool nerves of a gambler, the sixth sense of a clairvoyant and the courage of a lion, you have a ghost of a chance.” In retrospect, the mistakes that led to my crash seemed embarrassingly obvious. First, I had been wildly overconfident and had let my emotions get the better of me. I learned (again) that no matter how much I knew and how hard I worked, I could never be certain enough to proclaim things like what I’d said on Wall $ treet Week: “There’ll be no soft landing. I can say that with absolute certainty, because I know how markets work.” I am still shocked and embarrassed by how arrogant I was. Second, I again saw the value of studying history. What had happened, after all, was “another one of those.” I should have realized that debts denominated in one’s own currency can be successfully restructured with the government’s help, and that when central banks simultaneously provide stimulus (as they did in March 1932, at the low point of the Great Depression, and as they did again in 1982), inflation and deflation can be balanced against each other. As in 1971, I had failed to recognize the lessons of history. Realizing that led me to try to make sense of all movements in all major economies and markets going back a hundred years and to come up with carefully tested decision-making principles that are timeless and universal. Third, I was reminded of how difficult it is to time markets. My long-term estimates of equilibrium levels were not reliable enough to bet on; too many things could happen between the time I placed my bets and the time (if ever) that my estimates were reached. Staring at these failings, I realized that if I was going to move forward without a high likelihood of getting whacked again, I would have to look at myself objectively and change—starting by learning a better way of handling the natural aggressiveness I’ve always shown in going after what I wanted. Imagine that in order to have a great life you have to cross a dangerous jungle. You can stay safe where you are and have an ordinary life, or you can risk crossing the jungle to have a terrific life. How would you approach that choice? Take a moment to think about it because it is the sort of choice that, in one form or another, we all have to make.

There’s no way to explain it, just a tingling twitch of cat whiskers. When Yi was alive, he often felt this sixth sense. People said it was magic, but Ren knows it’s because they were a matched pair. Chinese say that good things come in pairs, such as the character for double happiness, cut out of red paper and pasted on doors for weddings, and the two stone lions that guard temples. As children, Ren and Yi were perfect doubles of one another. Seeing them, people would break into smiles of delight. Twins, and boys—how fortunate! But all this came to an end when Yi died. If a chopstick breaks, the other is discarded. After all, half of a broken pair is one: the unlucky number of loneliness.

But how does one square this with the idea of rebirth, of something distinct from that which dies but which is somehow reborn and so passes from life to life? To answer this question, more or less every Buddhist school has come up with a different explanation—a fact that in itself suggests that their answers are based on speculatioṇ Most schools claim that what is reborn is some kind of consciousness. Some say that this is simply the sixth sense (manovijñāṇa); others speak of a special existence-generating mind (bhavangacitta); still others propose the presence of an underlying foundation consciousness (ālayavijñāṇa); while the tantric traditions talk of a combination of extremely subtle energy and mind. But as soon as one hypothesizes the presence of some kind of subtle stuff, no matter how sophisticated the technical term one invents to denote it, one has already reintroduced the notion of some kind of esoteric self-substance.

There is nothing so degrading as the constant anxiety about one’s means of livelihood. I have nothing but contempt for the people who despise money. They are hypocrites or fools. Money is like a sixth sense without which you cannot make a complete use of the other five. Without an adequate income half the possibilities of life are shut off. The only thing to be careful about is that you do not pay more than a shilling for the shilling you earn. You will hear people say that poverty is the best spur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in their flesh. They do not know how mean it makes you. It exposes you to endless humiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into your soul like a cancer. It is not wealth one asks for, but just enough to preserve one’s dignity, to work unhampered, to be generous, frank, and independent. I pity with all my heart the artist, whether he writes or paints, who is entirely dependent for subsistence upon his art.

There is nothing so degrading as the constant anxiety about one's means of livelihood. I have nothing but contempt for the people who despise money. They are hypocrites or fools. Money is like a sixth sense without which you cannot make a complete use of the other five. Without an adequate income half the possibilities of life are shut off. The only thing to be careful about is that you do not pay more than a shilling for the shilling you earn. You will hear people say that poverty is the best spur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in their flesh. They do not know how mean it makes you. It exposes you to endless humiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into your soul like a cancer. It is not wealth one asks for, but just enough to preserve one's dignity, to work unhampered, to be generous, frank, and independent. I pity with all my heart the artist, whether he writes or paints, who is entirely dependent for subsistence upon his art.

There is nothing so degrading as the constant anxiety about one's means of livelihood. I have nothing but contempt for the people who despise money. They are hypocrites or fools. Money is like a sixth sense without which you cannot make a complete use of the other five. Without an adequate income half the possibilities of life are shut off. The only thing to be careful about is that you do not pay more than a shilling for the shilling you earn. You will hear people say that poverty is the best spur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in their flesh. They do not know how mean it makes you. It exposes you to endless humiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into your soul like a cancer. It is not wealth one asks for, but just enough to preserve one's dignity, to work unhampered, to be generous, frank, and independent. I pity with all my heart the artist, whether he writes or paints, who is entirely dependent for subsistence upon his art. (387)

CAUGHT, NOT TAUGHT 1 Corinthians 4 Some things are better felt than telt,” say our Scottish friends. And that is so true. Take insight, for example—that elusive weave of intuition, perception, alertness, and sensitivity. You just can’t teach it. You can, however, nurture it. You can even expand it. But there’s no one-two-three process that suddenly makes one insightful. Yet insight is essential in things like teaching or counseling or writing. When insight is present, those skills literally come alive. Insight makes the simple profound and the difficult understandable. Those who have it were not taught it; they caught it. From God. Another example? Touch. We refer to a gifted musician as having the right “touch”— that sixth sense that lifts sterile black notes off white pages and transforms them into the colorful and moving strains of a masterpiece. Give some pianists the score and you get harmony and rhythm played with proper timing. Place the same piece before one with touch—and there is no comparison. One plays music. The

Only about one bone in a billion, it is thought, ever becomes fossilized. If that is so, it means that the complete fossil legacy of all the Americans alive today—that’s 270 million people with 206 bones each—will only be about fifty bones, one quarter of a complete skeleton. That’s not to say of course that any of these bones will actually be found. Bearing in mind that they can be buried anywhere within an area of slightly over 3.6 million square miles, little of which will ever be turned over, much less examined, it would be something of a miracle if they were. Fossils are in every sense vanishingly rare. Most of what has lived on Earth has left behind no record at all. It has been estimated that less than one species in ten thousand has made it into the fossil record. That in itself is a stunningly infinitesimal proportion. However, if you accept the common estimate that the Earth has produced 30 billion species of creature in its time and Richard Leakey and Roger Lewin’s statement (in The Sixth Extinction) that there are 250,000 species of creature in the fossil record, that reduces the proportion to just one in 120,000. Either way, what we possess is the merest sampling of all the life that Earth has spawned. Moreover, the record

Oskar Schell: My father died at 9-11. After he died I wouldn't go into his room for a year because it was too hard and it made me want to cry. But one day, I put on heavy boots and went in his room anyway. I miss doing taekwondo with him because it always made me laugh. When I went into his closet, where his clothes and stuff were, I reached up to get his old camera. It spun around and dropped about a hundred stairs, and I broke a blue vase! Inside was a key in an envelope with black written on it and I knew that dad left something somewhere for me that the key opened and I had to find. So I take it to Walt, the locksmith. I give it to Stan, the doorman, who tells me keys can open anything. He gave me the phone book for all the five boroughs. I count there are 472 people with the last name black. There are 216 addresses. Some of the blacks live together, obviously. I calculated that if I go to 2 every Saturday plus holidays, minus my hamlet school plays, my minerals, coins, and comic convention, it's going to take me 3 years to go through all of them. But that's what I'm going to do! Go to every single person named black and find out what the key fits and see what dad needed me to find. I made the very best possible plan but using the last four digits of each phone number, I divide the people by zones. I had to tell my mother another lie, because she wouldn't understand how I need to go out and find what the key fits and help me make sense of things that don't even make sense like him being killed in the building by people that didn't even know him at all! And I see some people who don't speak English, who are hiding, one black said that she spoke to God. If she spoke to god how come she didn't tell him not to kill her son or not to let people fly planes into buildings and maybe she spoke to a different god than them! And I met a man who was a woman who a man who was a woman all at the same time and he didn't want to get hurt because he/she was scared that she/he was so different. And I still wonder if she/he ever beat up himself, but what does it matter? Thomas Schell: What would this place be if everyone had the same haircut? Oskar Schell: And I see Mr. Black who hasn't heard a sound in 24 years which I can understand because I miss dad's voice that much. Like when he would say, "are you up yet?" or... Thomas Schell: Let's go do something. Oskar Schell: And I see the twin brothers who paint together and there's a shed that has to be clue, but it's just a shed! Another black drew the same drawing of the same person over and over and over again! Forest black, the doorman, was a school teacher in Russia but now says his brain is dying! Seamus black who has a coin collection, but doesn't have enough money to eat everyday! You see olive black was a gate guard but didn't have the key to it which makes him feel like he's looking at a brick wall. And I feel like I'm looking at a brick wall because I tried the key in 148 different places, but the key didn't fit. And open anything it hasn't that dad needed me to find so I know that without him everything is going to be alright. Thomas Schell: Let's leave it there then. Oskar Schell: And I still feel scared every time I go into a strange place. I'm so scared I have to hold myself around my waist or I think I'll just break all apart! But I never forget what I heard him tell mom about the sixth borough. That if things were easy to find... Thomas Schell: ...they wouldn't be worth finding. Oskar Schell: And I'm so scared every time I leave home. Every time I hear a door open. And I don't know a single thing that I didn't know when I started! It's these times I miss my dad more than ever even if this whole thing is to stop missing him at all! It hurts too much. Sometimes I'm afraid I'll do something very bad.

My interest in comics was scribbled over with a revived, energized passion for clothes, records, and music. I'd wandered in late to the punk party in 1978, when it was already over and the Sex Pistols were history. I'd kept my distance during the first flush of the new paradigm, when the walls of the sixth-form common room shed their suburban-surreal Roger Dean Yes album covers and grew a fresh new skin of Sex Pistols pictures, Blondie pinups, Buzzcocks collages, Clash radical chic. As a committed outsider, I refused to jump on the bandwagon of this new musical fad, which I'd written off as some kind of Nazi thing after seeing a photograph of Sid Vicious sporting a swastika armband. I hated the boys who'd cut their long hair and binned their crappy prog albums in an attempt to join in. I hated pretty much everybody without discrimination, in one way or another, and punk rockers were just something else to add to the shit list. But as we all know, it's zealots who make the best converts. One Thursday night, I was sprawled on the settee with Top of the Pops on the telly when Poly Styrene and her band X-Ray Spex turned up to play their latest single: an exhilarating sherbet storm of raw punk psychedelia entitled "The Day the World Turned Day-Glo" By the time the last incandescent chorus played out, I was a punk. I had always been a punk. I would always be a punk. Punk brought it all together in one place for me: Michael Moorcock's Jerry Cornelius novels were punk. Peter Barnes's The Ruling Class, Dennis Potter, and The Prisoner were punk too. A Clockwork Orange was punk. Lindsay Anderson's If ... was punk. Monty Python was punk. Photographer Bob Carlos Clarke's fetish girls were punk. Comics were punk. Even Richmal Crompton's William books were punk. In fact, as it turned out, pretty much everything I liked was punk. The world started to make sense for the first time since Mosspark Primary. New and glorious constellations aligned in my inner firmament. I felt born again. The do-your-own-thing ethos had returned with a spit and a sneer in all those amateurish records I bought and treasured-even though I had no record player. Singles by bands who could often barely play or sing but still wrote beautiful, furious songs and poured all their young hearts, experiences, and inspirations onto records they paid for with their dole money. If these glorious fuckups could do it, so could a fuckup like me. When Jilted John, the alter ego of actor and comedian Graham Fellows, made an appearance on Top of the Pops singing about bus stops, failed romance, and sexual identity crisis, I was enthralled by his shameless amateurism, his reduction of pop music's great themes to playground name calling, his deconstruction of the macho rock voice into the effeminate whimper of a softie from Sheffield. This music reflected my experience of teenage life as a series of brutal setbacks and disappointments that could in the end be redeemed into art and music with humor, intelligence, and a modicum of talent. This, for me, was the real punk, the genuine anticool, and I felt empowered. The losers, the rejected, and the formerly voiceless were being offered an opportunity to show what they could do to enliven a stagnant culture. History was on our side, and I had nothing to lose. I was eighteen and still hadn't kissed a girl, but perhaps I had potential. I knew I had a lot to say, and punk threw me the lifeline of a creed and a vocabulary-a soundtrack to my mission as a comic artist, a rough validation. Ugly kids, shy kids, weird kids: It was okay to be different. In fact, it was mandatory.

When we have poor vagal tone, we have higher sensitivity to perceived threats in our environment, which overactivates the body’s stress response and leads to reduced emotional and attentional regulation overall. Those of you who experience the discomfort of social anxiety might recognize this disconnect. Imagine walking into a party filled with strangers. You might have obsessed over what to wear to the party, planning every detail, every possible conversation topic, or you may have felt totally neutral about the party—no warning signs that you might feel uncomfortable and act accordingly. Either way, none of it matters once you actually walk into the room. Suddenly, all eyes are on you. Your face grows hot and red when you hear laughter, which you’re certain is about your outfit or your hair. Someone brushes past you, and you feel claustrophobic. All the strangers seem to be leering. Even if you know rationally that this is not a hostile place, that no one is looking at or judging you (and if they are, who cares?), it’s nearly impossible to shake the feeling once you’re trapped in it. That’s because your subconscious perceives a threat (using your nervous system’s sixth sense of neuroception) in a nonthreatening environment (the party) and has activated your body, putting you into a state of fight (argue with anyone and everyone), flight (leave the party), or freeze (don’t say a word). The social world has become a space filled with threat. Unfortunately, this kind of nervous system dysregulation is self-confirming. While it is activated, anything that doesn’t confirm your suspicions (a friendly face) will be ignored by your neuroception in favor of things that do (the stray laugh you felt was directed at you). Social cues that would be seen as friendly when you were in social engagement mode—such as a pause in the conversation for you to enter, eye contact, a smile—will be either misinterpreted or ignored.

Inside McClintic Sphere was swinging his ass off. His skin was hard, as if it were part of the skull: every vein and whisker on that head stood out sharp and clear under the green baby spot: you could see the twin lines running down from either side of his lower lip, etched in by the force of his embouchure, looking like extensions of his mustache. He blew a hand-carved ivory alto saxophone with a 4 ½ reed and the sound was like nothing any of them had heard before. The usual divisions prevailed: collegians did not dig, and left after an average of 1 ½ sets. Personnel from other groups, either with a night off or taking a long break from somewhere crosstown or uptown, listened hard, trying to dig. 'I am still thinking,’ they would say if you asked. People at the bar all looked as if they did dig in the sense of understand, approve of, empathize with: but this was probably only because people who prefer to stand at the bar have, universally, an inscrutable look… …The group on the stand had no piano: it was bass, drums, McClintic and a boy he had found in the Ozarks who blew a natural horn in F. The drummer was a group man who avoided pyrotechnics, which may have irritated the college crowd. The bass was small and evil-looking and his eyes were yellow with pinpoints in the center. He talked to his instrument. It was taller than he was and didn’t seem to be listening. Horn and alto together favored sixths and minor fourths and when this happened it was like a knife fight or tug of war: the sound was consonant but as if cross-purposes were in the air. The solos of McClintic Sphere were something else. There were people around, mostly those who wrote for Downbeat magazine or the liners of LP records, who seemed to feel he played disregarding chord changes completely. They talked a great deal about soul and the anti-intellectual and the rising rhythms of African nationalism. It was a new conception, they said, and some of them said: Bird Lives. Since the soul of Charlie Parker had dissolved away into a hostile March wind nearly a year before, a great deal of nonsense had been spoken and written about him. Much more was to come, some is still being written today. He was the greatest alto on the postwar scene and when he left it some curious negative will–a reluctance and refusal to believe in the final, cold fact–possessed the lunatic fringe to scrawl in every subway station, on sidewalks, in pissoirs, the denial: Bird Lives. So that among the people in the V-Note that night were, at a conservative estimate, a dreamy 10 per cent who had not got the word, and saw in McClintic Sphere a kind of reincarnation.

But when he say Gwendolyn's father, he immediately knew that he was Jewish, in the way that Jews recognize each other, as if with a sixth sense.

You are being held back by your own perceptions of goodness, selfishness, kindness, or graciousness. You can say that you can be kind by helping someone who always requests your help, but every time that you give advice to this person, they don’t really apply it. If they don’t apply it and they keep asking you for help, ask yourself this question, “Am I being kind by consciously helping them?” Simply let them go so that you can help other people who are willing to apply your help.

I remember when I found some books on Hinduism, Raja yoga and Gnani yoga that were written back in the early 1900’s. I was in shock. I was reading it and thought, “This is the most brilliant man in the world. I agree with everything that he is saying!” I was a little upset. But this guy had been around a lot longer than me. Then I thought, “Maybe I don’t know as much as I thought. Maybe this information is old stuff and I’m not the innovative person I thought I was in bringing it to other people.” Then I realized something profound. This spiritual leader is unquestionably brilliant. If I’m already teaching this kind of information and he is confirming it, no matter how long ago it was taught, what does that say for somebody like me? It means that there’s a Universal Truth in all of this.

Distill it. We’re going to distill their knowledge to get the real truth and the real quality out of it. That goes for Hinduism, Kundalini yoga, tantric, and martial arts. You have to distill all of it to get the real truth. That’s really what I’m offering you. By listening, thinking, feeling, and hearing what I’m saying to you, in the end what’s alive in your mind is going to free you. It’s going to make you an enlightened being. You’re already more enlightened than most human beings. To be sitting here reading this, you’re already a white cell. There are other forms of white cells but what makes you enlightened is consciousness. It’s not about walking through the air. It’s not about the miracles you can do. All that stuff can come with time. What is really important is that you can conceive the Universe. If you can conceive the Universe, you’re already vibrating at a much higher level than everyone else. By understanding the dynamic process of the Universe, you’re already enlightened. I know that’s hard to believe right now, but you’re already alive in more ways that you can ever understand.

Make spirituality your first priority. Integrate the second most important thing, whether it’s school, a relationship, or whatever, and then the third most important thing, and so on. To be realistic, you can only have about five things, not twenty things. You have to surrender, as they say in Desiderata, the things of youth, the things that really aren’t serving you in your spiritual growth. You need to begin removing those things that hold you back, and you need to deal with them now. The sooner you begin devoting yourself to your spiritual growth, making it your priority, the more you’re going to spiritually achieve. There’s no better time than the present. No matter how old you are. So, if this is the moment you are reading this, then now is the moment that you understand. Now is the moment that you must put every ounce of effort into this.

She said you had drowned. “She was on vacation,” Mom continued. I noticed how perfectly still she was sitting, how rigid her shoulders were. “A beach vacation.” Then she added, as if it would somehow help the thing she’d said make any sense at all, “In Maryland.” But of course her words didn’t make sense. There were a million reasons they didn’t. They didn’t make sense because it hadn’t been that long since I’d seen you, and you were as alive as anyone then. Her words didn’t make sense because you were always such a good swimmer, better than I was from the instant we met. They didn’t make sense because the way things ended between us was not the way they were supposed to end. They were not the way anything should ever end. And yet here was my mom, she was right in front of me, and she was saying these words. And if her words were true, if she was right about this thing she was telling me, it meant that the last glimpse I’d had of you—walking down the hallway on the last day of sixth grade, carrying those bags of wet clothes and crying—would be the final one I’d ever have. I stared at my mom. “No, she didn’t,” I said. You hadn’t. You couldn’t have. I was sure of that. Mom opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again.

I saw our familiar stomping ground in Windorah through the eyes of our American visitors, who were as astounded as I had been at Steve’s ability to bring the desert to life. We searched and searched for fierce snakes, but to no avail. Then Steve’s sixth sense kicked in. At five thirty one morning, after days of fruitless searching, he said, “Hurry up, let’s get going.” Our Dateline host was keen. This was what she’d traveled halfway around the world to see. “Where are we heading?” she asked. “We’ve got to get out on the black soil plains,” Steve said. “We are going to see a fierce snake at seven thirty.” The host looked a bit surprised. Even I teased him. “Oh, yeah, seven thirty, Stevo, we are going to see a fierce snake at exactly seven thirty, right.” But off we trundled to the black soil plains, camera crew, host, Winnebago, Ute--the whole convoy. Steve scanned the landscape. I monitored the temperature (and the clock). Seven thirty came and went. “So, we’re going to see a fierce snake at seven thirty?” I said. “Let’s see, oh, yes, it is seven thirty, and where might the fierce snake be?” After a little bit of teasing, Steve gave a good-natured grin, but then a look of determination passed over his face. No lie: Precisely at 7:32, he spotted a fierce snake. We ended up filming not one but two that morning. The rest of the NBC crew looked upon Steve with new respect. This guy says we’re going to see a snake at seven thirty and he’s off by two minutes? They were checking their watches and shaking their heads. Always give Steve the benefit of the doubt in the bush. I had learned that lesson before, the last time we had tailed fierce snakes on the black soil plains. But his ability to sense wildlife continued to strike me as uncanny.

window. ‘If this is your way of getting me to quit, it’s not going to work.’ She could almost see her dad standing on the pavement next to the car, taking inhumanly long drags on a cigarette. He shrugged at her, like, what’re you gonna do? She rolled her own window up and killed the engine, getting out of the car to look at the shelter. The building was sixties brutalist. A slab of concrete that looked like it would have been a chic and modern looking community centre six decades ago. Now it just looked like a pebble-dashed breeze block with wire-meshed vertical windows that ran the length of the outside.  Wide steps with rusty white rails led up to the main doors, dark brown stained wooden things with square aluminium handles, the word ‘pull’ etched into each one.  There was a piece of paper taped to the right-hand one that said ‘All welcome, hot food inside’ written in hand-printed caps.  There were five homeless people on the steps — three of them smoking rolled cigarettes. Two of those were drinking something out of polystyrene cups. The fourth was hunched forward, reading the tattiest looking novel Jamie had ever seen cling to a spine. His eyes stared at it blankly, not moving, his pupils wide. He wasn’t even registering the words. The last one was curled up into a ball inside a bright blue sleeping bag, his arms and legs folding the polyester into his body, just a pockmarked forehead peeking out into the November morning. Had they slept there all night on that step waiting for the shelter to open? She couldn’t say. Jamie and Roper crossed the road and the folks on the steps looked up. They were of varying ages, in varying states of malnutrition and addiction. The smell of old booze and urine hung in the alcove. Jamie wasn’t sure if you could tell they were police by the way they looked or walked, but the homeless seemed to have a sixth sense about it. Two of the three who were smoking clocked them, lowered their heads, and turned to face the wall. The third kept looking and held his hand out. The one with the novel didn’t even register them. Jamie knew that if they searched the two that turned away, they would have something on them they shouldn’t — drugs, needles, a knife, something stolen. That’s why they’d done it — to become invisible. The one who held out a hand would be clean. Wouldn’t risk chancing it with a police officer otherwise. She’d worked enough uniformed time on the streets of London to know how their minds worked.  She took a deep breath of semi-clean air and mounted the steps, looking down at the mid-thirties guy with the stretched-out beanie and out-stretched hand.  ‘We’re on duty,’ Roper said coldly, breezing past. Jamie gave him a weak smile, knowing that opening her pockets in a place like this would get them mobbed. If they needed to question anyone

Kusha doesn’t have High-Grades or voice or killing gazes. But she has a gift. Her prophetic-alarms. Most people name it the sixth-sense. Those occasional sensations that come without warning. And then, she finds herself knowing things she isn’t supposed to know. Like now— It happens again. A prophetic-alarm comes to her. And it comes with a scream in her head, as if hundreds of frozen needles have pierced her eyes and reached her brain, injecting information she’s never known before. Kusha calls it alarms. Not sixth-sense. Not even intuition. Intuition sounds High-Grade, something those evolved people may have. The book God-Particle-Or-Thought-Particle says: Intuition is the passing thoughts downloaded from the universe. Kusha isn’t confident enough to believe it can happen to her. No way could she download anything as an unevolved, untouchable, Low-Grade human.

The books of what is now the Old Testament thus probably came into existence between the ninth and the second centuries BCE. This does not necessarily mean that the records of earlier ages are pure fiction, but it makes it hard to press their details as solid historical evidence. Many readers of the Bible would recognize that the stories of the early history of the world – Noah’s Ark, the Tower of Babel – are mythical or legendary, but it may be more challenging to think that the stories of Abraham or Jacob or Moses are also essentially legends, even though people bearing those names may well have existed. No one is in a position to say they are definitely untrue, but there is no reasonable evidence that would substantiate them. This is also the case with the early kings, Saul, David and Solomon, even though the stories about them do make sense within a period (the eleventh and tenth centuries BCE) about which we know something, from the archaeological record. With the later, eighth- and seventh-century kings (for example, Hezekiah and Jehoiachin) there is definite corroboration from Assyrian and Babylonian records, and we are less in the dark. But even some of the stories of life after the exile, in the Persian period, may be fictional: most biblical scholars think that the book of Esther, for example, is a kind of novella rather than a piece of historical writing. A later date does not of itself mean that a given book is more likely to be accurate: much depends on its genre, as we shall see in the next chapter. The biblical books of the Old Testament thus probably span a period of about eight centuries, though they may incorporate older written material – ancient poems, for example – and may in some cases rest on older, orally transmitted folk-memories. But the bulk of written records in ancient Israel seem to come from a core period of the sixth and fifth centuries BCE, with heavy concentrations in some particular ages: most think, for example, that the period of the exile was particularly rich in generating written texts, as was perhaps the early Persian age, even though we know so little about the political events of the time. The flowering of Israelite literature thus came a couple of centuries earlier than the classical age in Greece. The Old Testament, taken by and large, is thus older than much Greek literature, but not enormously so. Compared with the literature of ancient Mesopotamia or Egypt, however, Israelite texts are a late arrival.

Some bring up a sixth proof based on the third conclusion previously established, since they consider it somehow obvious that understanding, will, wisdom and love are pure perfections. However, it is not so clear that these can be inferred to be pure perfections any more than the nature of the first angel can. For if you take wisdom denominatively, it is better than every denominative characteristic that is incompatible with it and still you have not proven that the first being is wise. And if you grant that God is wise, I say that you are begging the question. You can only maintain that, apart from the first being, it is better to be wise than not. In this way the first angel is better than every being, considered denominatively, that is incompatible with it, God excepted. Indeed, the essence of the first angel in the abstract can be better than wisdom in an unqualified sense. You may object that [the nature of the first angel] is inconsistent with many things, and therefore not for everything is it better denominatively than its opposite. I answer that neither is wisdom better for everything; it is inconsistent with many things. You will say: "Wisdom would be best for everything if it could be present, for it would be better for a dog if the dog were wise." I reply: "The same could be said of the first angel. If the angel could be a dog, it would be better to be one; and it would be better for a dog if it could be the first angel." You will object: "No, that would destroy the nature of the dog and consequently it would not be good for the dog." I reply: "In the same way being wise destroys the dog's nature. There is no difference save that the angel destroys as a nature of the genus [viz. substance] whereas wise destroys as a different genus [viz. as a quality]. [Wisdom] is incompatible [with a dog], however, because it requires as its subject a nature which is repugnant [to a dog]. And to whatever the subject is primarily repugnant, to that the property of such will be essentially (though not primarily) repugnant. In ordinary speech about pure perfection there is frequently a failure to make this distinction. What is more, intellectual seems to express the supreme degree of a certain category, substance. How would you conclude from this that it is a pure perfection? The situation is different with the properties of being in general, for they are characteristic of every being either commonly or in disjunction. And how would you refute a contentious individual who claims that the first denominative of any of the supreme genera is a pure perfection? For he would say that any such is better than what is incompatible with it, if taken denominatively, since all things incompatible in this way denominate only their own genus, and it surpasses all of them. If it should be understood as referring to the denominated substances, qua denominated, a similar point could be made. Because if it is a substance that is determined, then this determines the most noble for itself. If not, at least every subject insofar as it is denominated by this, is better than everything insofar as it is denominated by something else incompatible with this.

They say a women can judge between love and lust. Maybe they have this sixth sense or maybe it is a survival instinct.

Haven’t you known people who seem to have a “sixth sense” super-power when it comes to connecting, communicating, and understanding others? These emotionally intelligent people always know the right things to say to make us feel that we matter.

A guy once asked me to go with him to Indonesia to help people after the latest tsunami hit. I said yes. I had no idea what I was doing. We arrived in Banda Aceh two weeks after the destruction. (Indonesia alone lost a mind-bending two hundred thousand lives.) We weren’t welcomed by everyone. Most people love the help, sure. But I felt unwelcome when a group of Muslim separatists threatened to kill us. (I have a sixth sense about this kind of thing.) They were opposed to Western interference in Aceh and didn’t want us saying anything about Jesus. I just wanted to help some people. I also wanted a hotel. I wanted a safer place. I didn’t want to die. I had no idea what I was getting into. We took supplies to what was, before the tsunami, a fishing village. It was now a group of people living on the ground, some in tents. I just followed what the rest of our little group was doing. They had more experience. We distributed the food, housewares, cooking oil, that sort of thing, and stayed on the ground with them. That’s how our little disaster-response group operated, even though I wanted a hotel. They stayed among the victims and lived with them. After the militant group threatened to slit our throats, I felt kind of vulnerable out there, lying on the ground. As a dad with two little kids, I didn’t sign up for the martyr thing. I took the threat seriously and wanted to leave. The local imam resisted our presence, too, and this bugged me. “Well, if you hate us, maybe we should leave. It’s a thousand degrees, we’ve got no AC or running water or electricity, and your co-religionists are threatening us. So, yeah. Maybe let’s call it off.” But it wasn’t up to me, and I didn’t have a flight back. As we helped distribute supplies to nearby villages, people repeatedly asked the same question: “Why are you here?” They simply couldn’t understand why we would be there with them. They told us they thought we were enemies. One of the members of our group spent time working in a truck with locals, driving slowly through the devastation, in the sticky humidity, picking up the bodies of their neighbors. They piled them in the back of a truck. It was horrific work. They wore masks, of course, but there’s no covering the smell of death. The locals paused and asked him too: “Why? Why are you here?” He told them it was because he worshiped Jesus, and he was convinced that Jesus would be right there, in the back of the truck with them. He loves them. “But you are our enemy.” “Jesus told us to love our enemies.” The imam eventually warmed up to us, and before we left, he even invited our little group to his home for dinner! We sat in his home, one of the few in the area still standing. He explained through an interpreter that he didn’t trust us at first, because we were Christians. But while other “aid” groups would drive by, throw a box out of a car, and get their pictures taken with the people of his village, our group was different. We slept on the ground. He knew we’d been threatened, he knew we weren’t comfortable, and he knew we didn’t have to be there. But there we were, his supposed enemies, and we would not be offended. We would not be alienated. We were on the ground with his people. His wives peered in from the kitchen, in tears. He passed around a trophy with the photo of a twelve-year-old boy, one of his children. He told us the boy had been lost in the tsunami, and could we please continue to search for him? Was there anything we could do? We were crying too.

On the thirty-first, Richard listened, over a loudspeaker in the court holding cell he despised so much, as the hearing to poll the jury took place. Clark reiterated the defense’s position. Yochelson stood for the people, saying Ms. Singletary’s murder had happened two weeks earlier. It made no sense to rehash the tragedy and stir things up—after they apparently had been able to put it behind them. Tynan said he thought letting the defense question the jury about Singletary’s death would be a fatal mistake, and he denied the motion. In his cell, pacing back and forth, Richard cursed the judge and told his jailers the trial was a joke; he spit and he cursed and kicked the bars. Daniel told the court, Richard refused also to attend a second motion to be heard on September 5. The judge said it would be all right, but he would have to sign another waiver. Deputy Warden asked to speak to the judge at a sidebar and told Tynan that Richard was cursing and yelling and had stated he’d fight before he allowed deputies to bring him into court. Tynan announced that for security reasons, the defendant would sign the waiver on September 5. The jury’s deliberations moved on. On September 5, when Ramirez was led into court, he was subdued. Doreen was in her usual place, her eyes riveted to him. There was not an empty seat in the house. Ramirez signed the waiver form and was taken to the holding pen. The defense had decided to seek a mistrial based on several points: one, the death of Singletary, the other, that the juror who had replaced her, Mary Herrera, had two brothers in law enforcement who’d been shot to death, which she had failed to mention on her initial questionnaire. The judge refused to grant a new trial, court was recessed, and the jury continued its deliberations. On September 14, court was convened because of Arturo Hernandez. He had been ordered to call the court daily but had failed to do so on the sixth through the fourteenth. Judge Tynan found him in contempt and issued a body attachment with $5000 bail. On the eighteenth, Arturo showed up in court. Tynan bawled him out for not calling in as he had agreed to. He didn’t want to hear any excuses, he just wanted to know how Arturo pled. The lawyer said he was guilty. Tynan fined him $2400 or twenty-four days in jail. He gave him until September 24 to come up with the money. The judge then had Arturo remanded to do a day in jail for a September 1 contempt charge.

I hear from the sofa- ‘Wear a jacket, Karly!’ My mom thinks even when I’m dressed, I’m still half-naked. So, out the door, I see sis get on the yellow bus. Waving at me like a moron out the window! And the cold feels like a b*tch slap to my face, yet it is a good way to wake up. I got into the SUV that was wrecked the night before. Thinking that this thing is like a coffin to me, yet I could say anything, or Jenny would think I have completely lost my mind. So, we go down all the same roads, not stopping at any of the red or yellow lights or signs. When Liv gets into the car she leans forward and grabs my hot- chocolate, and the smell of her perfume is strawberry, it is a body spray she has been wearing devotedly ever senses she was twelve and her hips and boobs develop like the end of sixth grade, she buys like five bottles every time we go into Sally Beauty Supply. I know that she has it on her, so I ask her for a squirt, even though I am sick of it after all these years, and even though I don’t want to smell like her, I ask for it anyway, I don’t want to smell like balls! Even though it stopped being cool in seventh grade, to where kiddy stuff like she still does- I have to close my eyes, overwhelmed, and coffin as a puff of it surrounds me, or then what I asked for. Gross, I smell like a pre-teen after gym class now, just trying to cover it up. Closing my eyes was a horrible idea. One- I get to feeling car sick. Two- I can see where Jenny is driving, and the way it feels- it must be off the road. Three- I start to daydream about Marcel, plus heartsick over Ray still, even though I was done after what he did to me, I can stop having feelings for him, he was the first that took me from behind. Oh no, he was not my first love god no, I didn’t know what love was until I saw it in Marcel's eyes, but was it real? That is what I am afraid of- trusting my heart to a boy again. I could see all the flashes of sincere light within Marcel's home, I could see him holding as no boy has ever done with me. I could almost feel the tingle of his kiss on my lips. ‘Holy freaking crap balls,’ said Jenny. I snap my eyes open as Jenny swerves to avoid hitting a cuddly black cat, walking past. That is when I start to look out the window into the side mirror, and the glossy dark trees are flocking on either side of us like outlined ghosts in the navy-blue sky. I smell something hot. I said- ‘Yeah that’s just me.’ I hear Jenny shrieking not too long after I feel relaxed, and yet once more, I feel my stomach go to the bottom of my feet and back up, as the SUV rolls to the one side, tires wailing- ‘It was a family of deer this time, trying not to get murdered. You should have seen their faces. It’s like mine every time I ride in this SUV.

They didn’t seek commonality with other churches. It was divisive and fear-based.” At a very young age, she sensed that she was being trained, as a dog might be trained, to grow up to be a woman with no ambition other than to bear children. She learned that while there was only one road to heaven, there were a great many to hell. Secular music, for instance, which she was forbidden to listen to. Science, for another. In sixth-grade science class, when the theory of evolution came up, Charity was handed a note saying she needed to go straight to the principal’s office and wait it out until those lessons were over. The other kids who went to her church all got the same note. Which is not to say that she had not learned things in church. When she was seven years old, missionaries who’d been to Africa came and spoke of plagues they’d witnessed. That experience had triggered an obsession: from then on, she’d wanted to know everything she could about disease and the viruses that caused them. She decided to become a doctor before she grasped all the reasons why she couldn’t. “I didn’t know anybody who had graduated from a four-year college,” she said. “That’s not what people in Junction City did.” Her school guidance counselor told her that kids from Junction City didn’t become doctors, and that she should change her mind. Instead of changing her mind about her ambition, she guarded it. “I learned to hold that card close, because no one believed it,” she said. In her senior year in high school she was thrown a lifeline, in the form of a scholarship from a foundation set up by a local lumber tycoon, for kids whose parents hadn’t gone to college. The Ford Family Foundation, as it was called, offered to pay her way to Oregon State. “The elders said I was disobeying God’s will because I wanted to go to a four-year college,” Charity recalled.

As the Sixth Patriarch teaches, “sitting” means to sit with our minds “externally … free from any thought of attachment to the dualities of all good and bad things.” The true meaning of “sitting” then lies in the state of mind in which no thought of contradiction arises even when it comes into direct contact with all things. Conversely, it can be said that “sitting” is the training of the mind in terms of no-self or no-form in the true sense of the word. Further, to “see one’s self-nature without being disturbed internally” is Zen. The Sixth Patriarch meant to say that Zen is seeing one’s own self, realizing that one has originally no fixed form, clearly seeing no-self, and realizing its imperturbability. If we grasp this point firmly, whatever we do becomes zazen whether we are sitting or lying down.

There are many perpetrators who seem to have a sixth sense for identifying people who have lost the ability to protest and blame unfairness. If we do not register a “negative” feeling response to hurtfulness, we cannot tell that we are being abused. Instead we tacitly “forgive” our abusers just as we were forced to tacitly forgive our parents, no matter how much ongoing abuse they dish out. This is why psychoanalyst Judith Viorst says:

Fear of Dragons Lawrence Kohlberg, who wrote some excellent material on levels of moral development, charted what each level of moral development was like, describing six distinct levels. He was clear about the difficulty of seeing reality, especially moral or spiritual reality. He concluded that we are incapable of understanding a stage more than one beyond our own. A third-level person can’t make sense of what someone on the fifth level is saying. It is meaningless. That’s what we’re up against when we preach the Gospel. Jesus, in Kohlberg’s schema, is a sixth-level person. Many people have not done their first-, second-, and third-level work of conscience. They’re really not bad-willed; they just can’t understand a higher, more complex moral understanding. I’ve had to accept this from some who attack preaching and teaching. They’re not necessarily ill-willed; they just have no idea where the Gospel is coming from. They have some growing to do yet. It really helps to understand this so we are less apt to be judgmental of them. Jesus meant what he said: “Forgive them, they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). The vast majority of people, according to Kohlberg, remain in the first levels of moral development. The Gospel of Jesus will always be a minority position, as will mystical Judaism, Islam, or Buddhism. If we’re not willing to be led through our fears and anxieties, we will never see or grow. We must always move from one level to a level we don’t completely understand yet. Every step up the ladder of moral development is taken in semi-darkness, by the light of faith. The greatest barrier to the next level of conscience or consciousness is our comfort and control at the one we are at now. Our first response to anyone calling us to truth, greatness, goodness, or morality at a higher level will be increased anxiety. We don’t say, “Isn’t this wonderful.” Instead, we recoil in terror and say, “I don’t know if I want to go there.” At the edges of medieval maps was frequently penciled the warning: “Here be dragons.” We confront these dragons when we approach the edge of our comfort level.

Conversely, an animal with hooves must necessarily be an herbivore, since it has “no means of seizing prey.” It will have “teeth with a flat crown, to grind seeds and grasses,” and a jaw capable of lateral motion. Were any one of these parts to be altered, the functional integrity of the whole would be destroyed. An animal that was born with, say, teeth or sense organs that were somehow different from its parents’ would not be able to survive, let alone give rise to a whole new kind of creature.

Otto captured this sacred sixth sense, at once subject and object, in a famous Latin sound bite: the sacred is the mysterium tremendum et fascinans, that is, the mystical (mysterium) as both fucking scary (tremendum) and utterly fascinating (fascinans).80 (page 9) With the sacred viewed within this gripping, emotionally charged sense, it is hardly surprising that these topics are too disturbing to be studied either by religious scholarship or by science. The presence of real siddhis, real psychic effects lurking in the dark boundaries between mind and matter, are so frightening and disorienting that defense mechanisms immediately snap into place to protect our psyches from these disturbing thoughts. We become blind to personal psychic episodes and to the supportive scientific evidence, we conveniently forget mind-shattering synchronicities, and if the intensity of the mysterium tremendum becomes too hot, we angrily deny any interest in the topic while backing away and vigorously making the sign of the cross. Within science this sort of behavior is understandable; science doesn’t like what it can’t explain because it makes scientists feel stupid. But the same resistance is also endemic in comparative religion scholarship, which is supposed to be the discipline that studies the sacred. As Kripal says, scholars of religion “simply ignore … or brush their data aside as ‘primitive,’ ‘mistaken,’ and so on. Now the dismissing word in vogue is ‘anecdotal’ ” (pp. 17–18).80 One reason for this odd state of affairs is that real psi and real siddhis powerfully refute Descartes’s dualism, the very idea that led to the split between science, which deals with matter, and the humanities, which deal with mind. This distinction has carved up the world so successfully that when phenomena appear that harshly illuminate the artificial nature of the split, the resulting glare, says Kripal, “can only violate and offend our present order of knowledge and possibility” (page 24).80 From this analysis, Kripal arrives at his central argument: Psychic phenomena may be thought of as symbols that indicate “the irruption [a bursting in] of meaning in the physical world via the radical collapse of the subject-object structure itself. They are not simply physical events. They are also meaning events” (page 25).80 In other words, where objective and subjective meet, the fabric of reality itself blurs. This is a place that is not quite physical, and not quite mental, but a limbo that somehow contains and creates both.

-What is the mind’s physical reaction to the injection process? – Sometimes its reaction is by making a feeling of headache and numbness in the head, or the desire to sleep, confusion, and of course the memories, but we cannot rely on them. Even if it was not subjected to an injection. In any case, the successful injection process must be done without the mind knowing, and pass without being aware of it. -How many failed brainwashing have you done? -Zero. -How many successful operations? -Zero. A long moment of silence. The psychiatrist looked into his eyes! She knows that he succeeded in all his operations! Unexpected answer. -Why do you say that you failed in all operations? -I did not say that I failed, I said that I succeeded in zero operations -What is the difference? – They are all still alive, as far as I know, the operation is done, but I do not know which of them might discover the trick at the last moment of my life. – Anything new in your private life? women? Friends maybe? -No, they are all superficial relationships, except for Katrina -Why do you refuse to let someone close into your life? -They ask a lot, and I do not like to give answers, you are an exception, of course -What is on your mind the most right now? -Do things happen because I think of them, or do I think of them because they will happen? -Why? -Because for a week I have been thinking that you will come to meet me, did my thoughts bring you here, or did I somehow sense your presence? -What is the Sixth Sense? -It does not exist, our five senses receive an enormous number of notes, and details daily, our conscious mind cannot prevent their reception, but it can ignore them, stores them very far away without alerting us to them, to relieve itself from the trouble of dealing with them, and when we feel that something is going to happen, it is caused by it. Our subconscious mind analyzes and elicits billions of billions of details stored in it, giving us the result in the form of a feeling, to be able to transcend the power of our conscious mind, we have to take these feelings seriously and force our conscious mind to explain their cause, and return to memory and prove it. -What are the conscious mind and the subconscious mind? -The names are incorrect, but they are customary to call them like this. I prefer to call the conscious mind the mechanical mind or the brain, and the subconscious mind with consciousness, for the brain is nothing but a mechanical machine, while the subconscious mind, in fact, is consciousness itself, perhaps the soul. -Why do you talk about the brain, the subconscious mind, the soul, and you, as if you are different entities from each other? – I do not believe that I am this body, I am something inside it, perhaps I am condemned from another world to imprisonment in it, as a punishment for a sin I committed there, and perhaps with my death, my sentence ends. -So, you see that you are something different from spirit and consciousness? -No, we are all one, we cannot be separated, I am the soul, and the subconscious mind is consciousness, and it is mine, while the brain is the property of the body, or the body is its property. -What is the most frightening thing about death? – Everyone lies, the religious, and the non-religious, they all lie about their greatest fear of death, Muslims fear Hell and its torment, this is true, but if their choice is between eternity in Hell under torment, or total annihilation, nothing, they will choose the first option. That what frightens us most in Death is complete unconsciousness, becoming nothing, as if we did not exist, simply disappearing and having no awareness, any sense of anything, forever. -Why would you choose torment over annihilation? -Because I will somehow adapt to it, we humans are able to adapt in all circumstances, and always have enough hope to be patient with them.

The fact that establishment scientists say something doesn’t exist doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. It only means that science has no effective way to measure it.

Wonderful how some people have a sixth sense for what worthless swill their fellow humans will swallow, isn't it? In this respect Marianne Williamson is a genius. Like so many who have this sixth sense, she is an outsider: A rootless Jew with no distinct sense of place, no tradition, no connection to any body of ideas informed by blood, historical moment, or anything else. This is not to disparage Jews, since she has shucked any influence from that people of the Word. That is to say, apart from its perspective as outsider, there is nothing Jewish about her. Like an empty gourd, she has filled herself with what she has overheard as being popular, trendy, and smart. The rushing waters of cocktail party, college rathskeller yap – climate change, AIDS emotivism, poverty emotivism, women's rights, “peacebuilding,” yadda, yadda, yadda – encounter in her not the rock of a thoughtful personality, but a lukewarm rivulet of wuv, wuv, wuv. Got an issue? Her solution: All you need is love, love, love. Thus in the absence of a single salient idea, her “solution” can only be called emotivism. In this Marianne Williamson is a must-read. Read her to know the antithesis of all that endures in literature and art; read her to find out all that will be forgotten, all that will soon pass into nothingness.

Am I wearing an ‘I had sex’ sign? “I can tell. I have a sixth sense about these things. Or maybe I should say a sexth sense,” she snorts. I roll my eyes and giggle.

The oral (agraphous) traditions of the papists, for they speak diversely of them. Sometimes tradition is used by them for the 'act of tradition' by which the sacred books were preserved by the church in an uninterrupted series of time (also a perpetual succession) and delivered to posterity. This is formal tradition and in this sense Origen says 'they learned by tradition that the four gospels were unquestioned in the church universal.' Second, it is often taken for the written doctrine which, being at first oral, was afterward committed to writing. Thus Cyprian says, 'Sacred tradition will preserve whatever is taught in the gospels or is found in the epistles of the apostles or in the Acts' (Epistle 74 'To Pompey'). Third, it is taken for a doctrine which does not exist in the Scriptures in so many words, but may be deduced thence by just and necessary consequence; in opposition to those who bound themselves to the express word of the Scriptures and would not admit the word homoousion because it did not occur verbatim there. Thus Basil denies that the profession of faith which we make in the Father, Son and Holy Spirit can be found in the Scriptures meaning the Apostles’ Creed, whose articles nevertheless are contained in the Scriptures as to sense (On the Spirit 8:41, 43). Fourth, it is taken for the doctrine of rites and ceremonies called 'ritual tradition.' Fifth, it is taken for the harmony of the old teachers of the church in the exposition of any passage of Scripture which, received from their ancestors, they retained out of a modest regard for antiquity because it agreed with the Scriptures. This may be called 'tradition of sense' or exegetical tradition (of which Irenaeus speaks, Against Heresies 3.3, and Tertullian often as well, Prescription Against Heretics 3:243–65). Sixth, they used the word tradition ad hominem in disputing with heretics who appealed to them not because all they approved of could not be found equally as well in the Scriptures, but because the heretics with whom they disputed did not admit the Scriptures; as Irenaeus says, 'When they perceived that they were confused by the Scriptures, they turned around to accuse them' (Against Heresies, 3.2). They dispute therefore at an advantage from the consent of tradition with the Scriptures, just as we now do from the fathers against the papists, but not because they acknowledged any doctrinal tradition besides the Scriptures. As Jerome testifies, 'The sword of God smites whatever they draw and forges from a pretended apostolic tradition, without the authority and testimony of the Scriptures' (Commentarii in prophetas: Aggaeum 1:11).