STORIES
SOMETHING FROM NOTHING
When I was a student of magical practice my teacher recounted the following incident: he had gotten a job doing security at a coin fair. He strolled around the fair in plain clothes. Coin collectors had booths, and quite a bit of wheeling and dealing went on privately as well.
My teacher noticed one man badgering people and making unfair offers for their coins. He bullied them. A certain amount of this is normal, but my teacher thought this case extreme.
“There is one coin I know fairly well,” my teacher said. It was a Netherlands coin, a gold and copper mixture that was then worth about three thousand dollars. He identified it precisely but at this remove I can’t remember the name.
“I reached into my pocket and materialized one,” he said. “I rubbed it between my fingers until it was good and solid. Then I picked my moment, strolled up to him [the offending dealer] and showed him the coin.”
“This has been kicking around in the family for awhile. Is it worth anything? And I held it out to him.”
The dealer examined it and said “No. Look at this red here. It’s nearly all copper. There is hardly any gold. But I’ll give you twenty dollars for it as a curio.”
My teacher considered the offer and replied: “see that charity booth over there? Give them the twenty dollars, bring me the receipt, and I’ll give you the coin.”
The fellow did and they completed the transaction. Then he went away.
About forty-five minutes later he was back. He was livid. The coin had vanished. He accused my teacher of having cheated him, but he could not explain how. My teacher had not been anywhere near him. And, before the coin had disappeared he had shown it to his friends.
I thought about this, and then posed the following question: “If you had made a bridge in the same way you made the coin, could someone have driven a car over it during the time it was, ah, operational?”
My teacher thought about this for awhile. “I don’t know,” he said. “I really don’t know.”
A long time has passed since then and I know the answer to that question.
The answer is yes. An object consists of all of its interactions with other objects. If you create an object you must make those interactions as well. During the time the coin lasted, it could have been weighed, assayed and photographed.
SHIPS
I once worked a nautical hit and run. It so happened that four fishermen took their boat out to fish in the waters off northern California. At the end of the day they dropped anchor and went to sleep in their bunks. During the night a shock woke them up. They made it to the lifeboats and survived, but they lost their ship.
It was insured, but this did not end the matter in the fishermen’s minds. The idea that another vessel struck them and did not stop to render aid bothered them. It was a horrific crime.
They hired a lawyer and set about trying to find the guilty ship. At the time the lawyer contacted me they were trying to sue the US Navy, which was engaged in war games only about 80 nautical miles away at the time of the sinking. The idea of a huge, blacked-out warship streaking hell-for-leather through the night, heedlessly ramming the little fishing boat, was grimly plausible. For its part the Navy denied everything.
I made contact with the fishing boat. “It was the Liberian,” it said. “The Liberian struck me.” I got a fragmentary image of the larger vessel. It was enough.
I moved my attention onto the other ship. It proved to be a large container ship of Liberian registry. The captain was a Panamanian.
The impact jarred the big ship. The captain, who had been in his bunk, came up to the bridge and inquired about it anxiously. “Did we hit something?” The crew said they didn’t see anything.
I reviewed the moments before the collision. Standing with the observers, on the bow, I found the little fishing boat nearly impossible to see even when I knew it was there. There was a momentary twinkling of tiny lights low in the water, lost in the glassy glitter of the waves. And then it was gone.
The waters off northern California are full of floating debris, including large logs. The Liberian’s captain supposed they must have hit something of the kind. If he had known his vessel had hit another ship, he would have stopped to search for survivors.
I gave this report to the lawyer, who passed it on to a
detective with a specialty in nautical affairs. And a discovery was made.
The place where the fishermen had dropped anchor was on the great circle route between Yokohama and San Francisco. The fishermen did not know this because they only had local charts. In effect they had dropped anchor and gone to sleep in the middle of a busy freeway.
A beacon collects the name of every major ship passing through the region. The detective obtained a list of names. If memory serves there were around 300.
I asked the lawyer to put each name on a separate 3x5 card, turn them over and shuffle them until he did not know which was which.
In his office he handed me the deck. I shuffled it again for good measure (name side down), and then reviewed each card. I suppressed the internal dialogue and pinned attention to the card and to the chain of events that caused it to be in my hand. The ship was connected to the name, and so I saw the ship. I had a kind of conversation with each ship.
It took some time, but I found the guilty ship and two other ships that knew about it.
By this time the Liberian had progressed down the coast to Central America.
The fishermen declared themselves satisfied and decided not to pursue the matter further. I would like to have had a photograph of the Liberian and to have seen the transcript of an interview with the captain, but the ending was satisfactory. It was an interesting experience.
For years after that when the ships I had visited came to local port, they would say hello to me.
Ships are sentient. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
THE FRIGHTFUL THING
Quite a few of my telephone conversations start with “I’m going to tell you something that sounds crazy, but please don’t hang up on me. I’m not crazy.” Often people sound frightened, and they usually break into the story periodically to plead with me to hear them out.
One of my most interesting cases began this way. A young couple contacted me. They sounded traumatized and had a tale of woe.
They had married against the wishes of the girl’s father. He belonged to a fundamentalist Christian church. Soon after the marriage the couple felt that the congregation was harassing them with bad thoughts and hostile prayers.
They found a book on helping yourself with white witchcraft. It had a method that was supposed to relieve a psychic attack. It involved consecrating a doll in the name of the abuser, wrapping it in red ribbon while saying a chant, and burying it in the earth.
They followed the directions carefully. “Then things really fell apart,” the boy said dolefully. They were besieged by nightmares and unnerving synchronicity. Life became increasingly bizarre. It was terrifying.
I knew what their problem was. At that moment I was eye to eye with a gigantic bird with eyes of lightning. Its feathers were brown and cream. It was a formidable being.
How had this happened? I walked them through a list of diagnostic questions. Had they profaned any Native American shrines or holy places? No, we would never do that. Had they traveled outside the country? No. Had they offended any sorcerers or brujos? No, we try not to offend anybody.
Stumped, I finally asked “well, where did you bury the doll?’’
“On the Apache reservation.”
There must have been rather a long pause. Then the voice on the phone said timidly “Did we do something wrong?”
Many people do not know that Native American consecrated ground is powerfully protected against any foreign magic. And while westerners think it natural to bury corpses in the ground, this is by no means a universal custom. Numerous tribes interred their dead on scaffolding raised above the Earth.
The couple had buried a symbolic little Anglo corpse with a piece of working Anglo magic attached to it (the restraint embodied in the red ribbon and the chant) on consecrated ground. It was hard to imagine a more comprehensive trespass.
I talked with Thunderbird. What they had done was bad, but these harmless kids were hardly the kind of problem he had been charged to deal with.
We worked out a few days’ truce. The couple threw a shovel in the back of their van and drove back to New Mexico to dig up the doll. I told them to fill in the hole and sprinkle a few turquoise bits by way of apology.
“But shouldn’t we stay there for a while and try to make friends with the spirits?” they asked.
Thunderbird and I both flinched. “No,” I said. “Just do it and leave before anything else happens.”
PENTECOSTAL FOLLIES
Once I was contacted by a man who, if memory serves, was actually a Pentecostal minister. He explained that he had belonged to a small congregation. His sexual orientation became an issue and he left the group. They started sending him abusive and destructive thoughts. It made his life miserable and he was desperate to have it stopped.
I considered his story and checked via remote viewing to see whether it was true. It was. The malign intention projected by the group was piled up around this man’s space like deep drifts of black snow.
The idea of Pentecostals practicing black magic was novel. I asked him what they did.
He explained that when someone left the group, the custom was to place that person’s picture (or some token associated with him or her) in the center of the group. Everyone would focus on it, praying for horrible things to happen to him so that he would turn back to Jesus.
Well.
I told him how to dispel the ill-wishes they had sent and defend his space against any of that in the future.
What they had done offended me. I advised him to reverse the effect, which would punish the group for their behavior. He declined. Shame-facedly, he admitted that he himself had participated in group cursing rituals in the past.
THE OWL
Owl medicine is strong and dark. And so it proved to be in this instance.
When I meet with students, our calendar includes some items we do for simple curiosity. Sharing the awareness of a selected animal is something we often do. It is possible to have all the thoughts, sensations and emotions of the animal, without the limits of human senses.
On the evening I refer to, someone wanted to visit an owl. I concurred. I wanted to experience how the owl felt when it ate a mouse. The student who had proposed the owl, who would be the pilot for that sequence, agreed.
When it was time for that item the pilot took over and projected our awareness into the owl. I remember it as being feathery— bristling, actually--and focused in a one-dimensional way on predation.
It spotted a mouse about the time we climbed aboard. The owl struck like a thunderbolt. That mouse did not have time to wonder what had happened to it.
Then the owl swallowed the mouse. That moment is what I had specifically asked to experience.
I had thought to share a moment of feral triumph. But it wasn’t that way at all. Instead I experienced the owl’s orgiastic pleasure in the sensation of wet mouse sliding down its throat.
It was the most disgusting sensation I have ever had. If I want to kill my appetite all I have to do is recall that memory.
Be careful what knowledge you wish for. Especially where owls are concerned.
ACTS OF WAR
Imagine my surprise late last year when I essayed a minor act of remote viewing and discovered that I could not do it.
Someone had psi-blocked me. I was dumbfounded.
The block was levels below my effective capability. I saw who had done it, how and why. The perpetrator, whom I will not name, was an abrasive egotist with whom I had had many arguments on an email list. Unable to tolerate intellectual competition, he finally had me kicked off. I had forgotten all about him until recently when he surfaced as a consultant on a project in which I had an indirect interest.
I wasn’t pleased when he turned up but it never occurred to me to make a pre-emptive strike. My philosophy is live and let live.
His presence was irritating but it wasn’t a threat.
Now he had done this.
After due consideration I removed the block and slapped it down over the perpetrator.
He was quite unhappy. I endured astral whining by his wife (“Why are you doing this to us?”) and visits by some of his friends.
One of them was noteworthy. He had a strong psychic presence with a Native American resonance. He appeared on the astral to assess the situation. I pointed out that it was a shooting (psi) war and I had not started it. Did he want to join in? Take a number.
He declined to take part. It was a parochial squabble and he felt he had better uses for his time.
The perpetrator has had my email address all along. He could have contacted me with an apology for the psi block and a promise never to trespass again. If he had done that I would have had to at least think about taking the block off.
He hasn’t. Instead he’s spreading the news far and wide about his misfortune. He was innocently strolling the astral, minding his own business, and then¼
Perps often do that, which is the reason it is a good idea to check the facts before accepting a case.
A HAUNTED HOUSE
Years ago when I lived in Texas I rented a room in a house. The owner was an elderly woman who had been a widow for some years.
Soon after I moved in I discovered that the house was a zoo of astral life forms. Things that weren’t rodents squeaked and went bump in the night. There were black moving shapes that vanished when you looked at them directly. Something infested the attic that made me unwilling to go up there even in broad daylight.
They began harassing me, popping out of the astral in front of my face and screeching. They did small acts of mischief in the kitchen. They woke me up at night by making noise on the astral.
You may have read about the ghostly sound of invisible feet walking down the hall. I was treated to this too. It was a man’s heavy tread, not very fast. It started outside the landlady’s bedroom and went down the hall toward the living room. The floorboards creaked under the weight. It was an eerie feeling to look into a fully lighted hall and see absolutely nothing while the phantom visitor passed by.
One day in early afternoon I was lying on my bed reading. The landlady was napping in her room. The footsteps started back at the end of the hall. They came down the hall and then entered my room, passing through the closed door as though it did not exist. They stopped right next to the bed. There was absolutely, positively nothing to be seen.
This was the last straw.
That night I waited until the landlady was asleep and called a meeting of everything in the house. It was something like being in an auditorium where a large audience was sitting in the bleachers, mostly in shadows. They tittered, elbowed each other and made derogatory remarks about me.
I got their attention and complained about their behavior: the nightly commotion on the astral, deliberately scaring me and soforth. This had better stop, I declared, because if I have to move out on this account I will make sure that the next tenant is a hardshell Southern Baptist who will exude noxious thoughtforms and make the house uninhabitable.
Then they all went “Gee, we didn’t know you could see us.” “We were just having fun.” “We didn’t mean any harm.” “We’re sorry.”
I never had a bit more trouble with them. The ghostly footsteps never returned.
Of course, I could have done a formal exorcism and kicked them all out homeless out into the void, but it wasn’t necessary. Besides, the old lady liked them.