Friday 3 September 2010

Bathing into History- Part 1

The train was crowded, not to the cattle-truck extent where the passengers stand tensely in the aisles gripping onto the luggage racks; everyone had a seat, but they were all hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. Not everyone could choose their travel partners and many passengers were sitting beside people they’d rather not. A young man and woman caught each other’s gaze every few minutes. They were sitting on aisle seats a few rows apart and the woman was at a table nook beside a group of shirtsleeved businessmen. The man and woman would rather be sitting together sharing the journey, each absorbing warmth and comfort from the other’s presence; but a regular glance and an exchanged smile between them sufficed to remind them that the other was in their thoughts. Both were reading books that introduced them to the subject matter of the event they were traveling to attend. The train rolled smoothly along the shiny track; the green, pregnant hills of the West Country paraded past the thick, oblong windows. With a snap the whole vista vanished as the train dove into the Lovcraftian underworld of the Box Tunnel. The windows became mirrors, the sound of the train’s passage shifted to a muffled and raucous note. The people on board felt pressure pockets come and go on their eardrums and the man yawned to prevent the uncomfortable sensation. The seconds counted down, a minute, two then three. A chill descended on the compartment as people looked out at the meta-hell beyond the safety of the carriage sidewalls. The people on board intellectually knew that this was only a railway tunnel, an artificial structure with a beginning and end, but when the sunlight burst in again expressions of primeval relief washed over everybody’s faces. The journey continued, interspersed with station stops and the train’s personnel changed watch like birds on a wire. Eventually a double seat became free.
“Ben!” the word was hissed and almost inaudible. The man looked up from his book on Russian UFO sightings and sees the woman point with her eyes to the double seat. Quick as a whip they were both in it, but the woman didn’t look happy. She was flushed and her mouth looked tight at the corners, an expression of displeasure that the man had learned to recognize immediately. “What’s wrong, Darlin'?” he asked.
“Those men at the table; I had to get away from them! I’d have gone and stood in the vestibule soon if this seat hadn’t become free.”
“What did they say to you?”
“Nothing; it was what they were saying to each other. They kept their voices low, but I could still hear them. They said it was good to wind people up if they’re not able to defend themselves. One of them said that he enjoys picking on this other man he knows; he reckons that it’s ‘healthy’. Then they both went on to talk about the overpopulation of the Earth. They said: ‘There are too many people for the world to cope with; we’ll run out of food and space. India and Africa are especially bad. India has one-sixth of the world’s people. In Africa they’re breeding like flies and half the population is under 20. There’s no way we can solve this problem just by asking them nicely to have less children. Some people are going to have to die. We’ll need a powerful state to intervene, enforce controlled reproduction and kill off the surplus population.’”
“Hmm” said the man grimly, recalling an article he recently wrote. “They sound just like Soren Renner.”
The man peeked between the seat backs and was able to see the two businessmen in question. They looked very ordinary, of average age, height and build, dressed in smart but casual clothes. They didn’t come across as extremists; they could be anybody, strawmen for the globe. Like many things which happened to them, this moment felt significant; it was one that the man and woman would recall many times during the following days.
A tawny glow appeared on the horizon and a huge river valley opened out ahead of the train as it slowed down to approach a station. The green wooded hillsides were speckled with buildings all made of the same material; yellowy-brown Cotswold sandstone that seemed to glow with its own inner light. Even the terraces in a council estate by the railway line were made of this stone, matching the long Victorian rows and crescents that overlooked the glen. “I’ve been through Bath quite a few times.” said the man, “Changing trains and stuff, but this is the first time I’ve actually been here since I was a kid.”
“I remember coming here as a kid too.” said the woman. “I saw the old Roman baths.”
“It’ll be interesting to meet Daniel Tatman; he’s studied this city very deeply.”
“It’s got a lovely energy to it. Look at the sky above it; it’s so blue. Not a Chemtrail in sight.”
“Graham Hancock lives here; do you think he might turn up at the conference?”
They got off the train and walked along the city streets. The woman seemed to instinctively know where she was going and led the way through a pedestrian shopping district that was uncluttered and spotlessly clean. The soapy, shining masonry loomed overhead and deckchairs were set out in a sunny area of the central plaza. “Is this place a secret anti-NWO stronghold?” joked the man.
The woman didn’t answer and just pointed. There ahead of them was a sweet little civic garden and an old building set back from the street and yet standing out because it was made of granite instead of the usual Bath rock. A sign above the door said Chapel Arts Centre, the venue of the conference they were attending. “How did you know?” asked the man. “I haven’t even looked at my map yet?”
“I just knew.” She grinned.
The man returned her smile and shrugged. They both approached the venue and looked through the doors into the deserted wooden interior. “Nice place.” said the man. “It’s not a Conformistory.”
“Here.” said the woman, plucking his arm and pointing. “Isn’t that Ellis?”
And so it began.
Actually I shouldn’t have been surprised by Ustane’s ability to intuit her way to the conference venue. Despite her common lament that she is not psychic and has never seen a ghost or UFO, she has a very highly-developed sixth sense and this is not the first time she’s subconsciously worked something out in her right brain. We had a peek through the locked doors and then turned round to find our friends Ellis Taylor (See links column) Angela and Sara standing there, so we arrived at the right time as well as the right place. The interaction and comradeship with the other delegates is probably the thing I most like about the conference circuit; in fact it’s more important to me than hearing the speakers. I was happy to begin that early, on the Friday night rather than in the morning at the start of the event. I also met a few people who I’ve so far only known online. We went to a coffee shop and had a talk. One phrase mentioned, I can’t remember by whom, stuck in my mind as much as those two men on the train and helped provide an analysis foundation for the ARC Convention and every other conference I’ve been to in this season: The mainstream science, cultural, economic and religious media talk about conclusions and how everything is thought of because it makes the most sense; but, reading between the lines, all the various facets of the worldview that is accepted by the mainstream and becomes part of the conventional paradigm is always the most gloomy, meaningless and unempowering; hence the issue of coincidence that arose at the Weird Conference. See: . The notion that we are the helpless playthings of random chance suits the Elite perfectly, and that is just the start. As Andy Thomas said at AV4, “Everything in this world is purposefully designed to break our spirit.” Our challenge is not to let it.
What’s interestingly related is that I’m going through a difficult situation right now in that I’ve just moved house and my former landlady is trying to sue me. Moving house is stressful enough anyway without that! When I moved out she claimed that I’d done damage to the house amounting to £9000. This is patent nonsense. There was damage beyond natural wear-and-tear yes, but we’re only talking about a repainting and recarpeting job. I’ve been back to the house since and seen a big skip outside with the cupboard doors and bedroom wardrobe in it. Workmen are going in and out, so I’m getting suspicious that the landlady is actually plotting to do the house up and get me to foot the bill. I’ve been to see a solicitor and he’s told me not to worry; I’m obliged to compensate her for the damage done not fund any new developments she chooses to make to the property. However the fact that she’s even trying to rip me off upsets me. When we first moved out she came up to me and made me feel really guilty; she said: “You’ve ruined the house and left me penniless! I can’t afford to repair it! I’m still paying the mortgage on a house I can’t sell!” I took pity on her and felt ashamed and offered to settle out of court. It was then that she gave me an estimated quote of £9000 and I smelt a rat. That was a month ago and I’ve only heard from her once since, asking me where to send the bill; so she’s obviously not in that much of a hurry! And, as I said, she is currently doing extensive work to the house. In a sense what she is doing to me is a sign of the times. We have this recession to cope with, the bail-out and cuts in wages and benefits; all of these things were engineered by the “banksters” and were avoidable. I think we’re going to see a sharp rise in the rates of financial crime, civil claims and fraud. We’re actually encouraged to turn on each other in panic, like shipwrecked sailors fighting for a place in the last lifeboat. This is what the perpetrators of this economic terrorism want: fear, disharmony, disunity, the discarding of ethics and a descent into internecine deceit. In a way I feel sorry for the landlady. She’s reacting through fear; a few years ago she would probably not have stooped to what she has done to me, but today she does because she’s scared.
Ustane and I were booked into the main conference hotel, a big four-floor Victorian building very close to the venue and the station. In the entire weekend, except for our trip to the Roman Baths (See postscript to come), we never had to walk more than about 200 yards; very different to the taxis we had to catch every day the previous weekend in Warminster. As it strangely always seems when we stay at hotel, we were on the top floor in an en-suite room with a lovely view over the Bath valley. After a meal and a pint at the Lamb and Lion pub, a hostelry just outside the venue that would become our temporary local, we collapsed into bed and looked forward to a sleep-laden night, but it was not to be. For some reason it took us hours to drop off to sleep and when we did I was hit by something that I haven’t had for months, sleep paralysis. It can be harmless and even interesting from a parapsychological perspective, see: , but at other times it’s frightening. On this occasion I felt a malevolent presence around me and saw objects moving out of the corner of my eye. I was very relieved when I broke out of the paralysis and woke up. As soon as I did so I looked over at Ustane and heard her crying in her sleep. “No!... No!” she moaned. Then she woke up too and we both realized that we were having a nightmare at the same time. We went down to breakfast feeling unrefreshed and worried that we might fall asleep in the conference and embarrass the speakers; this actually happened a week earlier at Weird! The hotel served breakfast as a buffet and it was lovely; an eat-as-much-as-you-like affair. We sat down by an American man who turned out to be Michael Cremo (see below) and we had a nice chat. This was a far more easy-going conference than many of the others I’ve been to and the division between speaker and delegate was less rigid.
The ARC Convention began at 9AM, but was delayed a while by technical problems. However the difficulties and inconvenience of the delay felt to us more like fun and games. In another conference we would probably be seething and stomping nervously, wondering when the strictly-fixed agenda was going to start again, but at this one the stoppage was just another event of proceedings to enjoy and make jokes and songs about. This occurance really signified the unusual atmosphere at the ARC Convention: informality, lax and dreamy, no frills, unsophisticated and yet profound; an atmosphere that was very similar to the individual personality of the organizer of the event, Karen Sawyer. I’ve known Karen for a couple of years, talking to her at conferences and other occasions, and she used to edit The Dot-Connector, a magazine I read (See: She designed my “True World Order” T-shirt which you’ll often see me wearing on HPANWO TV. I know she was a musician too, usually going under the sobriquet “Impish”, but I’d never heard her music before, let alone seen her sing live. She opened the conference with a personal anecdote, something she did several times over the weekend. This one was her affinity for the Sheela-na-Gig, a series of mysterious statues that are carved on very old churches in Ireland and some parts of Britain and other countries. These figures are abstract grotesques, a bit like gargoyles, and depict a woman sitting down and displaying her exaggerated vagina. Nobody knows what they mean, but many see them as a leftover from a Celtic fertility belief. Sadly many of the Sheelas were destroyed by the Puritans, but a few have survived in areas that escaped the full force of that regime. Then Karen did something extraordinary that electrified me and flipped my mind very heavily onto a new track. With the photo of a Sheela still on the projector screen she sat down and sang a song, one that she’d composed specially for the conference. I say song, but it had no lyrics as such, just a series of 5 or 6 notes. She had a reverb box on her lap to record her voice which she then replayed back at the same time as singing another line with slightly different notes. Then she replayed both lines together while singing a third line and so on until a chorus of 7 or 8 different lines was accompanying her in a magnificent canon round. The harmony was complex and deep and with the Sheela still looming over us it filled me with a sudden awareness of the nature of my life and the world we live in, the conspiracy and spirituality. The song struck me with very stark sensations and images of both the pain and heartache, the longing and crying; but also the hope, the joy, the truth and the freedom and glory that is just around the corner. I’ll never forget it. I'm glad to say it's now available to watch on YouTube: After that it was time for the first speaker.

The Ancient Yew Tree.
By Michael Dunning
I’ve never thought or known much about Yew trees. Of course I love trees and know that they are sacred to Shamanistic cultures, but I’d never really read up on them in any detail. The first speaker, Michael Dunning, has and he has made one tree, the Yew, a passion of his life and I learned a vast amount of new information from him. He lives in the United States, but hails from Scotland. His journey began as a teenager when he went to art college in Edinburgh. He got involved in a tree-planting programme in his free time and ended up in a horrid little dump on the far northeastern Scottish coast called Thurso. He planted tree saplings, but only of very fast-growing conifers that were felled very young for the paper mills; he subsequently realized that the official tree-planting projects are a scam and permanent natural hardwood forests are never cultivated. Thurso is also very close to the Dounreay nuclear power station and military test facility which was notorious in the 1980’s for its poor safety record; today it’s happily decommissioned. Places near nuclear power stations tend to have a very dank and oppressive energy and before long Michael became deeply depressed and his physical health suffered too. He was living in a caravan at the time which he shared with a man called Ewan and one night he woke up paralyzed and unable to breathe. He tried to call to Ewan for help but couldn’t. Eventually he managed to crawl out of bed and over to the front door to try and get fresh air. Ewan luckily woke up and called an ambulance, but before he regained consciousness Michael had a Near-Death Experience which gave him spiritual insights. He had to leave the tree-planting programme and go back to Edinburgh. His health continued to deteriorate and the doctors were baffled because they could find nothing particularly wrong with him. One day he was in a pub and a man asked him if he’d ever visited a Yew tree for healing. Michael hadn’t and decided to give it a try. He went to a famous 2000 year old Yew in East Lothian and walked right into the middle of it. Yews are truly remarkable life forms, unique and like no other. They’re said to live 2 to 4000 years, but in fact they could easily get much older. Michael reckons some are an incredible 10 to 12,000 years old. They’re like living Avebury’s! They’re effectively immortal because they possess the unique ability to reproduce by letting their own branches grow into the ground and then transforming into roots and so they turn themselves into a new tree. Their wood is of exceptional quality and their sap has healing properties. Also the bark excretes a psychedelic chemical that can give you altered states of consciousness if you spend a lot of time close to it; it’s a red substance, hence the “bleeding Yews” of north Wales. The Yew is also an important symbol in folklore and mythology, especially the Norse. Gods and Goddesses have been born from the Yews and the hollow trunk of old Yews is traditionally used as a birthing chamber by the ancient Pagan Norse. Place names like York, Yeovil, Iona and Yewhurst have their origins in the name of this amazing tree. It often appears on coats of arms too, depicted with its roots spreading out as far as its branches; it’s the tree that grows both upwards and downwards. There used to be huge Yew forests all over Europe, but sadly most of them are gone and the remaining solitary Yews are usually pruned and chained; sometimes their naturally hollowed-out trunk is filled with concrete to support them! As they need extra support. The Yew was also plundered for its wood. During the last few centuries the “need” for war has taken its toll on the trees as they were felled, pillaged and mutilated for timber to make ships, carts and bows and arrows; to this day they are not protected by law. One Yew tree I saw in London on a guided tour was still alive, but its boughs were scarred and lacerated. The guide explained that wood had been cut out of it to make some of the longbows to fight the French at the battle of Agincourt back in 1415. The high quality of the wood in the bows contributed to give the English the upper hand over the French and England won the battle. Soon after the King gave a command that all Yew trees were to be appropriated by the Crown for the war effort. How did the Yews survive? Michael believes that they are protected by Shamanic powers. Also they are extremely hardy with the amazing ability to clone themselves from their own branches. The development of Yews and their extraordinary powers might help scientists invent new medicines and stem cell growth methods. The human embryo actually grows in a similarr way to the Yew seed, making Yew, this plant, strangely human-like. So what is the future for the Yew tree? I hope some kind of law is passed to protect them in the same way swans are. After all a former king appropriated the Yews for the Crown to harvest them; but can the same be done today to save them? There are different threats to the Yew from Genetic modification, as with most plants in the world. There is a new species of GM Yew, infertile and patented by Monsanto no doubt. This could harm the gene-pool of existing natural Yews. I’ve a feeling that at a higher level the destruction of Yews is not just about war and greed; the Illuminati know that they contain ancient knowledge and healing and want them out of the way, away from us. I’m glad to say that I don’t think they will succeed! In fact Michael says there is a newly-planted forest of Yews at a secret location in Hampshire that will produce a new generation of trees for the future world to enjoy. I found Michael’s talk fascinating and almost everything he said was information I’d never heard before. He taught me a thing or two I can tell you!

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Alex Robinson said...

Wonderful! Thanks Ben

Ben Emlyn-Jones said...

You're welcome, Alex. Hope you like it. There's more to come.

Leila said...

Very good Ben. I love the pregnant green pastures.

Ben Emlyn-Jones said...

Thanks, Ustane.


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