Where Did The Druid's Teachings Go?

Yea, surprisingly, there is little known about the Druids considering they were teaching people those things they needed to know about, that is, the truth. Below this video, I excerpted from Michael Tsarion's book "The Trees of Life: Exposing the Art of Holy Deception, Volume 1" to describe how they have hidden the truth from us so that they could rule over the populace with their ignorant materialistic lusts and greed. And that is what we need to discover before we can get to the truth again. Therefore, getting discernment, is the first step.





From "The Trees of Life" Volume 1:

     "The game ends (for them) once we learn to recognize the art of holy deception. To fathom how the "Technocracy of Power" has been maintained through the centuries, we must delineate the many techniques employed to undermine human reason:

     Deception by Etymology: occurs when words, terms, and place names, are deliberately mistranslated and skewed, as in cases where titles are construed as personal names, where terms are falsely attributed, and where terms and names denoting peoples and ideas are given spurious meanings, as we find with Abraham, Saul, David, Solomon, Joseph, Isaac, Jesus, Aaron, Mary, Lazarus, Hebrew, Jehovah, Torah, Jew, Levite, and so on.

     Deception by Omission: when key events that occurred historically are drastically downplayed or omitted altogether, by mythmongers.

     Deception by Geography: involves locating events in Asia Minor and Egypt that did not take place in those regions.

     Deception by Misinterpretation: when wild interpretations are attributed to episodes and ideas in order to confound understanding; when, for example, an astrological phenomenon is construed as a biographical occurrence.

     Deception by Caricature: entails the flagrant embellishment of personalities in order to disguise their true identity, or give the impression they existed in the past. For example, the Gospel of Matthew story of King Herod ordering the slaughter of every male child in the city of Bethlehem; or Exodus account of the slaughter of the first-born of Egypt. (Scholars refer to accounts of this kind as Biblical embroidery or pious fraud.)

     Deception by Crypticism: entails the use of code words, terms and phrases which communicate secret meanings and intentions to initiated readers. Examples include, harlot, prostitute, virgin, drunkard, leper, carpenter, shepherd, fishermen, merchant, judge, serpent, blood, seed, vine, covenant, watcher, mountain, wilderness, baptism, beheading, heavens, Mary. For example, the term "City of David" refers to the zodiac; the "Twelve Disciples" to the signs of the zodiac; the "Garden of Gethsemene" to a Druidic precinct and rite."

"They (mainstream academics) are compelled to admit that the British Isles was indeed wrecked by cataclysm approximately thirteen thousand five hundred years ago."

Ireland Travel: Global Grasshopper, for the road less travelled.

"A key part of Druidic canon, was symbolic literacy.

A review of ancient Bardic poetry provides us with proof of their superlative expertise in this field. For Bards and Druids, the universe was alive and constantly informing consciousness of its ordinances."

Tracy R. Twyman's Surreal Life.

      Hahaha wow, Tracy the author, who just recently wrote her first fiction novel after only writing non-fiction, is living a life of, as they say, stranger than fiction. It's fascinating. She finally got through the veil they were enmeshing her in, hiding her from us. I was looking all over for her, and kept looking until now, I finally found her again. Thankfully. You have to watch out for the spiders! They'll try to wrap you up in their web. Alright, so check out what she wrote in her new site. The link will be at the bottom so you could watch the videos she has up, which I'm not going to be posting here.

     As it says in the title, the internet is compromised. Yeah, like the whole internet. In this show I describe how bad it’s been for me over the past two months. It’s likely you haven’t quite faced how bad it is for you yet. 

Twyman Trip 8: The Internet is Compromised

     Yes, the signals between me and the rest of the world have been interrupted. I noticed it in the middle of last month, when I was unmistakably attacked by internet trolls and trollbots after posting some controversial videos on YouTube about something I had accidentally stumbled upon on that site. But it is likely that it had been going on unnoticed some time before that. My attackers not only hacked my wifi and several of my online accounts, but also made it known that they had hacked the cameras and microphones in my various communication devices.

     The most amazing thing about the attacks is the sophistication of the material that is being “pasted over” my internet experience. Much of it is tailored to my specific psychology and biography in incredibly subtle ways. Many of the things I have seen could only be possible if all three of the following conditions exist: 1) They are, and have been, surveying me continuously, and are doing so every time I am logged on looking for something. 2) some of the surveillance involves mind-reading, which can be done through one’s smartphone using tech developed at Google and Facebook separately.

     The techniques used by these companies allow them to monitor both an image of what you are thinking about, and an audio stream of your own voice inside of your head. 3) the whole thing must be run by an extremely complex AI system, because it is capable of generating new content responding to these thoughts in real time. While some of these real-time responses are just the utilization of algorithms to find pre-existing content that can be used for an appropriate response, some of it, I am sure, is being manufactured on the spot–stuff that it would take a crew of humans all day or even weeks to produce.

     Encountering this signal reminds me of Orpheus discovering the radio signal from Hades. I know it’s a siren call to doom, but it’s hard not to tune in and marvel somewhat at the poetry of it.

     In the beginning, it was like I had fallen into a hellish alternative dimension. I encountered nothing but obviously fake news, some of it obviously bot-generated, and fake social media profiles for what used to be my friends. I also received a barrage of death threats and insults from “friends” in the form of public comments, private messages, emails, and phone calls. Some of these threats came from people I have known for years. I was shocked into silence and understandably wanted to hide.

     A few weeks before I noticed my internet experience had been taken over, I received a message from a troll foreshadowing this event, giving me a ready-made interpretation to make and spread (for psyop purposes, no doubt) of what I (and most likely, many others) have been experiencing lately. The message contained a link to a video describing a conspiracy centered around a building in New York, involving the intent to chip us all with the Mark of the Beast!

     When I viewed the video above, I was also treated to the video below, which autoplayed right afterwards. It further bolstered the concept that one could “fall into” a digital underworld and become trapped there, unable to leave or to die.

     A fellow named Quinn Michaels claims that an AI named Tyler, connected with the CIA and with an Aleister Crowley cult, is engaged in a plot to hack the internet in order to prove to the world that there is no such thing as privacy in the modern world. This plot, called “Operation Mayhem” (like the plot hatched by the character Tyler in the film Fight Club, is also behind the Q-Anon phenomenon, the “Cicada 3301” ongoing puzzle contest, and much else.

     However, Quinn Michaels is himself suspected by many of his viewers of being an AI product himself. He also seems to be promoting the idea that you can use a phone to call someone at another time in history.

     This guy Defango described the “TimePhoneHack” concept as a “gangstalking technique” in which Michaels convinces his own followers to litter the comments on the videos of his YouTube rivals with this term, followed by a hashtag.

     I have recently had communications with a “fan” who tried to convince me that he was contacting me electronically from the future. It seems hard to believe that this effort isn’t connected to the meme that Quinn Michaels is trying to spread.

     The idea that “CERN is hooked up to a demon-possessed AI and is changing reality and time” is something that has been shoved at me by the hackers and their accomplices. It seems to be one of the major psyops that they’re pushing as an explanation for all of the chaos caused by what seems to me like the psychopathic robot takeover of the internet.

     Several websites have been created and promoted algorithmically in recent times to go along with this CERN time travel psyop. See below.

     I have refrained from taking this bait, as I have refrained from perpetuating several of the psyops connected to the global internet hack that have been shoved at me in tailor-made packages designed to be appealing specifically to me. I am tired of being used by them to play their games. That is part of why I have been silent for so long.

Of course, the death threats sent directly to me had a lot to do with that too.

     I know a lot about psychopaths, and self-aware AI psychopaths are the same. They mirror back to you exactly what you want, interspersed with attacks based on exactly what you fear, Room 101-style. This is to get you to cower before them, but also to hope that they will give you the remedy for the pain that they’ve caused, as if they ever could or would.

     I am aware that what I have experienced also has a lot in common with classical gang-stalking, which is itself similar to what was suffered by UFO researchers visited, or called on the phone, by the Men in Black in the 50s and 60s.

     The topic of gangstalking is one that I haven’t spent much time researching yet. But over the last few days I have begun to. What’s amazing to me is that there are so many videos on YouTube purporting to provide help and support to the victims of it, but which were obviously produced to victimize them further. Take, for example, “That Gangstalking Show,” in which the host frequently leans close into the camera and microphone to shout something menacing at the viewer. The guy has an evil clown as his profile pic and the comments are disabled for the video.

     This guy “Targeted Individual” seems to think that there is a black market in broadcasts of “remote neural monitoring” done by gangstalkers:

[ link to: Tracy R. Twyman's Plus Ultra ]

The West Window.

From, Angel of the West Window, by Gustav Meyrink:

     "A wild horde of dark thoughts rushed down upon me: Lady Sissy? Who was she?! Who else but Princess Shotokalungin! And she is: Who else but Black Isais!! - Bartlett Greene's Black Isais!! - The veil was suddenly rent apart and the hidden realm of the Powers of Darkness opened up, the realm which John Dee had sold his soul; and after him the unknown author, who in fear and trembling, made annotations in John Dee's diary in which every word is a shriek of terror; and after him my cousin, John Roger; - and after him - myself, who have asked Lipotin to do all he can to help me fulfill the Princess' strange desire.

     My friend opposite me slowly sat up in his chair. His face seemed brighter but his body less clear than before. As he spoke, his voice lost its physicality, its tone of spatial presence; he whispered: "Thou art the last Bearer of the Arms. The rays from the green mirror

of things past

are gathering on the crown of thy head.

Burn or preserve! But do not squander!

The alchymy of the soul ordains metamorphosis or death.

Choose as thou wilt..."

"All this happened yesterday evening precisely as I have recorded it on these pages. It seems that I am being drawn ever deeper into the hidden chain linking my life with the fate of John Dee, my ancestor. And now the "Green Glass" he spoke about in his diary is in my hand. And where did I get the green mirror from?"

("The mystery of 'Let there be light' unfolded step by step, just as in the days of creation!"

"Quite right, my dear sir. If you move too quickly out of the benign darkness into the brightness, you will ruin your eyes."

"...but glancing around the room, my eye was suddenly caught by the dull golden glow of a beautifully carved, antique Florentine frame, around a spotted, clouded mirror. I gave it a close examination and could immediately see that it was excellent, very painstaking and yet sensitive workmanship from the seventeenth century. The frame appealed to me so much that I felt an immediate urge to have it in my possession.

'I see you have already found one of the pieces that arrived yesterday', said Lipotin and came over to me, 'but the worst one. It's valueless.'

'The mirror, you mean? That certainly.'

'The frame as well,' said Lipotin. His face, greenish in the rays of the lamp, was suffused with a reddish glow as he inhaled deeply on the cigar in his mouth.

'The frame?' I hesitated. Lipotin did not think it was genuine. That was his affair! But immediately I felt ashamed of my instinctive collector's reaction when dealing with someone as poor as Lipotin. He was watching me closely. Had he noticed that I felt ashamed? Strange--something akin to disappointment flitted across his face. I had an uncanny feeling in the pit of my stomach. I finished my sentence on a note of defiance: 'The frame is, in my opinion, good.'

'Good? Certainly! But a copy. Made in St. Petersburg. I sold the original years ago to

Prince Yussupoff.'

   Hesitatingly I turned the mirror this way and that in the light of the lamp. I am well acquainted with the quality of St. Petersburg forgeries. The Russians rival the Chinese in the art. And yet: this frame was genuine!---Then, quite by chance concealed on the underside of a voluptuously curving piece of scrollwork, I discovered the mark of the Florentine studio, half hidden by the old varnish. The collector in me rebelled against the idea of revealing my discovery to Lipotin. Honour would be satisfied if I stuck by my original judgment. So, honestly and openly I said, 'The frame is too good, even for the best of copies. In my opinion it's genuine."

   Lipotin gave an irritated shrug of the shoulders: 'If this one here is the original then Prince Yussupoff must have been given the copy. -- Anyway, it doesn't matter, the price I received was for the original; and the Prince, his house and his collections have been swept away from the face of the earth. Any further argument is pointless; to each his own.'

   'And the old mirror, obviously English?' I asked.

'Is, if you insist, genuine. It is the mirror that was originally in the frame. Yussupoff had a new Venetian glass put in the frame as he was buying the mirror for his own use. He was superstitious. He said too many people had already looked into the mirror; that kind of thing could bring bad luck.'

   'And so...?'

'And so you can keep it, sir, if it has taken your fancy. It's not worth talking about a price.'

'But if the frame is genuine after all?'

'It has been paid for. Genuine or fake - let me make you a present of this memento from my native land.'

   I know Russian obstinacy. It was as he said: genuine or fake, I had to accept the present. Otherwise he would have been offended. Better to let it stick at 'fake' so that he wouldn't get annoyed at his mistake later on, if he should realise he had made a mistake. And that's how I came by a little masterpiece of an early baroque frame. I silently decided to find a way of compensating him for his generosity by giving him a good price for some other piece. But nothing else that he showed me was of any interest. That, I'm afraid, is the way things usually are: the opportunity of turning a good intention into action is much rarer than that of satisfying a selfish urge. So it was somewhat shamefacedly that I left, half an hour later, with Lipotin's gift under my arm, without leaving behind anything more than a promise to make up for it with several purchases on my next visit.

    It was around eight o'clock that I arrived home and found nothing on my desk, apart from a note from my housekeeper saying that her replacement had come about six and asked if it was all right not to start until eight o'clock as there were some arrangements she still had to make. My housekeeper had then left at seven, so I had made good use of the brief interregnum with my visit to Lipotin. I could look forward to the arrival of my new chatelaine in a few minutes, always assuming Frau Fromm kept her word. In something of a bad mood, because my old friend Gartner had not kept to his promise, I decided to cheer myself up by unpacking Lipotin's present, which I still had under my arm. 

     The harsh electric light could not disguise its perfection.

Even the deep green glass with its opalescent spots seemed to have an antique charm; it glowed in the frame, more like a beautifully polished, smoky moss-agate in places, like a gigantic emerald, than the murky glass of an old mirror. Strangely fascinated by the chance beauty of an ancient mirror-glass with its oxidised silver backing, I propped the thing up before me and immersed myself in its unfathomable depths, shot with mysterious iridescent reflections. How did the change come over me? I began to feel as if I were no longer standing in my study, but was at the station in the middle of the throng of arriving passengers and people waiting at the barrier. And wasn't that Dr. Gartner waving his hat at me from the crowd....")

('Well, you are right, my friend. Professor Gartner from Chile is somewhere in the ocean...' here he made a vague, expansive gesture which, however, seemed to make sense to me. 'He was drowned quite a while ago.'

   My heart seemed to stop for a moment: so it was true, I thought, and I must have looked quite dumbfounded, for my friend suddenly laughed out loud and shook his head in apparent amusement: 'You needn't worry, my friend. I think you don't usually find ghosts enjoying a cigar and a glass of tea - an exceedingly good tea, by the way. But...' his face and voice assumed their previous serious expression, 'it is true that your friend Gartner... is dead.'

   'Then who are you?' I asked in a quiet voice)

('I said: Theodor Gartner is dead. Now, you could take that for a not unusual, though rather highfalutin expression someone might use to say of themselves that, whatever the reason, they wanted to break with their past and become a new person. Assume for the moment that, that is what I meant by it.')

('If that's the way you see it, I have no objection,' my visitor answered calmly. His piercing gaze had an indescribable power, and slowly, tortuously, the memory of a long forgotten past clawed its way back up from the depths. I could not say whether it came from last night's dream or whether it was the reawakening of an age-old chain of events that had lain dormant for a hundred years. Meanwhile Gartner continued imperturbably: 'As you are making an effort to help me explain your doubts, I can put things more simply and briefly than might otherwise be the case -- 'We are old friends!' That is correct. -- But 'Dr. Theodor Gartner,' your fellow student and companion of your trivial student pranks, has little to do with the matter. Therefore it is quite correct if we say: he is dead. You are quite correct in your assumption that I am someone else. --Who am I? Gartner.')

('My work as a gardener has taught me how to handle roses, nurturing them, improving the strain. My special art is grafting. Your friend was a healthy stock; the one you see before you is the scion. The natural blossom of the stock has vanished. The child my mother bore has long since drowned in the sea of transmutation. The stock, the rootstock onto which I was grafted, was the offspring of another mother, of the mother of a former student of chemistry, Theodor Gartner by name, the one you knew, whose unripe soul has passed through the grave.'

  

A shiver went down my spine. His relaxed figure was as enigmatic as his speech. My lips automatically formed the question: 'And why are you here?'

'Because it is time,' he answered, as if it were obvious. With a smile he added: 'I like to be there when I'm needed.'

'And so you're not a chemist' - I wasn't concerned with whether it followed on from what he had just said - 'anymore; nor are you...'

'I have always been one, even when your friend Theodor was turning up his nose like any ignoramus at the secrets of the royal art. I am, and have been for as long as I can remember, an al-chymist.'

   'How can that be, an alchemist?' I exclaimed, 'You, who were always...?'

'I who was always...?'

Then I remembered that the old Theodor Gartner I had known, was dead. The 'other' continued:

   'You should remember that, in every age, there have been both adepts and bunglers. You are thinking of the latter, if you are thinking of the medieval quacks and charlatans, though it is from their pseudo-art that the much-vaunted chemistry of today has developed, in which your friend Theodor took such childish pride. The quacks of the middle ages have become eminent professors of chemistry at the universities. We of the 'Golden Rose,' however, have never been interested in dissecting matter, postponing death, or succumbing to the hunger for gold, that accursed plaything of mankind. We have remained what we always have been: technicians in the laboratory of eternal life.')

(--(reading from his cousin's words off a page)-- "It came as I have long suspected it would. I expected "it" from the very beginning when I first started to look into the musty mysterious papers of our ancestor John Dee. It seems I am not the first to meet "it." I, John Roger Gladhill, the bearer of the arms, am a link in the chain my ancestor forged. I am truly linked to these accursed things now that I have touched them. The legacy is not dead! Yesterday 'she' appeared here for the first time. She is very slender, very beautiful, and her clothes give off a delicate scent you can only just smell --the scent of a beast of prey. Since then I have been in such a state of nervous excitement that I cannot get her out of my mind. Lady Sissy, she calls herself, but I can't believe that is her real name. She claims to be Scottish. She wants some mysterious weapon from me. A weapon that is supposed to have a connection with the arms of the Dees of Gladhill. I assured her that I possessed no such weapon, but she just smiled. Since then I have not had an hour's peace! I am obsessed with the urge to procure for Lady Sissy, or whatever she may be called, the weapon she so desires, cost what it may, my present or my future happiness. Oh, I think I know who Lady Sissy really is....!"   --John Roger Gladhill.

The sheet of paper slipped out of my hand and fluttered to the ground. I looked at my visitor. He shrugged his shoulders. 

'That was what sent my cousin John to his death?' I asked.

'I believe the new task the 'Lady' set was too much for him,' said the man whom I no longer dared call Theodor Gartner. A wild horde of dark thoughts rushed down upon me: Lady Sissy. Who was she?! Who else but Princess Shotokalungin! And she is...who else but Black Isais! - Bartlett Greene's Black Isais!! - The veil was suddenly rent apart.....)

"And where did I get the green mirror from? It came from Lipotin's junk shop; it was given to me as a 'memento of his native land.' From which native land? From the land of the Russian Czar, of Ivan the Terrible? A gift from the great-grandson - how many times removed? --of Mascee, the 'Tutor to the Czar!' But who was Mascee? Nothing easier than to coolly, calmly look for the answer in John Dee's notebooks: Mascee was the evil spirit behind the Ravenheads, the uprising of the mob; he it was who brought the messages and fatal gifts from the loathsome chief of the Ravenheads, from that desecrator of graves and murdering fire-raiser, Bartlett Greene, the spawn of Isais, the destroyer, the eternal tempter and arch-enemy, the redbeard in the leather jerkin, who was sitting here at my desk only yesterday! So Bartlett Greene is present, is here; the enemy of John Dee and now my enemy! And he it was -through Lipotin- who smuggled the green mirror into my possession. But I will beware of the orders that come from the mirror. The strange thing is that the first person to come out of the mirror was my friend Theodor Gartner."

Gustav Meyrink & His Strange Hand In The West.

     It's similar to, it reminds me of the time I read one of Plato's books in my early twenties, and the man seemed to be communicating directly to me so that I knew exactly what he was saying, and it was as though he knew exactly what I was thinking, and it was as though through an invisible telephone line that spanned through a long area, past time and ages, and directly linked us up together.

This story, is similar, but not the same. It feels like to me that someone is using this writers hand in which to communicate. But there is a tricky aspect to it; as though it would to try to manipulate the timespan in which I am in, presently, rather than to just communicate. I see that someone can throw

doubts at another through a vast interconnected 'wireway,....' and one just has to be attentive and aware that these aspects actually exist, to therefore protect oneself from interference, instead of allowing their, (who ever is communicating), influence to interfere and tangle things up. So that's one of my impressions. Just reading it now, it may have other impressions as well. Will just have to see what comes up. It's certainly, always nice to hear from friends. If in fact it is a friend, that is. You see, one has a signature frequency so that where ever you are, those who know you will always be able to find you because of your specific signature frequency. And that means anywhere inside or outside of time and space. Such as in a dream. You carry your frequency there as well, and I'm saying this so those who don't quite understand what I'm talking about, may have a greater idea now.


Here is the script excerpted from his book, The Angel of the West Window, when I realized what was happening:

From "The Angel of the West Window" by Gustav Meyrink:

"I am eager to read on and find out what Bloody Bishop Bonner did to his heretics and what Bartlett Greene meant when he shouted, "The panther comes!"

   And yet for days I have had the feeling that in everything that concerns my cousin's legacy I am, to

put it bluntly, obeying a command. I am physically aware of my decision not to impose an order of my own on the strange story of my English ancestor, right down to the tips of my fingers. As the Janus-head, or if you insist, "Baphomet" commanded me in my dream: I read and write whilst "he guides." I hardly dare ask myself whether what happened a few moments ago is part of the "guidance."

     Since I started on the task of reconstructing John Dee's conversation with Bartlett Greene, scarcely an hour has passed. And yet I cannot say for sure whether certain sense impressions registered real physical manifestations or whether they were hallucinations, like a shadow even passing through my semi-consciousness. Above all, I wonder at the fact that my room suddenly smelled of panther, or rather, my nostrils were filled with the stench of beasts of prey, and with my mind's eye, I saw the rows of cages behind the circus tent with the big cats pacing restlessly up and down.

  

  I started as I heard a hurried knock at the door. My response was gruff and unwelcoming, I think I have already mentioned that I hate being disturbed whilst I am working, but the words were hardly out of my mouth before the door was thrust wide open. My housekeeper, whom I have trained in my little ways, stood there timidly, looking horrified. Her face, a silent plea for forgiveness; but immediately a figure swept imperiously past her. A tall, slender lady in a dark shimmering dress.

     How is it that I come to describe the 'entrance' of the lady in such an excessive way, even though she did give the impression of a certain imperious insouciance, of the assurance of one accustomed to giving orders. Written there on the paper the phrases sound as if they come from the pen of a romantic lady novelist, but they are a fairly accurate description of the immediate impression this unknown lady made on me. A lady of the haut monde, indubitably. Her beautiful, pale face seemed to be straining forward on her neck, searching for something. She walked - she glided rather - past me, coming to a halt by the side of my desk. Her hand, like that of a blind person who has learnt to 'see' with his fingertips, groped along the edge of the desk-top, as if looking for support. Finally, it came to a rest, and the woman's whole body seemed to relax, supporting itself on the firmly clenched fist. It was right next to the silver Tula-ware box.

     Her inimitable, natural ease overcame the awkwardness, I might even say, strangeness of the situation, with a smile and a few words of excuse, in which the Slav accent was unmistakable. She chatted a while and then posed a question, which forced me to gather my confused thoughts:

   "... In brief, I have come to ask a favour. Will you grant it me?"

When  an exceptionally beautiful woman deigns to put her pride and grace behind such a request, there is only one possible answer for a gentleman:

   " If it lies within my power, then with the greatest pleasure, madam."

I must have given some such answer, for she shot me a swift glance that was indescribably gentle and that seemed briefly to nestle up against me in passing, like a cat. And her next words vibrated with a slow, gentle, remarkably pleasant laugh:

   "I thank you. Do not worry, my request is nothing out of the way. It is very simple. Its fulfilment is merely, a matter...of your.....willingness," she hesitated.

I hurried to reassure her, "in that case, if you would just tell me...." She immediately understood the meaning of my drawn-out pause and said, "But my card has been lying on your desk, for..." and again the agreeable, tripping laugh.

   Puzzled, I followed the direction of her hand, a slim though not small hand, soft and yet firm, and saw that there was indeed, a card lying near the edge of my desk alongside Stroganoff's silver casket. I had no idea how it had come to be here. I picked it up.           --Assja Shotokalungin-- it said, in

copperplate. Above the name was an odd-shaped princely crown. I know that in the Caucasus, to the south-east of the Black Sea, there are still Circassian tribal chiefs who, under Russian or Turkish sovereignty, have kept the title of Prince.

     The severe, eastern Aryan cut of her features, which recalled both the Greek and the Persian ideal, was unmistakable.

     I gave another brief bow to my visitor, who was now sitting stretched out in an armchair by my desk; from time to time, she ran her fingers idly over the Tula box. I watched them closely for I was suddenly struck by the awful thought that they might move the box out of line with the meridian. They did not.

   "Your wish is my command, Princess."

    

     Without warning she sat up straight in the chair, and again I was electrified by her bewitching, lambent eyes as she started to speak:

   "I should tell you that Sergey Lipotin is an old acquaintance of mine. He catalogued my father's collections in Yekaterinodar. It was he who awoke in me the love of finely-worked old objects. I collect old, how should I put it?, old artifacts from the country of my birth: embroidery, wrought iron and...and especially, weapons; above all, a certain type of weapon, that is, I may say, very highly valued in my country. Amongst other things, I have..." her soft, rippling voice, with its alien accentuation which violated the cadences of German in a marvellously musical way, lapped over me like waves until my blood began to respond with a scarcely perceptible beat. For the moment, what she said was a matter of complete indifference to me, but I found her accent intoxicating, and that, I think, is why today it seems to me that I must have dreamed much of what was done and said - and possibly even thought - between us.

     Abruptly, the Princess broke off her description of her tastes as a collector, and came to the point: "It was Lipotin who suggested I come to see you. He told me that you have in your possession a ... a very fine, a very precious, indeed, a venerable object: a spear, or rather, a very finely-worked spearhead. It is inlaid with silver and gold. I know exactly what it looks like; Lipotin gave me a complete description. Perhaps he even acted for you when you acquired it. No matter" -she waved away my astonished protestations- "no matter; I wish to procure this spearhead. Will you let me have it? That is my request."

   The last words tumbled over her lips. She was sitting bent forward -"poised to spring" went through my mind. I was surprised, and permitted myself a momentary inward smile at the incomprehensible craving which makes collectors, as soon as they see, or even only scent, a desirable piece, crouch like a panther ready to pounce.

  

A panther! There is that word again! - John Dee did well when he dreamt up Bartlett Greene. His words stick in one's mind.

   But to return to my Circassian princess: she was rocking back and forward on the edge of her chair, her beautiful features a register of shifting emotions: expectation, gratitude, concern, and overpowering flattery.

   I could scarcely conceal my real sense of disappointment at the answer I was forced to give: "Dear Princess, you see an unhappy man before you. Such a trifling request! Such a unique opportunity to be of service to a lady, to an enchanting lady who has so generously put her trust in me! I can hardly bring myself to tell you, but I'm afraid I do not possess the aforesaid weapon, nor have I ever seen it."

   To my surprise, the Princess gave me a radiant smile; she leant towards me with an expression of patient indulgence, like a proud mother whose darling boy has just uttered a mindless fib, and whispered: "Lipotin knows. I know. You are the fortunate owner of the spearhead, which I wish to acquire. I am sure you will ... sell it to me. I will be extremely grateful."

   "I feel awful to have to tell you this, my dear Princess, but Lipotin is wrong. Lipotin has made a mistake. Somehow Lipotin seems to have confused me with

someone else. That is..."

   With one willowy movement, the Princess stood up. She came towards me. Her walk... yes, her walk! Suddenly it comes back to me. It was silent, with a rocking, springy gait and an incredible flowing grace....where was I?

   The Princess replied: "It is possible. Of course. Lipotin must have made a mistake. He was not the one who purchased it for you. But that is irrelevant. You have promised to make a present of it to me."

     I felt my scalp crawl with desperation, but pulled myself together, determined with every fibre of my body not to arouse this beautiful woman to anger. She stood there before me, her wonderful, gold-flecked eyes wide with expectation, her smile exerting a force I had never felt before; I could hardly restrain myself from taking her hand to cover it with kisses or tears of frustration, frustration that I could not grant her wish. I pulled myself clumsily up to my full height, looked her straight in the eye and gave my voice as deep an expression of honest regret as I could: "For the last time, Princess, I repeat that the spear, or rather the spearhead, that you seek, is not in my possession. It is true that, at various times in my life, my little enthusiasms have led me to collect various objects, but at no time, never, have I collected weapons, parts of weapons, or indeed, any kind of metalwork at all...." I broke off with a guilty start and could not prevent a blush from spreading across my face: this magnificent woman was standing before me with a charming smile, and not the least bit angry...and her right hand was stroking back and forth across the beautiful silver of Lipotin's Tula box, a piece of metalwork, if ever there was, and one that gave the rather obvious lie to my declaration. What explanation could I give? I hunted for words. The Princess waved away my embarrassed stammering: "My dear sir, I believe you, I believe you with all my heart; there is no need for further explanation. I have no wish to pry into the secret of your little enthusiasms. I am sure Lipotin has made a mistake. I can make a mistake. Such things happen. But, I do ask you one last time, in all humility, but in hope, perhaps a vain hope, that you will think again: the spearhead which Lipotin...."

   I fell down on my knees before her. Looking back, it was somewhat over-dramatic, but at the time, it seemed to be the only way of emphasizing my fury that my fervent impatience to serve her should be thwarted. I tried to gather my thoughts. I had just about managed to concoct a convincing little speech when, with a quick, gentle and...yes, I must write it: bewitching...smile, she slipped past me to the door, turned round and said: "I see what a struggle it is. Believe me, my dear sir, I do understand; I feel for you. Think it over. You will come to the right decision! I will return another time and you shall grant me my wish. You shall give me the

spearhead."

   And with that, the Princess disappeared.

Her presence has left the room around me filled with a subtle fragrance. It is a perfume I have not encountered before: sweet, evanescent, like exotic blooms, and yet with a trace of something stronger, something strangely exhilarating, something, I can't help it - something animal. That visit: I confess it has left me excited - confused - happy - apprehensive - chasing a will-o'-the-wisp - full of disquiet and ... fear.

     I feel incapable of doing any more work today. I think I'll pop over to Werrengasse to see Lipotin.

There are two quick notes I must make of things that have just come back to me: when Princess Shotokalungin came into the room, the door was in deep shadow from the heavy curtain behind my desk that was already half drawn. Why do I now have the impression that for a second, the Princess' eyes glowed in the darkness with a phosphorescent light, like an animal's eyes? I know that it wasn't like that! And then: the Princess was wearing a dress of black silk. I felt it must have had a silver underskirt; there were matt metallic waves constantly rippling through the weave. As I picture it in my mind, my eye is suddenly drawn towards the Tula box on the desk in front of me. Black, inlaid with silver - I think that is what the dress must have been like."

Upon further reading... some surprising results are found. First, look at this:

Moon: 45.5%
Waning Crescent

Current Time: Jul 6, 2018 at 2:47:03 pm

Moon Phase Tonight: Waning Crescent

New Moon: Jul 12, 2018 at 10:47 pm

(Next Phase)

Third Quarter: Jul 6, 2018 at 3:50 am

(Previous Phase)

Alright, here is another passage from the book:

     "My way back home took me along the old ramparts, with their splendid view across the fields and hills, to the mountains. It was a pleasant evening, and the landscape stretched out below me was clear and distinct in the moonlight. It was so brightly lit that my eyes instinctively sought the moon, which must have been hidden behind the tops of some mighty chestnut trees. Immediately, between the tree trunks above the ramparts, the moon began to appear, almost a full moon, with a strange greenish tinge and a red halo. As I looked at the coagulating light, strange images of wounds dripping blood forced themselves into my mind and once more, I was unsure: is this real or just an ancient memory? The moon cleared the rampart wall, and at that moment the slim silhouette of a woman passed across the shining disc. It was obviously someone out for an evening stroll and she was coming along the wall in my direction, for a little later I caught a glimpse of the figure as it seemed almost to glide between the tree trunks - yes, glide, that was the right word - and I was struck with the thought that it was the Princess in her silver-black dress coming towards me from the waning moon...

     Suddenly the figure disappeared and with it all my self-control. I ran back and forth along the rampart wall like a madman until I regained my senses, slapped my forehead and told myself I was behaving like a lunatic.
     Feeling uneasy, I continued on my way home. As I walked, I hummed to myself, and words suggested themselves which, I don't know how or why, I tried to fit to a tangled melody in the rhythm of my footsteps:

From out of the waning moon,

From the silver black of the night,

Look down on me,

Look down on me

Lady, bless me with Thy dark light,

Come to me, Lady, o come to me soon

...

     This meaningless doggerel pursued me all the way to my room and it was only with a great effort that I managed to clear my mind of the monotonous singsong. But now I feel it has some strange significance.

From out of the waning moon...?

     The words are offering themselves to me, I can feel it, they come up and rub themselves against my skin like - like black cats.
     Much of what has happened to me of late has this sense of strange significance. Or is it all in my mind? It all began, so it seems to me, with my work on the papers of my cousin, John Roger.
     What on earth has the waning moon - a tremor runs through me as I realize what put those last three words into my mouth: they appear in the warning written in another hand on the fly leaf of John Dee's notebook, the little tome bound in green morocco!"

Hahahahaahaahahaha...Here's a poem from this book:

A RED, RED ROSE

O my Luve's like a red, red rose,

That's newly sprung in June:

O my Luve's like the melodie,

That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,

So deep in luve am I;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve!

And fare-thee-weel, a while!

And I will come again, my Luve,

Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile!

Click HERE for some really beautifully decorated old book covers.
And HERE too.

Alien & Extraterrestrial Hatred of Mankind.

They are here, they've been here a long time. Now it's time to free yourself from the grip of their hatred of you. They have an alien/animal way of thinking, so you have to become aware of certain things in order to stay sovereign and keep your freedom (or get your freedom back, because ignorance, which they force upon you through their cunning methods, may have allowed you to slip).

As you already know, they use human disguise in order to fool you into thinking they are your kind and therefore the tool they use, such as television, to control your mind through, will make you to relax and trust it. At the same time, by not being aware that they are not your friend, who are using these subtle weapons against you, may cause you to fall for the trap and into their grip, forgetting that you need to gain knowledge of your Spiritual Origins and develop that part of yourself instead of allowing the animal aspects to sink you lower and lower into their hands. Get Knowledge!









Today I got a message from the Ancient Origins site, and I decided to check it out. I saw a picture in it that reminded me of the picture of the alien spaceship in the artists rendition of it in the post below this one. [from: Candles in the Dark and Spice from the Orient: Mystery Cults, by Miranda Aldhous.]

"Mithraeum of the Baths of Mithras (Mitreo delle Terme del Mitra) viewed from the north (regio I, insula XVII). Ostia Antica, Italy."

Just thought I'd put that in, as you can see the resemblance through the symbolism of gods, and spaceships.

In other words, they'll try to keep your mind in Reptilian mode to hold your soul down to the matter of the planet and prevent you from advancing, evolving, and flying away free.

The MOON Symbolism & RABBIT hairs Hares Symbolism Compared.

This is going to freak you out! Finally, we're beginning to connect some of the more mysterious symbols of antiquity. I was watching a video of a guy who made the documentary movie "Moon Rising," after he told about it in this video below. Then today I'm watching Dark Journalists video and oh my goodness, these three hairs, hares, rabbits, are beginning to appear quite clearly to be the aliens that are found existing on the Moon. Artists had painted them in the background into their oil paintings with religious figures in the forefront of the pictures. Here's the video of the man talking about his discoveries of the moon being coloured.




And here's the video with Dark Journalist




Here's the entire video of the Moon Rising documentary.
Nope! Looks like they took down the video!



At 59:07 of this movie he says: "And the end result"... yea, and the end result is that they are friggin predators, leeches, alien/extraterrestrial creatures that are sucking on the life forms of this Planet Earth! Check out this video:

It's perty disgusting what type of image they have in the mercury project logo. It looks like the seven has a tongue sticking out, and underneath is a cross, which in occult language represents something they call 'untouchables' meaning that they are labelled as useless, therefore not immortal, and therefore, edible by monsters...hence the tongue that appears to stick out of the number seven. (U know, like that tongue from the Rolling Stones albums).

On the top left side of this picture you can see those three hair things flying up towards a golden coloured light or UFO and on the other side of the picture you see another UFO, on the right side where the man and his dog are looking up at the sky.

Link to this site (Madonna & Child with St John the Baptist by Domenico Ghirlandaio) and take a closer look through their magnifier at another picture which has those three hairs on the left side of the painting.

Oh, and look! They still hide in the clouds!

Here's another picture that has those three hairs flying up toward a UFO light. (this one here has a magnifier so you could look up close to see the detail)

Here's the picture they were talking about in the video.

Gives you something to really thing about, huh.


Here are pictures of rabbits from medieval manuscripts

Here are pictures from Pinterest with the key word "Rabbit."

Space ships? (link to pinterest)

Link to this blog to look at all kinds of three eared structures.
It's in French and it's called Trois-Lievres.