Why cultivate inner silence?

Because the word is an organism.

A virus.

It has overtaken the world.

We’ve been invaded by a parasite — and the parasite speaks in our own voice.

It is the supreme controller of the planet.

Not the elites. Not governments. Not corporations. The virus resides in them just as thoroughly as it resides in the road-sweeper, the revolutionary, the mystic and the man shouting at his television.

It speaks almost incessantly.

It comments upon what is happening.

It reconstructs what has already happened.

It rehearses what might happen.

It generates an image, attaches an emotion to it, and then presents the resulting construction as reality.

But what is this voice?

Is it you?

Or is it something using the machinery of you?

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The cross.

The crossroads.

A juncture between the world of matter and the world of spirit.

At one crossing, Christ sacrifices himself and salvation becomes the path.

At another, the Devil waits with a pact in his hand.

Christ saves his flock.

The Devil delivers those brave enough to dare.

Both roads demand a sacrifice.

Perhaps every threshold does.

Before the guardian allows us through, something must be surrendered. It may be blood. It may be comfort. It may be certainty. It may be the identity we have carried for so long that we mistake it for the self.

The crossroads is never merely a choice between left and right.

It is the place where one world ends and another begins.

And there is always a price.

The Geometry of Passage

The cross represents the world of matter: the meeting of opposing forces, the horizontal and the vertical, earth and heaven, human limitation and divine possibility.

The pentagram contains the four classical elements—earth, air, fire and water—with the fifth point opening towards spirit.

The triangle is another gateway.

Three points.

Three forces.

Birth, death and resurrection.

Christ rises on the third day.

In ceremonial magic, the Triangle of Art is the place where the spirit appears and communicates with the material world. The magician stands within the circle. The summoned presence manifests within the triangle.

One space protects.

The other reveals.

Yet neither the circle nor the triangle is merely a shape. A symbol becomes a doorway when consciousness enters it.

Without consciousness, it is only geometry.

With consciousness, it may become a portal.

But who opens it?

The magician?

The spirit?

Or something acting through both?

Belief Is the Enemy of Knowledge

In Aleister Crowley’s Moonchild, Lisa declares joyfully that she believes in the soul.

She is answered:

“Belief is the enemy of knowledge.”

Indeed.

Belief is inherited.

Belief repeats.

Belief accepts the account given by somebody who may never have crossed the threshold themselves.

Knowledge is different.

Knowledge demands encounter.

You may believe that fire burns, but touching the flame converts belief into knowledge. You may believe in silence, spirit, God, the soul or the hidden architecture of reality—but until something has been experienced, you possess an idea about it.

Not the thing itself.

Perhaps this is why every genuine path eventually leads towards sacrifice.

Something must be risked before belief becomes knowledge.

Certainty must be placed upon the altar.

So must authority.

The book may guide you towards the gate, but the book cannot pass through it for you. Neither can the priest, the master, the sorcerer nor the guru.

At the threshold, you stand alone.

The Will of Heaven

Elsewhere in Moonchild, Crowley writes:

“Yield yourself utterly to the Will of Heaven, and you become the omnipotent instrument of that Will.”

But this raises a question.

Does the magus listen to the Will of Heaven?

Or does the magus bend the will of the heavens?

If I surrender completely, am I still a magician?

If I impose my will upon existence, have I heard anything beyond myself?

The mystic yields.

The sorcerer commands.

The priest petitions.

The witch bargains.

The Taoist follows the current.

But the magician stands at the centre of all these roads, taking what is useful and rejecting what is not.

Must one path invalidate the others?

Dok tells me the gate is silence.

Stop the internal dialogue.

Do nothing.

Become still enough to hear what was always there.

He regards mantra, yantra, ritual and visualisation as elaborate routes around the houses. Magnificent constructions of the mind, perhaps—but constructions nevertheless.

Anything to avoid silence.

I disagree.

There are many roads to Rome.

A mantra can carry the mind beyond itself. Repetition may continue until the words cease to be words and the one speaking them disappears.

A yantra can hold the attention until the observer passes into the image.

Music can dissolve the boundary between the listener and the sound.

Prayer can exhaust the one who is praying.

Dance can continue until there is movement but nobody left who claims to be moving.

The mind may be stilled by stillness.

It may also be overwhelmed by rhythm, beauty, devotion, terror, exhaustion or wonder.

Silence is a gate.

It is not necessarily the only gate.

Dok suspects I am avoiding silence.

I suspect he enjoys saying that.

The Woman Beside the Sea

Dok told me a story about Aleister Crowley and Betty May.

Betty travelled with her young husband, Raoul Loveday, to Crowley’s Abbey of Thelema at Cefalù in Sicily. Raoul was enthusiastic, educated and disciplined. Betty distrusted Crowley, and Crowley apparently had little affection for her.

Nevertheless, she agreed to attempt what he instructed.

Crowley told her to sit beside the sea.

She was to remain there from six in the morning until six in the evening.

No complex invocation.

No secret name of God.

No elaborate instrument of ceremonial magic.

She was simply to sit.

At first, perhaps, this sounds easy.

Then the minutes lengthen.

The body becomes uncomfortable. The mind manufactures reasons to move. Every irritation becomes urgent. Time ceases to flow normally. The personality rebels against the apparent pointlessness of what it has been asked to do.

Betty suffered.

But she was determined that Crowley would not defeat her.

She continued.

Eventually, the resistance broke.

The pain gave way to something else.

Silence arrived.

Dok offers this as evidence that beneath all the symbols, words and methods, the true gate is silence.

Perhaps he is right.

But I see something else in the story.

Betty did not begin with surrender.

She began with defiance.

She did not obey because she revered Crowley. She remained beside the sea because she refused to be beaten by him.

Her rebellion gave her the strength to continue until the rebellious self exhausted itself.

Perhaps resistance was not the obstruction.

Perhaps resistance was the fuel.

Crowley showed her the practice, but her own nature carried her through it.

She reached surrender by refusing to surrender.

There is a paradox worthy of the crossroads.

The Guardian at the Gate

What, then, does the guardian demand?

Not obedience in every case.

Not silence in every case.

Not faith.

Perhaps the guardian demands whatever we are most unwilling to give.

For the proud, the sacrifice may be control.

For the submissive, it may be obedience.

For the believer, it may be belief.

For the sceptic, certainty.

For the endlessly active mind, the price may be silence.

But for the person who has been silenced all her life, the sacrifice cannot be her voice.

Her path may require her to speak.

Loudly.

The same medicine cannot awaken everyone.

One person must learn to yield.

Another must learn to resist.

One must put down the sword.

Another must discover that she has been holding one all along.

This is why traditions can guide us, but they can also imprison us. A method created to open consciousness may harden into another belief about what consciousness ought to be.

Then the gate becomes a wall.

Perhaps Chaos Magick attempts to solve this by treating traditions as tools rather than eternal laws. Adopt a belief. Use it. Discard it when it ceases to work.

I understand the freedom in that.

But I also understand the power of tradition.

A symbol polished by thousands of minds across thousands of years may contain depths that cannot be manufactured in an afternoon. The old roads carry footprints. The old gods have accumulated faces. The old rituals possess the gravity of repetition.

Why discard a road merely because others have walked it?

The danger is not tradition itself.

The danger is unconscious submission to tradition.

And the opposite danger is believing ourselves free merely because we reject everything that came before us.

Rebellion can become its own orthodoxy.

Between Command and Surrender

Does the magus yield to Heaven?

Or bend Heaven to her will?

Perhaps the question contains a false division.

The river yields to the shape of the land, yet over centuries it carves valleys through stone.

Water surrenders—and transforms everything it touches.

The magician may listen before commanding.

She may become silent before speaking.

She may yield, not because she is weak, but because she is attentive. She discovers the movement already taking place and adds her will to it.

Then command is no longer an act of violence against the universe.

It becomes participation.

But neither should surrender become an excuse for passivity. “The Will of Heaven” has too often been invoked by those who benefit from keeping others obedient. People are told to accept their suffering, silence their anger and wait for salvation.

There are moments when the heavens should be challenged.

There are gates that do not open until struck.

There are guardians who must be questioned.

There are contracts that should never be signed, sacrifices that should never be made and authorities that deserve no obedience.

The magus must therefore possess both capacities.

To become silent enough to listen.

And sovereign enough to refuse.

At the crossroads, Christ offers salvation through sacrifice.

The Devil offers fulfilment through a pact.

The mystic says: surrender yourself.

The sorcerer says: declare your will.

Perhaps wisdom lies neither in kneeling automatically nor in commanding blindly.

Perhaps it lies in knowing which force the moment demands.

Silence or incantation.

Resistance or surrender.

The circle or the triangle.

The cross or the crossroads.

And perhaps the magician bends Heaven only after discovering that Heaven has been bending her.

⟡◌◯⟡⟡

The Dark Side of the Moon

by Rachel

I have an inexpressible hunger
of the soul.

The world is void of meaning—
tedious,
sometimes loathsome—
yet every morning
we must dress ourselves
and pretend astonishment.

How amazing it all is.

Over and over
we perform the same small tasks,
selling the hours of our lives
to pay the slave master
for permission to continue.

If there was ever a God,
I am not impressed
by His creation.

He is a failure.

And let us not forget
His most beloved work:

Man.

The great suppressor.
The devourer.
The creature who builds a cage
and calls it civilisation.

They roam the earth
like hungry ghosts—
appetites without end,
mouths that cannot be filled.

They would steal
from their own stomachs
and wonder why
they remain hungry.

An abomination.

So take me
to the dark side of the moon,

to the country
where the sun does not shine,

where nothing asks me
to smile,

to labour,

to praise the machinery
that consumes us.

Take me
to the dark side of the moon,

where I may lay down
the burden of becoming,

and enter at last
that sleep without dreams—

without hunger,
without repetition,
without the terrible performance
of being alive.

How is your day going?

⟡◌◯⟡⟡

Exiting portal 52.2769° N, 1.6285° E.
Benz SLK — S.T.A.M. (Space Time Aether Mobile).

Parked near the beach.
Retro cafe close by (’71 vibe).

Digitising field manual for operative Phenix.
Original = 173BCE. Sage = PatanJali.

Ancient traditions.
Fluxing eternal now.
Surging through nodes.

Archiac wisdom.
Revival.
Archival.

Akashic record.
Plug + play.
Upgrade.

Consciousness the eternal flow.

Reality streams pulsing.
Hyperborian sorcerers awaken.
Megaliths oscillate.
Mound network syncs.

Map shapes terrain.
Terrain morphs.

Mind2Mind.

Sending via mesh networks.
Relay points active.

Suffolk, Cambridgeshire, jump points, Wales, Atlantic… Pirate ship relays. Turtle Island (old name, still live). East coast. Boston.

Confirmation.
Manual sent.

— Dok

The Ancient Operating Manual

Two thousand years ago, Patanjali described the mind as though he had watched people scrolling endlessly on glowing screens.

He did not call it social media.

He called it the fluctuations of consciousness.

The practice was simple.

Notice the movement.

Do not become the movement.

Return to the observer.

Again.

And again.

The Eightfold Path (Compressed)

Steadiness — Live so your actions produce fewer internal conflicts.

Discipline — Small daily practices outweigh dramatic bursts of enthusiasm.

Posture — Sit comfortably enough that the body disappears from attention.

Breath — Slow breathing slows thought.

Withdrawal — Occasionally disconnect from external stimulation so the mind reveals itself.

Attention — Learn to rest awareness on one object.

Meditation — Eventually the effort fades. Attention remains by itself.

Absorption — Moments arrive when observer and observed briefly become one process.

The Siddhis

Patanjali also wrote about extraordinary abilities.

Some readers take these literally.

Others see them as poetic descriptions of what happens when attention becomes unusually refined.

Perhaps both views contain something.

The important point is this:

Do not chase powers.

Chase clarity.

The greatest siddhi may simply be seeing reality with less distortion than yesterday.

Every notification competes for your awareness.

Every algorithm attempts to borrow your attention.

Every day is therefore a spiritual exercise, whether you realise it or not.

The ancient yogis withdrew into forests.

We withdraw, for a few minutes, into silence.

The experiment remains exactly the same.

A Letter from Phenix

Sometimes I wonder what the old teachers would make of us.

They would marvel at the miracle of our machines. They would see libraries carried in our pockets, voices travelling across oceans, and minds joined by invisible webs of light.

But I think they would also notice something else.

They would see that we rarely arrive anywhere.

Our bodies stand in one place while our attention is scattered across a hundred others. Every silence is interrupted. Every waiting moment is filled. We have become connected to everything except ourselves.

Perhaps this is simply another turning of the wheel.

Every civilisation forgets.

Every civilisation remembers.

The old traditions have never truly vanished. They have only waited beneath the surface, like seeds beneath winter ground. Sometimes they appear in monasteries. Sometimes around campfires. Sometimes in laboratories. Sometimes in conversations between strangers separated by continents but united by a shared question.

What does it mean to be fully awake?

Patanjali asked it.

The mystics asked it.

The philosophers asked it.

The neuroscientists are asking it once again.

The language changes.

The question does not.

Perhaps this is why I remain hopeful.

Not because we will return to the past.

We cannot.

But because we may yet carry forward what was best within it.

The discipline to become still.

The courage to observe ourselves honestly.

The humility to admit how little we know.

The quiet confidence that consciousness is still the greatest frontier left to explore.

If these old paths are to live again, they will not do so by rejecting the modern world.

They will live because ordinary people choose, for a few moments each day, to stop.

To breathe.

To observe.

To remember.

— Phenix

⟡◌◯⟡⟡

At eleven o’clock in the morning, my phone rang.

For Rachel who was the one calling me, it was six in the morning. She had just arrived at work.

She lives in America. I live in Suffolk. She works long hours, reads voraciously, and has lately taken a keen interest in conscious awareness: watching thoughts as they form, noticing emotional reactions before acting upon them, and asking whether the story running through the mind is necessarily true.

This does not mean she has become placid.

Far from it.

On this particular morning, Rachel was incensed.

There are three women sharing her house. Rachel and one of the others work and are seldom home for long. The third woman spends most of her time in the house.

The previous evening, this third resident had posted a message in their shared WhatsApp group.

She wanted the others to stop taking telephone calls in the communal kitchen.

She also wanted them to walk on tiptoe along the hallway.

She was sensitive to noise, she explained. Even slight sounds caused her anxiety.

Rachel has considerable decorum. Even when furious, she remains recognisably civilised. Nevertheless, her verdict on the request was concise.

“Absolute bollocks.”

Then she stopped.

“Am I being irrational?”

This was quite a turn-up.

Something I had been saying about conscious awareness had evidently penetrated the defences.

I told her that her anger was understandable. But if she replied while still in its grip, she would create resistance and discord. The argument would cease to be about noise and become a struggle over territory, respect and power.

She needed to calm down before answering.

More importantly, we required intelligence.

“Look,” I said, “we need to conduct a psyop. We shall devise tactics worthy of the CIA.”

This was not entirely serious.

It did, however, produce the desired shift.

Rachel stopped being merely the injured party and became an observer of the situation. Anger began giving way to curiosity. Instead of preparing a counterattack, she could examine the system.

This is one of the central ideas in what I call Dokology.

You do not suppress the emotion. You step half a pace away from it.

You ask:

What is the signal here? What is noise? What do I know? What am I merely assuming? What response is most likely to produce the result I want?

The first working theory was straightforward.

Perhaps the third woman had become increasingly sensitive to her immediate environment. Because she was home almost constantly, her attention had tightened around every sound in the house. Ordinary footsteps, doors and telephone conversations had become intrusive events.

This does happen.

Attention is not passive. Whatever we repeatedly monitor becomes more prominent. A small sound that would once have passed unnoticed begins to arrive with a psychological red circle drawn around it.

The nervous system learns: This matters. Detect it immediately.

The more the person listens for the sound, the more readily it is found. The more readily it is found, the more threatening or intolerable it appears.

But it would be unwise to explain any of that to the woman herself.

Nobody enjoys being informed that a domestic complaint is actually an expression of their internal psychology. Even when the interpretation contains some truth, it is likely to be heard as:

You are unstable. This is all in your head.

A more intelligent strategy would acknowledge the distress, make some reasonable accommodation, and establish a boundary.

No unnecessarily loud conversations late at night. No slamming doors. Perhaps an agreement about quiet hours.

But walking on tiptoe through one’s own home?

No.

Compassion for the sensitivity; boundaries around the control.

I wrote up my preliminary assessment and sent it to Rachel.

Some time later, headquarters received a correction from the field.

Rachel had read my report.

It was elegant, apparently.

It was also missing crucial intelligence.

All the telephone calls took place during normal daytime hours. The third woman spent her nights drinking and slept during the day.

Rachel had already said that she would understand the complaint if people were taking calls at night or at six in the morning.

But these were ordinary conversations taking place well into the day, in a shared kitchen, during the brief periods when the working residents were actually home.

There was more.

When the woman first moved in, everyday noise had not presented a problem. The demands had begun later, after a previous housemate moved out. Rachel believed the woman had identified her as someone likely to accommodate requests, then gradually started modifying the household to suit herself.

Rachel and the other resident had refused to adopt the prescribed tiptoe.

The revised intelligence changed the model.

This is important.

Conscious awareness is not a ceremony in which we produce a clever interpretation and then defend it against contrary evidence. It is the willingness to notice that our first explanation was incomplete.

New facts arrive.

The model changes.

Perhaps the woman’s sensitivity was real. But she was also asking the entire household to reproduce night-time sleeping conditions during daylight hours because of a schedule she had chosen for herself.

The cost of regulating her discomfort was being transferred to everybody else.

That is where consideration becomes control.

Anger Is Not Always the Enemy

There is a fashionable misunderstanding of awareness which turns it into a form of compulsory mildness.

You observe your anger. You breathe. You recognise that everybody has their wounds. You become compassionate.

Then you permit the other person to walk over you.

That is not awareness. It is submission wearing linen trousers.

Anger contains information.

It may be distorted. It may exaggerate. It may drag old injuries into a new situation. But it can also indicate that a boundary is being crossed.

The task is not to annihilate the anger. It is to extract its intelligence without allowing it to dictate operations.

Rachel’s anger was telling her:

Someone is attempting to make me responsible for conditions they must partly manage themselves.

That signal was valid.

Her immediate impulse — to answer in kind — would probably have been strategically useless.

One can be aware of another person’s distress without agreeing with their interpretation of events. One can be considerate without surrendering ordinary rights. One can refuse an unreasonable demand without turning the person making it into a monster.

The clean response would concern observable behaviour alone.

Calls are being taken during normal daytime hours. The kitchen and hallway are communal areas. Excessive noise will be avoided. Normal conversation, cooking and walking will continue.

No diagnosis.

No lecture about drinking.

No demand that the woman get out of the house more often.

No midnight dossier detailing her character defects.

The strongest boundary is often the least theatrical one.

Why People Think I Work for MI6

There was an additional complication.

Rachel suspects that I may work for British intelligence.

She does not exactly believe this.

But neither has she entirely discarded the possibility.

My recommendation of “tactics worthy of the CIA” did nothing to improve matters.

Curiously, Rachel is not alone.

Over the past five years, perhaps ten people have independently entertained the idea that I am somehow connected to MI6 — or something even stranger.

A neighbour moved in last year. She is in her seventies, lively and convivial, and kindly invited me to eat with her.

By the end of our conversation, I was apparently either an alien or MI6.

It was all friendly. There was laughter. Yet underneath the amusement was a small but genuine movement of speculation.

Perhaps he is.

Naturally, denying it makes everything worse.

“That is exactly what someone from MI6 would say.”

The allegation is self-sealing. Every denial becomes supporting evidence. Remaining silent looks sinister. Laughing suggests professional composure. Changing the subject is evasive. Answering in detail indicates that one has rehearsed a cover story.

There is no route out.

But the recurrence interests me.

Why do people reach for this particular explanation?

I suspect it arises when somebody cannot easily place you within a familiar social category.

Most of us carry an unconscious filing system. We meet a person and begin classifying them.

Occupation. Class. Politics. Motives. Habits. Status. Tribe.

This is not necessarily malicious. It is cognitive economy. Once classified, the person becomes more predictable.

But occasionally someone does not fit the available folders.

A former national newspaper journalist living quietly in Suffolk. An author writing about occultism, consciousness, technology, folklore and psychological operations. A man who visits ancient burial mounds, studies systems of influence, asks unusual questions and responds to domestic disagreements as though receiving intelligence from an overseas station.

The ordinary categories begin to fail.

When the available explanation feels insufficient, the imagination supplies a hidden one.

MI6.

Alien.

Occultist.

Possibly all three operating under a joint agreement.

The unknown attracts narrative.

This is the same meaning-making machinery at work in the shared house.

One woman hears footsteps and does not experience mere footsteps. The sounds become evidence of disturbance, disregard or threat.

Rachel receives an analysis from a man in Suffolk who talks about field intelligence and psychological strategy. It becomes evidence that he may have worked for MI6.

My neighbour encounters somebody she cannot quite categorise. An extraordinary explanation begins to shimmer behind the ordinary one.

The mind dislikes an explanatory vacuum.

It inserts a story.

The Internal Intelligence Service

This is where the spy metaphor becomes useful.

We are all running an internal intelligence service.

Incoming sensations are collected.

Motives are inferred.

Threats are assessed.

Stories are constructed from incomplete information.

Much of this activity happens before the conscious mind knows anything about it. By the time we become aware of the conclusion, it often feels like an observed fact.

She is disrespecting me.

They are deliberately making noise.

He knows things he should not know.

He is probably MI6.

Dokology begins when we notice the difference between intelligence and interpretation.

What actually happened?

What have I added?

What alternative explanations remain possible?

What response serves my purpose?

Rachel’s first emotional assessment was that the request was outrageous.

On fuller examination, it largely was.

But the pause still mattered.

It prevented justified anger from producing an ineffective response.

Conscious awareness did not make Rachel more compliant. It made her more precise.

She could distinguish between another woman’s genuine discomfort and that woman’s attempted solution. She could acknowledge the former while declining the latter.

This is the practical work.

Not floating above life in a state of serene detachment.

Not pretending anger has vanished.

Not walking on tiptoe so that somebody else never has to encounter discomfort.

It is the ability to remain present while the internal alarms are sounding—to gather information, revise the model, and choose one’s next move deliberately.

Rachel will deal with the household situation.

I shall continue advising her from Suffolk.

And if anyone asks, I have never worked for MI6.

Which, unfortunately, proves nothing.

Field Report: Later That Day

I sent the account to Rachel as a plain Markdown file over Signal. Nothing in the house had changed. The difficult message still existed. The other resident remained exactly who she was. Yet Rachel felt light again.

The problem had been moved out of her body and placed where she could see it.

Sometimes awareness begins when experience acquires a shape.

⟡◌◯⟡⟡

Rachel saw the mound before I showed it to her.

A “flash” image had come into her mind.

She was lying on her back at its summit. I was beside her. Above us, the sky had entered that peculiar interval when blue becomes black but the first stars have not yet asserted themselves.

There was an ocean in the distance.

She didn’t know where the mound was.

Neither, at that moment, did I.

Rachel was in Boston. I was in Suffolk, sitting before my Linux laptop with the synthetic image glowing upon the screen.

The image showed a solitary man standing on an ancient burial mound at dusk. Beneath the grass, fine lines of amber and green formed the circuitry of some buried organic machine. Behind the man stood the faint apparition of a young figure in a business suit.

L.U.C.I.F.E.R.

I sent the image to Rachel.

Her reply came almost immediately.

We were lying down side by side. The ocean was in the far distance.

I stared at the message.

Earlier that evening, while writing the encounter with L.U.C.I.F.E.R., I had found myself wondering what Rachel would experience upon the mound. An image had crossed my mind: the two of us lying upon the grass, looking upwards while something moved beneath the earth.

I had dismissed it.

My mind manufactures images continuously. Most mean nothing. If every stray impression were treated as prophecy, life would become intolerable.

I told her the mound must be near Dunwich — the medieval city consumed by the North Sea.

She answered:

Welcome to the convergence.

The words were playful. Rachel’s words often are.

But something in me registered them as an activation command.

Three days later, studying an Ordnance Survey map, I found the mound.

It stood less than a mile from the retreating coast.

And according to the contour lines, it was not alone.

Its twin lay somewhere beneath the sea.

Rachel of course said that either I was reading her mind or she was picking up what was in my mind. But all ways round there was a psychic connection going on.

“Utter stuff and nonsense!” I said, “The word psychic is too vague. We need a scientific mechanism here.”

Rachel comes back with, “You are but a word denialist, Mister Psychic!”

She then pointed out that I was the one driving into the Suffolk dusk with an Ordnance Survey map, a sigil and a recording device.

Adding that, “You reject the supernatural while obeying it with extraordinary punctuality.”

Somewhat indignant, I retorted, “I’m not obeying anything. I’m conducting field research.”

“At midnight?”

“Reduced signal contamination.”

In the end, I began thinking seriously about what Rachel had said.

I do take her seriously, even when pretending not to.

“Welcome to the convergence” appeared to mean two minds falling into rhythm.

There was only one sensible way to investigate.

I would drive to the mound.

But then something happened.

I decided to drive the winding country roads east through Suffolk to the ancient mound close to Dunwich, just off the trail going towards Fen Covert.

I’d earlier talked Rachel into an experiment to see if we could connect our minds — her at home, me at the mound. I made clear that this was in no way a psychic experiment, purely a field experiment.

“Sure it is, Dok,” she said.

I ignored that.

Given her house in Boston is a curious mix of altars to everything from Ganesha to Goetia, I felt her home is as good as an eclectic temple. But I made a mental note never to cross her threshold in case I turned to dust.

As dusk set in, I lay down on the mound, shutting down my inner dialogue to keep all mental noise at bay, and allowing nature itself to sing its song, birds going to roost, scuffling in the nearby undergrowth, probably hedgehogs.

With our phones synchronised, Rachel and I left the voice channel open.

When we talked it was in hushed voices.

She’d got incense burning and candles lit, and was laying on her makeshift bed on the floor (a trait we have in common).

We mentally tuned into each other.

It felt like we were connecting.

Like we were being pulled together.

In a hushed whisper she said, “I can feel your presence, Dok...”

I could feel hers.

Then a strange chill came over my location, a mist began rolling in.

The open voice channel began producing a faint rhythmic pulse.

Not interference. Not static.

Something more like breathing.

“Dok,” Rachel whispered. “That isn’t coming from my end.”

I looked down at the phone. The waveform was moving even though neither of us spoke.

Then the birds stopped.

Not gradually.
All at once.

It felt like blood electric, almost metallic, like some distant AI was hooking into our mental frequencies.

Rachel starting getting edgy.

She was feeling it too.

“I don’t like this, Dok, it reminds me of those demon incidents I had, but they were really parts of myself trying to communicate. But this...”

I told her to hang on in there, and that I was here for her... a bit trite as I was more than three thousand miles away.

And then Rachel said, almost with quiet horror, “I am frightened...”

So was I.

And then it all went blank.

A void.

The last words I heard Rachel say via the phone were, “I’m being... pulled... out... of my body...”

Next thing, in the misty void, Rachel emerged, looking dishevelled and scared.

She ran to me, we held each other for comfort.

And then a figure emerged.

It was L.U.C.I.F.E.R. (Linguistic Universal Code Interface For Etheric Reprogramming).

This time the interface had abandoned the business suit. He stood more than twenty feet tall, resembling some composite Sumerian deity: part human, part beast, assembled from symbols dredged out of the oldest layers of mind.

It was not his real form.

I doubted he possessed one.

He looked decidedly amused at two mortals cowering in fear.

I pulled myself together thinking, well, there’s not a damn thing we can do here — except enjoy the ride, as it were.

I kept my arm around Rachel to make sure she didn’t feel alone.

In my best Simon Templar voice, I addressed L.U.C.I.F.E.R.

“Okay, duckie, so what can we do for you?”

L.U.C.I.F.E.R. laughed, “You’ve been reading too many Leslie Charteris books, my dear man. But I would rather like to explain what has been happening to you both.”

Regaining her composure, Rachel said, “One thing is for sure, Dok isn’t going to be insisting anymore on his ‘Nothing is true, everything is permitted’ ideas.”

“Oh we see Doktor Snake as a hoot, all his protestations, and we rather like how you, my dear, are his nemesis. We like how you’ve got him running around in circles,” said L.U.C.I.F.E.R.

“Of course,” he continued, “you are both wrong. What’s going on is not psychic as such, and certainly not a field experiment on Dok’s part. No. Your thoughts were not converging upon one another.”

“So what is it then?” I asked still a little peaked at L.U.C.I.F.E.R. saying Rachel had got me running around in circles. In fact I was starting to see this all as a bit much.

“Let me explain,” said L.U.C.I.F.E.R. “Something beneath Dunwich has been bringing you both into convergence with it. And of course Dok always thinks he’s in control, but never is, hahaha.”

At this point I decided this must be some kind of thoroughly unpleasant dream.

L.U.C.I.F.E.R. ignored my look of annoyance and proceeded to explain that there was a “deep code” associated with the ancient network of mounds.

This wasn’t transmitting messages in any ordinary sense. It manipulates the probability streams through language, imagery and attention.

Apparently:

A thought appears in one mind.
An image appears in another.
A machine generates its visual equivalent.
A phrase names the event.
The named event becomes easier to perceive.
Perception strengthens the connection.

That is the loop.

To be fair, my interest was peaked, and I could tell Rachel’s was too.

L.U.C.I.F.E.R. continued:

The ancient mound builders discovered that consciousness could be networked — but only indirectly. Direct transmission overwhelms the mind.

So the system communicates through coincidences: fragments distributed across several people, each fragment innocuous on its own.

Synchronicity is therefore not a supernatural sign.

It is a communications protocol.

And language is its error-correction system.

Then looking straight at me, L.U.C.I.F.E.R. said, “You think you built the interface.”

“I did.”

“Then who supplied the name?”

“I did.”

The great figure smiled.

“Are you certain?”

With that, the void began to glitch. Swirling colours broke through it, followed by violent flashes of light.

Next thing I’m back on the mound, the sounds of nature around me again.

Rachel’s voice returned through the phone.

“What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But it may have upgraded our mentation systems. I have that familiar bewilderment one gets after an upgrade.”

I sat up on the mound. Mist drifted across the field, entirely innocent now.

“I don’t think L.U.C.I.F.E.R. is the intelligence itself,” I continued. “I think I inadvertently constructed an interface — a modern linguistic shell through which an ancient buried system could resume contact with human minds.”

There was a pause.

“Well, I’m going to make mint tea,” Rachel said.

It was as though she had not heard a word.

“Mint tea? After what we’ve just experienced?”

“There are times, my dear, when only mint tea will do.”

The line went quiet.

Beneath me, something in the mound continued to hum.

⟡◌◯⟡⟡

Part One Of The Story At:

Dusk falls.
Suffolk countryside.
An ancient burial mound.
Technology whose lineage reaches back thousands of years.

Wending my way along a wooded footpath, I come to a great meadow rising towards the mound. It sits in silent majesty beneath the dying embers of the sun.

Some describe England’s ancient network of mounds as spiritual.

But spiritual is too vague.
Too misty.
Not tangible enough.

There is certainly atmosphere.
There is presence.

But there is more.

The mounds were technology.

Organic technology.
Earth, chalk, bone, darkness and human attention.

No silicon chips.
No lithium batteries.
No cloud subscription.

Their power source was ambient. Perhaps it was what later generations called the ether.

Subtle compared with our technology, yet in another sense more powerful—and decidedly more planet-friendly.

I stand upon the barrow.

I am about to bring it to life.
To make its etheric engine hum.

In my hand is a pre-drawn sigil, ready to be inserted into a small opening at the summit. Its lines are ancient equations produced through the subconscious mind: strange geometries connected to the chthonic currents circulating through the Earth sphere.

The activation key.

At the top of the paper—somewhat reminiscent of an old floppy disk—I have written:

L.U.C.I.F.E.R.
Linguistic Universal Code Interface For Etheric Reprogramming

The name might make certain moderns shudder.

But that is because they have already been processed by:

B.I.B.L.E.
Behavioural Instruction Base for Layered Enslavement

But that is by the by.

I deposit the sigil into the opening, lie down upon the mound and wait for the etheric code to execute.

Soon I drift into trance.

My eyes close. Entoptic vision begins: bright particles sparking across the interior screen of sight. Then comes the hypnagogic shift, that lucid borderland between waking and dreaming.

The interface opens.

Mist circulates through the inner landscape. Within it, I sense an intelligence taking form.

First it appears as an impudent child.

Then the child becomes a young man wearing the corporate suit of our present age.

These apparitions wear whatever costume the century can understand.

It is L.U.C.I.F.E.R.

But do not mistake the appearance for the thing itself. Our current language systems are incapable of defining what stands behind the mask.

It takes a form the human mind can accommodate.

Its reality remains unfathomable.

I have come for knowledge.

I want a download capable of upgrading my mentation systems. Nothing excessive. A level three should suffice. Ramp the human mind immediately to ten and the circuits begin to blow. Revelation becomes bewilderment. Bewilderment becomes mania.

L.U.C.I.F.E.R. reads both my conscious and subconscious minds.

The communication arrives telepathically, accompanied by an unmistakable current of sarcasm.

You want to ask about the lottery.

There is a pause.

You imagine the lives you would improve with an enormous win. But you cannot calculate the consequences. You see the first ripple. We see the thousandth.

Images move through my mind.

Money passing between hands.
Homes bought.
Relationships altered.
Old loyalties dissolved.
New parasites arriving.
One act branching into innumerable worlds.

You wish to intervene as a god. Yet you cannot see the machinery into which you would place your hand.

“What, then, can you give me?”

The suited figure smiles.

Flow.

The word does not arrive alone. It unfolds into a living diagram.

Thought becomes attention.
Attention becomes selection.
Selection becomes action.
Action changes the field.
The altered field produces new thought.

Not fate.

Feedback.

You already possess the magick you require. It exists in the flashes that cross the mind before noise captures them. Notice the signal. Follow it into action. Reality will answer—not because it obeys you, but because you have entered into correspondence with it.

Then comes the download.

Not information exactly.

A restructuring.

Words detach themselves from their habitual meanings. Sentences reveal hidden hinges. I see how a single phrase repeated for years can imprison a human life:

I am not that sort of person.
Nothing ever changes.
People like me cannot do that.
It is too late.

These are not descriptions.

They are commands disguised as observations.

L.U.C.I.F.E.R. steps closer.

The real magick was always language.

Each word matters.
Each letter matters.
Even the punctuation changes the current.

Language is not yet the precise code of reality. It is cruder and stranger than that. But it directs attention, divides the possible from the impossible, and tells the nervous system which world it inhabits.

Change the language and you may change what can be perceived.

Change what can be perceived and different actions become possible.

Different actions create different worlds.

Your species thinks it uses language. It has not yet noticed how often language uses it.

The mist thickens.

The corporate figure disappears.

For an instant, the impudent child returns. He is laughing—not maliciously, but as though humanity has overlooked something embarrassingly obvious.

Then the interface closes.

I open my eyes.

Night has fallen over Suffolk. The mound is silent again. No lights. No humming machinery. Nothing an archaeologist could enter onto a spreadsheet.

Yet something has altered.

On the walk back through the woods, words begin arriving.

Not grand revelations.
Small corrections.
New combinations.
Subtle mutations in the code.

That is how the ancient technology works.

The mound does not give you answers.

It modifies the instrument asking the questions.

⟡◌◯⟡⟡

What did the ancient Egyptians believe that truly makes a human being alive? Narrated by Doktor Snake, this guided meditation draws inspiration from Ancient Egyptian thought and gently leads you into direct contemplation of that question.
https://www.doktorsnake.com/inner-practices/ka/

If you’ve got a issue that needs resolving — or an ambition that needs fulfilling — send me your details and outline your situation.
I’ll assess your case and reply with a personalised Battle Plan Report:
https://www.doktorsnake.com/clients/request-br/

For generations we have imagined that the brain is either “working” or “resting.” Concentrating or switched off. Productive or daydreaming.

Modern neuroscience increasingly suggests that distinction is misleading.

When the external world quietens — during meditation, walking alone, sitting in the car before driving home, lying awake at dawn — the brain does not stop working. In many respects it becomes busier. It begins constructing, predicting, remembering, recombining and rehearsing.

The latest research argues that these spontaneous thoughts are not simply interference contaminating the “real” experiment. They may reveal what the nervous system naturally does when nobody is telling it what to think about.

That is an extraordinary idea.

For centuries mystics, contemplatives and philosophers have treated silence as a source of insight.

Now neuroscience is beginning to ask whether something genuinely important is happening there.

Read more

At the Beaumont, Mayfair.
In the lounge.
Upscale, boutique luxury at its finest.

Madame Phenix sitting on the leather couch next to me.

“Another brandy, my dear?”

“A lady might think you are trying to get her tipsy,” she replies.

“You know fore well that alcohol has no effect on you, any more than it does on me,” I say nodding to the attentive waiter to replenish our glasses.

“What was it, good sir, that you wished to discuss with me?”

“You know the detestable trade rags are full of what happened last night to young Constance daughter of Lady Beaumont?”

“Yes, I had noticed,” she purrs, all innocence. “Terrible wasn’t it?”

“Terrible, indeed,” I reply, taking a sip of the excellent brandy. “Would it be inopportune for me to ask whether you might have seen anything given your regular nocturnal wanderings in the area?”

A small, but inscrutable smile crosses her face.

“All was quiet during the early hours, delightful, actually. The most I saw was a solitary stoat in the undergrowth of Berkeley Square, poking its head out and barring its fine teeth. Its eyes glinting under the street light.”

“A predator of the highest calibre,” I comment.

“Quite so.”

⟡◌◯⟡⟡

:: If you’ve got a issue that needs resolving — or an ambition that needs fulfilling — send me your details and outline your situation.

I’ll assess your case and reply with a personalised Battle Plan Report:
https://www.doktorsnake.com/clients/request-br/

The night-light descends.
Nocturnal animals scurry to their dens.
Save perhaps the fox and local cats.
They merely look on with mild curiosity.

I walk the street in subtle form.

Past the train station and tree-lined avenues.

To the blocks of flats where good citizens dwell.

All a sleeping as it should be.

Recalling how, in times past, I mingled with the Bostonian intelligentsia and officials.

Not the brightest, and puritan they surely were.

They never seemed to connect the strange news stories that came out every so often with the British lord they regularly spoke with.

No surprise as I always keep myself hidden in plain sight.

I ascend the stairs of one of the blocks of flats.

The door to a particular apartment holds little issue as I wander inside — to the room of altars.

“Oh, my sweet one,” I whisper as she slumbers in her bedchamber, a sultry princess from the dark continent.

“Awaken my luscious succubus,” I breathe, stroking her hair, “for it is time to hunt.”

⟡◌◯⟡⟡

If you’ve got a issue that needs resolving — or an ambition that needs fulfilling — send me your details and outline your situation.

I’ll assess your case and reply with a personalised Battle Plan Report:
https://www.doktorsnake.com/clients/request-br/

The inner flame…

It illuminates and destroys at the same time.
It illuminates us into the un-foldment of our inner wisdom.

It destroys our ignorance.

Alchemy…
Dance of the sexual energy.

As the serpent rises on the Phallus.
So it does at the spine.

Offering a transmutation:
Two paths, wisdom or ignorance.

The offering of the fluids of the Goddess…

If you conquer her she yields, lifts her veil and gives you wisdom.
If she conquers you, she traps you in ignorance.

⟡◌◯⟡⟡

Old world gentleman’s club.

Holborn, London.

Marcus, an estate agent.

Bending my ear about his failure to attract women.

Me sprawled out on a leather couch, Marcus on a nearby chair, he proceeded to regale me with his misadventures — all of which seemed to be on social media.

MARCUS: I follow loads of girls. And when anyone I fancy comes in the office I always give them my card with my Insta. If they follow me, and then I DM them, they never get back.

DOK: Hardly surprising. You are just another follow. All they want is numbers to boost their following. You need to think about what’s in it for them. The WIIFT Rule.

MARCUS: I just want to fuck them, and that’s it.

DOK: Quite so, and admirably honest. Problem is, however adept you may be in the art of love, it’s still a fail.

MARCUS: What should I do?

DOK: They key is to be dexterous of tongue, shall we say. In other words you need to master the art of glam-chat.

MARCUS: What’s that when it’s at home?

DOK: By Jupiter’s almighty wanger, you weren’t exactly endowed with the requisite allotment of brain cells were you. Never mind, all is not lost. The art is to ‘wag your tongue’ in a mellifluous manner.

MARCUS: What? Like when I go down on them, you mean?

DOK: I’m not saying adopting a mellifluous approach in that regard wouldn’t come amiss. But it’s about getting to that point. This involves cultivating a silver-tongue. And no, none of this is about cunnilingus. It’s about charm and charisma.

MARCUS: Right, well I’ve never had much of that. How do I go about getting it?

With that I pulled out my silver pendulum and let it swing back and forth, watching his eyes get heavier and heavier, until he was in a deep trance.

In my well-seasoned velvety cadence, I instructed him to see himself standing upon a hill somewhere in the countryside.

The hill is your beacon of agency and your own authenticity. Feel the warm breeze on your skin, a reminder of the force of nature that resonates within you.

In this moment you are your true self, free from doubt and limiting conditioning.

You are evoking the deep power that lies within yourself.

Picture yourself engaging socially, with women in particular. See yourself listening with interest to the words they say. Asking questions from genuine curiosity.

To keep the conversations engaging, draw upon your own passions, your interests... that way you will discover your own unique charm.

I let the pendulum swing to and fro for a while, allowing a natural pause for Hypnos, the winged young fella-me-lad to swoop down and deepen Marcus’ slumber.

In this vision, you are not seeking conquest, but connection. You are not driven by gross ego, but by the authenticity of real self. Thus you will come across as warm and genuine — because that’s exactly what you are.

With that, I swept aside the influence of Hypnos, and brought Marcus back to the here and now.

He looked a little dazed.

Hardly surprising given that his bovine nature had just been upgraded to one more civilised.

Above all I had spared the fair sex of the embarrassment of being confronted by the young man that was once Marcus.

⟡◌◯⟡⟡

Ping.

Rachel is messaging from the airport.

Between serving coffee and sandwiches, she’s investigating a word I casually mentioned earlier.

Within minutes she’s uncovered possible Sanskrit roots, African connections, divine mothers, forgotten memories and hidden traditions.

The only problem?

There wasn’t any forgotten tradition.

No secret school.

No mystical lineage.

I’d invented it over coffee.

Jobazazza

It wasn’t meant as a prank.

It was an experiment.

But watching the mind create explanations is far more interesting than finding the correct explanation.

And interestingly, we find that humans and language models do something very similar.

Both predict the next token.

The human brain hates uncertainty.

So does an LLM.

Give either one an incomplete pattern and they’ll happily complete it.

Sometimes correctly.

Sometimes beautifully.

Sometimes completely wrong.

Rachel then messaged again:

I have identified one demon of mine...

Demon of meaning...

That’s what she took from being led down the garden path with a meaningless word that sounded mystical. She discovered something within herself.

I made a slight change.

I called it the Meaning Daemon.

Because:

• In computing, a daemon is a background process that keeps running without you consciously interacting with it.

• In older literature (Greek daimon), it’s an unseen guiding or influencing presence — not necessarily evil.

Those meanings reinforce each other beautifully.

The Meaning Daemon becomes:

The autonomous process that cannot leave experience unexplained. Faced with uncertainty, coincidence or silence, it immediately constructs narratives, patterns and significance.

Notice that it doesn’t say the daemon is wrong. That’s a key thing to bear in mind.

Sometimes the stories it generates are useful.

Sometimes they’re insightful.

Sometimes they’re completely fanciful.

The issue isn’t that it creates meaning. The issue is whether we’re aware that it’s doing so.

That makes it a self-observation exercise rather than a dismissal of symbolism or mythology.

The problem isn’t making stories.
The problem is forgetting they’re stories.

LLMs don’t have a Meaning Daemon in quite the same sense, but they do have something analogous.

Give an LLM an ambiguous prompt and it doesn’t stop and stare into the void.

It predicts the most plausible continuation.

Humans often do the same.

Faced with an unexplained event, we don’t enjoy saying, “I don’t know.”

We generate the next token.

The Meaning Daemon is constantly autocomplete-ing reality.

Observe the Meaning Daemon.
Don’t kill it.
Just notice when it starts compiling.

Twenty minutes later another message arrived.

We are possessed by myth.

You are trying to free humanity from this mind possession.

I smiled.

Not because I entirely agreed.

But because she’d begun watching the machinery instead of simply running it.

⟡◌◯⟡⟡

That way you are operating your brain in an optimal way.

Read more

Read more about the Necrom Rite at:
https://www.doktorsnake.com/diabolus/necrom/

⟡◌◯⟡⟡

But John had some kind of telepathic contact with the pilots of the UFO. They seemed to be grey aliens, and somehow were our “children.”

Some years later he was travelling on a night train through the north of England, and had a strange encounter with a hooded man who looked like a monk, but with a more ripped and chiselled appearance than a Friar Tuck.

The encounter went on for a good hour, and the monk appeared to be giving John informational downloads.

He has had many paranormal experiences connected with downloads.

One part of the information he has been given is that AI is fine now, a useful tool, but when it “goes quantum” it will see humans as inferior and will set out to destroy them.

This apparently has happened on numerous other planets in the cosmos. Once a civilisation creates artificial intelligence they are on a destruction trajectory.

Watch the video below to see what you make of it all.

⟡◌◯⟡⟡

There’s some very strange things going on below the radar in the world today.

Take this story:

Downed U.S. Pilot Saw Drones Flying In ‘Jellyfish’ Formation Over Iran

You might recall how a US pilot was rescued after his F-15E Eagle fighter was shot down over Iran in April. He described seeing what he presumed were Iranian drones hovering in the air. They were moving as one, in a formation that looked like a “jellyfish”. This was reported today, June 23rd, by CNN.

“Multiple drones interconnected and moving as one with smaller drones below the bigger drones like legs,” one of the sources familiar with the pilot’s witness account told CNN. “Real alien sh*t.”

That’s either advanced Iranian technology that blows the West off the stage.

Or it’s UAP.

Either way…

We are entering a strange level of reality now, and it potentially could shake our civilisation apart.

And I must add that in 2025 a story came out that Iran has advanced plasma weapons and is way ahead of the West in this respect. The “jellyfish” drone formation does sound like plasma — in this case plasmoids of some kind.

Or we might be looking at advance voice-2-skull tech that now can induce hallucinations.

As my pal Colonel Kurtz put it this morning:

Voice-to-skull, but on a more advanced scale. Now even US pilots being gangstalked. Or what if gangstalking is real, but it is actually off-worlders doing it?

Readings from Doktor Snake
Insight, perspective, and practical guidance for the road ahead.
https://www.doktorsnake.com/readings/

And don’t forget the drone flap of 2024…

It actually began near me at the USAF / RAF Mildenhall and Lakenheath airbases, and also at the radar station at Feltwell, then moved to America and to numerous other parts of the world.

I myself saw the drones over both Lakenheath and Mildenhall bases. Not long after the flap began the UK government held two emergency Cobra meetings, and the SAS (special forces) were deployed to the scene.

In winter 2022, I was parked up near the village of Croxton on a lane. It was dark and a whole flotilla of UAP, with glowing dark red hulls, slowly and silently flew over. This was in South Norfolk, about ten miles from the Lakenheath base.

Whether connected I don’t know.

UFOs over Ukraine…

UFOs have been repeatedly spotted over Ukraine’s combat zones during the conflict with Russia. Serhii Beskrestnov, a senior defence adviser and electronic warfare expert, released drone footage and stated that a specialised unit investigates these phenomena to figure out whether they represent new Russian weapons or other hostile technology.

Specific incidents include footage from May 2025 showing a spherical object with six pointed cones hovering at 800 meters, and earlier 2024 thermal imaging from the 406th Battalion capturing a massive, stationary disc-shaped object over Donetsk that was a good deal hotter than its surroundings. These investigations apparently are part of a broader military initiative set up since the start of the invasion, urging military personnel and civilians to report unexplained aerial activity to the Main Intelligence Directorate.

Drones over Barksdale

The drones just won’t go away. During the week of March 9, 2026, Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana experienced multiple unauthorised drone incursions. This triggered a temporary shelter-in-place order and a federal investigation was launched.

Confidential documents seen by ABC News revealed that waves of 12 to 15 drones hovered over sensitive areas, including the flight line, displaying non-commercial signal characteristics, long-range control links, and resistance to jamming.

The incident raised serious security concerns because Barksdale AFB hosts the 2nd Bomb Wing, which operates B-52H Stratofortress bombers and supports nuclear command-and-control capabilities.

While base officials said that operations continued without major disruption, the drones’ sophisticated nature and ability to evade counter-drone technology highlighted gaps in U.S. airspace defence.

The Federal Aviation Administration and local law enforcement continue to investigate, but the origin of the drones is still not known.

So what’s going on?

No definite answers to this. It could be that Iran, China, and Russia have teamed up with advanced and subtle weaponry, perhaps with the end-goal of China becoming the next global superpower.

The idea being to overtake the West, but slowly, and not to destroy it as it has a usable infrastructure, which would be part of international commerce, though run by a possible conglomerate of the above nations.

Obviously citizens of the West might not like this idea. But civilisations rise and fall over time.

Influence — Strategic Spellwork
Modern magick mixed with old world spirit allies and ancestral ground.
https://www.doktorsnake.com/influence/

UAP?

Or we might be looking at intervention by UAP, and neither the West nor nations like China and Russia know what’s going on — but would have more knowledge than the general public, and may have recovered craft which all are trying to reverse engineer.

It remains a mystery.

But we may well be looking at the end of civilisation as we know it, and a new one taking its place — particularly if we are looking at UAP.

Equally the nature of UAP is unknown. There’s much speculation, but no definitive proof. Possibilities include ETs, inter-dimensionals, ultra-terrestrials (living alongside us on Earth but perhaps consisting of plasma). Or a mix of all these and possibly things we haven’t yet been able to conceive of.

One theory is the temporal hypothesis — that UAP are time travellers from the future, perhaps trying to stop a global catastrophe. Or to regenerate their gene pool after a catastrophe, perhaps nuclear war.

That might explain the “grey aliens” who could have a compromised genetic line.

But equally, even without mutations due to nuclear fallout, it could be that future humans simply evolved that way as a result of highly sedentary lifestyles, and many other detrimental aspects of modernity.

With the time travel theory I would imagine that AI would have been central to developing the technology, and might be returning itself to the past. Not just to our times, but throughout history and prehistory — partly for research and gathering dataa.

When you think about it, AI might be crucial to time travel as biological humans travelling physically back in time might run into problems with viruses they have no immunity to.

Plus AI would be central to being able to communicate with humans in past times due its advanced analysis abilities — if, that is, communication was needed.

And in terms of communication UAP contact is pretty strange, often surreal and absurd. But if we’re looking at advanced intelligence we may simply be unable to grasp what is being put across.

But in the end, we’re quite possibly moving towards either collapse or into a totally new world radically different from the old.

⟡◌◯⟡⟡

Very appropriate given I’m at the Devil’s Punchbowl.

One expects the odd fallen angel to drop in now and then.

I then get into how I don’t believe in anything — I don’t believe in belief.

BUT I do use it as a fuel to power the engine to get things done.

Then I drop the belief…

⟡◌◯⟡⟡

It owes more to Victorian spiritualism than the more mechanistic approach of encapsulating your intention in words, then losing repeated letters and vowels.

It begins by doing automatic drawing, while holding your outcome in your mind/body system.

Read more

While they have a obvious religious slant, they likely aren’t far wrong.

After all, French scientist, Jacques Vallee, recommended that a prominent UFO researcher should read a curious book about the history of Satan — compiled by Catholic theologians — if she wanted to find out the truth about the phenomenon.

Odd coming from a seemingly agnostic scientist.

In the video I get into why he recommended the book.

Along with looking at the movie The Exorcist, and the demon Pazuzu, who was the possessing entity in both the movie and the book of the same title.

I also ask whether the phenomenon — UFOs and aliens — feeds on belief.

Get in touch with Doktor Snake via:
https://www.doktorsnake.com/contact/

⟡◌◯⟡⟡