“It was no jest when I said that we had little comfort here.  There is a shift like this that I wear by your head, and too, your clothes, such as they are after the sea, are drying though not yet dry.”

“Perhaps I’ll get around to the kitchen and sit by the fire.”

White Hands frowned, “This may be difficult for you, there is no kitchen, nor fire.  Rest here.  I will bring the treasure for you to see.”  White Hands bussled out the door.

Smoke gathered himself, the room was chilly and damp.  He slipped on the rough fabric of the garment, covering his head with the hood.  He draped an animal skin around his shoulders and began to feel warm again.  No fire, truely this place seemed the poorest he had ever seen.  Even in the city streets amongst the filth there was material, at least fuel for a fire, something, here there was only stone and wind and wet.

True to his word White Hands returned.  He bore a skin wrapped package and atop it a candle.  He produced a tinderbox and with a little effort made a flame and lit the candle.  “We value words you know.” White Hands spoke as he unwrapped the package, “And so for us this written word is of utmost value.  But that isn’t why this place is so austere.  We seek places like this,  places of contemplation amid privation.  Places where one can hear a still small voice.  I don’t imagine that you understand, but this place has been used by my brethren because of its difficulty not inspite of it.  We seek to remove all distraction so that we may focus on God alone, and His Christ.”

“It would seem that the harshness would distract. . .”

Okay I’ve lost my way in this.  I’ll have to get back to this later.

                                          *     *     *

Smoke struggled against the weight upon him as he had the weight of the heavy sea.  But this was not the sea, it held him against hard rock unlike the wash of the sea that he had been unable to press against, then too, he was warm.  He ached all over from the beating against the rocks, but even pain meant nothing now that he was warm.  No need to fight, Smoke slept.

Where?  That question came to him from his fevered dreams or memories.  He had been thrown against the rocks enough times for him to have given up on land as salvation and come to terms with his death.  That he remembered.

He  had a vague memory of a calling for salvation from God, but that didn’t fit with his remembered resignation.  He remembered white hands, no, before that he remembered calling on God and then being hauled from the sea by one foot.  He remembered seeing the angry sea above him, falling toward him, but that was his perspective.  Then he was lifted by the sea. . .   

. . . and then white hands.

There was no light where he lay.  His bed was hard.  His battered body ached beneath some covering, heavy, warm.  There was music, or at least a voice in the dark that chanted words he could not quite catch.  Here and there in the chant, words came clear on the wind, praises to God, thanksgivings, strange as the sea falling from the sky, he thought, he was hearing the Psalms of the Hebrews in the trader’s tongue.

The cadence changed, the words became indestinguishable to Smoke in the night with wind and the distant roar of the sea and then only that.  Whorls and patterning burst on his retina, but there was nothing real to see in the night, nothing but the night to hear.

Then, as suddenly as silence, there was a presence.  Smoke heard a whisper of feet on stone, a sigh.  “Hello?” His voice sounded like the croak of a scavenger bird, meaningless except that he knew what he had meant to say.

“Oh, you are awake.”  There was shuffling, a trickling of water, and he could feel the radiant warmth of the figure near him.  ”You must be parched.”

“Yes. . .” he attempted an answer, but it was just crow talk again.

He felt fingers lightly brush his face, a thin arm lifted his head, and then cool sweet water filled his mouth and he swallowed.  A few more sips and he was laid back. 

The warmth moved away and he waited for more conversation that never came.  “How odd,” he thought or said but weariness carried him back to slumber.

Tonight George talked to Michael Tsarion.  I have to say that in the past Michael has sounded at least somewhat Christian.  Tonight, not so much.  Here is his main website.

It’s fun to listen to Michael as he is originally from Ireland.  In fact he has some interesting ideas about Ireland and such on this page of his website.

Now Michael has some interesting ideas, some of which ring true.  He does go on about how an elite is controlling all of us and that is the subject of his new book/dvd offering.

I was a bit distrubed to see a lot about divination and such.  I don’t think any of us, even the very best thinkers, is immune to being drawn into error.  Therefore, I guess I have to say, that though I do believe that hyperdimensional forces are at work in the world today as they have been for many many years to enslave and degrade humanity, I’ll have to look a bit more at Mr. Tsarion’s work to know if he might be deluded from a truth into a rare and somewhat unused error.

Because I am no sure arbiter of truth I have to say too, I have been reminded that the unpardonable sin was not misbelief alone, but rather ascribing to Satan the works of the Holy Spirit.  A more familiar bromide is “Judge not that ye be not judged.”  Words to live by without abdicating all responsibility to “Test the spirits so you may discern which are from God.”

LSO

PS. It has been days and days and Coast keeps rolling on and tonight is yet another night.  Tonight one of the guests was Author Henry Kroll. Among the topics he discussed was the early history of Earth and how it transformed from a gas planet with an atmosphere too dense to admit much solar energy into a life-sustaining one. I think he believes that Sol had a close approach to a binary star system with a total of about 3.5 solar masses and at that time there was enough energy to warm earth out of its deep freeze and we are currently heading back toward that binary, and might possibly become a trinary star system.  He had some other interesting thoughts such as that giants and dinosaurs were products of a thicker atmosphere on Earth. Henry Kroll sells his book here.

George also talked to Stephen Bassett, a UFOlogist, who is trying to get disclosure by rebranding it as exopolitics.  Steve feels that more people can be interested in the politics of extraterrestrial involvement and/or the terrestrial stonewalling of people who want to know.  Good luck Steve.  Check him out here.  Interested in exopolitics?  Look here.  And here.  Wana talk about it?  Try here.