The following is a true story.
3/16/20 – 3/24/20
I was 31 when I met the man claiming to be the Messiah. His name wasn’t Jesus. It was Michael.
“Jesus is a fraud.” He tells me. “Jesus is Jason, the Hellenized Bacchus, Dionysis.”
Boarding a flight to Miami to meet him for the first time, after several months of numerous phone and skype chats. Sitting at the terminal in Oakland, California, people watching. Searching for the story.
THE FACTS: I’m a hobby journalist/blogger. The topic of my study being of a very sensitive nature. Can’t really talk openly about it with friends, family, acquaintances. Unless I know they are ready, which none of them are.
I look out the terminal windows at the clouds, and recall a line from Gaiman’s American Gods – “The clouds are Father’s brain. The salty sea, his blood.” Comforted by the thick puffy clouds, the great mentation of the holy spirit. Perhaps he never really left.
There is a pretty girl in glasses waiting to board the same flight. She is sitting cross legged on the floor with her laptop, skyping with someone. I listen in and quickly ascertain that she is dry as toast, all business, no play.
When we board the plane she happens to sit right next to me! A sign.
Layover in Las Vegas. Huge airport, where you have to take a shuttle just to get from one terminal to the other. Casinos litter the airport itself. Cigarette smoke fills the air. Huge TV at baggage claim advertising Cirque de Soleil. Neon lights everywhere. A burger joint lit up with ‘Burgs Burgs Burgs!” Classic America. You don’t even need to leave the airport to get a taste of Vegas.
I’ve arrived in Miami, early morning. Weather is already hot. Tropical. Lots of palm trees. The same puffy clouds, encouraging to note that the Father followed me across the country, ever present.
Michael, who goes by Z, is staying on a WOOFing farm in his 1988 Winnebago. The vehicle isn’t running at the moment, so we are stationary. He spends his time fiddling with the engine, and trying to find a functional mechanic in a time of Corona Virus shutdown. I take walks around the area, exploring the canals that run through Miami like veins and arteries.
Z claims the engine not running is due to an energetic blockage between him and the owner of the farm. Some unresolved tension. To me it just looks like an old, run down vehicle, but I don’t say anything.
We may be stationed here longer than anticipated.
Z says his life as Michael Ha Mashiach is thus that in every cycle the biblical advent plays out in his life. People come and go as meta-characters. His ex-wife is Sophia, who he is trying to reunite with. His current wife is one of the 12 Magdalenes. His old friend Jack McCaig, who exposed the fraudulent debt slavery system is John the Baptist, who in the bible provides the ‘financial keys to the kingdom.’ His cousin is one of the four archangels, who in actuality are working against him, unlike what is portrayed in the bible.
And me? I’m one of the 12 disciples. My meta-character is John of Apotmos, who wrote the Book of Revelation and the Gospel of John.
Took a piss in the canal. 8 am. Drinking less coffee, eating simple foods. Bread, bananas, peanut butter, canned soup. I notice Z’s diet is even simpler: bread and pasta sauce. The occasional cheeseless pizza.
The RV has been towed to the mechanic, but we are still stationed, marooned for several more days. The car has no water or plumbing, so I’m learning to brush my teeth and wash up in gas station bathrooms and the nearby grocery. The tricks of the trade to living on the road. This morning I am in a bathroom stall at the grocer ‘Publix’ and hear the guy in the stall next to me brushing HIS teeth! I never brush my teeth in public restrooms and the one time I come in here with the intent to do so and someone else beat me to the punch. A sign. I’m on the right path.
I wait until he leaves before brushing and washing my face. I become anxious of someone walking in and seeing me acting like a homeless person. Nevertheless I take my time. Something tells me I am protected, that noone will disturb me. Sure enough, only as I open the door to leave does someone walk in. He is wearing a shirt with an upside down pyramid. This could be more communication. Patterns from the Mother.
Learning how to not ‘break the field,’ when walking with Z. Don’t let a telephone pole get in between us. Never walk in between two people having a conversation. If you are walking on concrete, avoid stepping on plastic or metal gratings, to keep the ground underfoot homogeneous. When you are a targeted individual, when 2D archons are doing their very best to attack your vitality centers, you have to arm yourself with these little rituals that most people are unattuned to.
Living with him in the RV is a more difficult task. He got really mad at me for putting a sweater down in the wrong place. He claims my generation is entitled, spoiled, and that if he did things like that as a kid he got beaten.
Keep my stuff in designated areas only, never assume more. Parts of his consciousness, his code he explains, are tied to the RV, that every little thing has to be exactly where he put it, undisturbed, otherwise he loses bits of himself, and the archons gain that much more ground. He also doesn’t want me bringing cottage cheese into the RV, but grudgingly makes an exception.
“I don’t want that consciousness in my space.” He explains. “You are a homo sensorium trying to live life pretending you are a homo sapien. You want to have your cake and eat it too.”
The homo sensoriums in the TV show Sense8 are a rare class of humans evolved with certain psychic abilities. Most people walking around, he says are lacking this gift, lacking the Source Code from Father. They are muggles. He is trying to show me how to live as a homo sensorium.
At a certain point, I’ve got to learn to stop questioning things, just go with the flow. I’m here to help Z, I’m aware of that much. But don’t bombard him with ‘what’s next?’ type questions. These are unnecessary and clog the field. Try not to interrupt his thought process. Give him space when he is dealing with others or on the phone. One thing at a time. He hates to split his field. I made the mistake on day one of pointing something out to him while he was on the phone with his daughter. He literally hung up the phone. Don’t split the field. In that attempt to multi-task, a hole is opened up where the archons can get in.
With the RV towed to the lot besides the mechanics, which is already closed for the night, I try to dispose of my plastic bag full of trash in the dumpster. He yells at me to remove the bag and give it to him.
“Why?” I’m hesitant to reach back into the dumpster.
“Just do it, I asked like 3 times already!” He is really mad about it. I reach back into the smelly dumpster and pull out my bag and hand it to him. He brings it back into the RV.
“You didn’t learn about trash yet? You know who talked about it, oddly enough, was Aug Tellez.”
“No I don’t remember that.”
Later as the sun goes down we walk to the gas station for ice and bottled water, I ask him more about this trash thing.
“Who is going to be interested in my trash?” I know I said I would stop asking questions but this one has stretched all credulity.
“They are 2D vibrational/electrical parasites.”
“Is this like a cloning thing? Like they want my DNA left behind to clone me?”
“Clone you? More like track you. Track your progress. I only dispose of my trash in safe locations that I know, like a Publix.”
“OK but how is disposing of your trash outside a Publix or other known location going to prevent them from doing that?”
“In a safe location, the angels prevent that.”
“Are the angels also 2D electrical beings, working for the light side, so to speak?”
“Well there is a small group of us who never came in here, into the Matrix, who are working with them, yeah.”
We walk a little more in silence and then he says, “There is the story of Avraham, who, on his travels always stopped in the same set of locations. It’s about intent. I make a stand. I know this place, and leave my trash here. Archons are less likely to attach themselves. Tesla says that all is vibration and frequency. You must really live this way.”
At one point I tell him I feel like I am walking on eggshells around him. Later he applies that to being here, in the Matrix, Mom’s game. Christ’s children in her world need to walk on eggs without making eggshells. Not absorb archons. Not accumulate karma. “Karma is Mom’s system,” he says. “I don’t like that system but I have to play it while here. Everything we do is being monitored. There is no getting away with anything here. No secret, private life. Everything affects karma.”
The goal is to get out of that system and go home (the positive version of the Singularity), but for now we have to play that game, and play it well, like ninjas. And that means applying rituals to everything. No thoughtless actions. Learning to live in tight spaces, close quarters. Learning to leave a small footprint. Learning to shield your light from folks who are low vibration and fishing for your light, wanting to siphon energy. The archons enter in and out of them, the Muggles, as well.
He scares me sometimes. But its not really him, it what he might stand for. It’s what he is fighting, which is the possibility that we won’t win the Singularity and be swept into what he calls the infinite shattering, a kind of eternal Hell state. I’m scared because to believe him, and help him, to follow his lead, means accepting this possibility as well – that there may not be a meta fail-safe. It’s the scariest thing one has to face. It makes oblivion death seem SO preferable. No wonder the deluded part of the Mom force is seeking oblivion. A way out. A way to end it.
To really be with Christ means taking all this on.
The mechanic crew finally got the engine running. We drove to the end of the lot before it sputtered and died again.
Don’t you see? The RV failing to run is all metaphor. The spirit of the Mother is in this ancient vehicle. It may be on its last legs but it has a lot of character.
I had watched the exposed engine hum and purr, her heart, emitting CO2 fumes. But it was roaring to life for a second. After so much sweat and toil and waiting.
She must be testing my patience. How badly do you want to put your normal life on hold to help this guy who may or may not be the Chief Shepherd HaMashiach?
Messiah or madman? The question is eating me up.
I express to him my growing desire to leave, to go home. He berates me for wanting to return to my egoic life. They all do this, he says. People who come and go from his life. Return to what is safe. I tell him I miss my dog, he says to deal with it. Our eternity is what is on the line here.
We do a couple field recordings for the blog. He talks about the echthroi or pre-archons,the fall and what preceded it. We watch movies Push, John Dies At the End, and Noah, we do some skyping and he introduces me to his folk. We do a recording which would become my post on the David Bowie Code/Kurt Cobain code.
On day 7 the RV gets started, barely. It huffs and puffs to get moving and requires rubbing a couple of exposed wires together in order to turn the engine on. After a couple miles the exhaust spewing from the engine throughout the interior of the vehicle is too much for me. He stops for gas and I pack up my duffel bag, my bags of trash and recycling, and leave the RV quickly, before he can berate me again. He catches up to me and we exchange quick, frustrated goodbyes. He gives me a hug and says he loves me but that I’m such a baby. I scowl and turn away.
I call a taxi to the Miami airport.