Nancy Ames

Calgary, Canada

I am a Canadian, originally from Ontario, and am now living in Calgary, Alberta. I have been writing for over 30 years and performed my...

Extracts from my reading VIII

John Keel, “The Eighth Tower”, 1976

The extradimensional world is not a place where trees grow and politicians steal. It is a state of energy. All kinds of information about our trivial reality are stored in the energy field through a system of particles or units of energy in a negative or positive state, just as our brains store information by opening and closing billions of nerve-switches called synapses. The field is like a massive radio wave and certain human brains have the ability to tune into it. Some of these brains are adjusted to the frequency of the bank of future data. So they receive glimpses of the future in sudden thoughts, visions (images in the conscious mind), dreams (images in the unconscious mind), or a combination of all three. Since the superspectrum is outside our time frame, its system for measuring time is different from ours and few humans with precognition are able to unscramble the time cycle of future events.

Carlos Castaneda, "Magical Passes’, 1998

“How is it possible, don Juan,” I said, “that you could be younger than I?”

“I have vanquished my mind,” he said, opening his eyes wide to denote bewilderment. “I don’t have a mind to tell me that it is time to be old. I don’t honor agreements in which I didn’t participate. Remember this. It is not just a slogan for sorcerers to say that they do not honor agreements in which they did not participate. To be plagued by old age is one such agreement.”

Jack Kerouac, “On The Road”, 1957

… I decided to leave. I went out on the porch. “No, dammit,” I said to myself, “I promised I wouldn’t leave until I climbed that mountain.” That was the big side of the canyon that led mysteriously to the Pacific Ocean.

So I stayed another day. It was Sunday. A great heat wave descended; it was a beautiful day, the sun turned red at three. I started up the mountain and got to the top at four. All the lovely California cottonwoods and eucalypti brooded on all sides. Near the peak there were no more trees, just rocks and grass. Cattle were grazing on the top of the coast. There was the Pacific, a few more foothills away, blue and vast and with a great wall of white advancing from the legendary potato patch where Frisco fogs are born. Another hour and it would come streaming through the Golden Gate to shroud the romantic city in white, and a young man would hold his girl by the hand and climb slowly up a long white sidewalk with a bottle of Tokay in his pocket. That was Frisco; and beautiful women standing in white doorways, waiting for their men; and Coit Tower and the Embarcadero, and Market Street, and the eleven teeming hills.

I spun around till I was dizzy; I thought I’d fall down as in a dream, clear off the precipice. Oh where is the girl I love? I thought and looked everywhere in the world below. And before me was the great raw bulge and bulk of my American continent; somewhere far across, gloomy, crazy New York was throwing up its cloud of dust and brown steam. There is something brown and holy about the East; and California is white like washlines and emptyheaded – at least that’s what I thought then.

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