BAD LUCK ISN’T BAD KARMA

“IF I DIDN’T HAVE BAD LUCK, I WOULDN’T HAVE NO LUCK AT ALL”

By Paul Schroeder

 

(Author’s note:  the title is  from a Rodney Dangerfield routine..)

*******
You have certainly heard it said, that in our lives’ destinies, “All IS WRITTEN”? 

According to  reputable and gifted psychics, our lives are carefully planned by our spirits, beforehand, that we assemble spirit helpers and spirit guides, in Heaven,  to accompany us, long  before we jump into another womb’s prenatal body,  for yet another lifetime.

Life,  they assure us, is a series of pre-programmed events staged with proscribed boons and travails, specifically designed to grow us spiritually closer towards God, a God who gives us myriad  incarnations, to hone and perfect us.

Earth is our ‘school’.

Even a ‘deja vu’, a moment haunting in its odd feeling, that we’ve ‘ been ‘there’, before’,   psychics say, is precisely such a specially pre-inserted moment, in our blueprint,  a small  odd- feeling- ‘bump’, in time, designed to remind us, unconsciously, that we are assessed perfectly aligned, with our  pre-planned spiritual lessons, in that moment.

How, then, is one to understand spates of bad luck, that stubbornly seem to follow one throughout?

For some of us, and that includes me, day after day, week after week, awful little and large things happen in  doses that nag at us, and seem to resist  greater meaning.

The title’s male comedian, once complained:

“I have the worst luck all of the time; I have no luck at all.

If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all!”:
I miss buses and oversleep appointments lose my wallet and keys, stub my toes,  step in dog poo and bang my head underneath cabinets.

“Just yesterday, I woke up, got dressed, and a button fell off; I  reached for a closet door and the knob came off!

I grabbed my suitcase, and the handle came off;…

I was afraid,… to go to the bathroom!…”

 

If  it’s true, that “all is written”, how does one explain annoying and troubling
‘nothing is going right’ periods, that persist?

Many gifted psychics, privately affirm that since  ,’all IS written’, awful bad luck events happen, by no  accidents; aligned with spirit, bad luck, in a continuous line, is commonly backstage- orchestrated.

Large and small bad luck occurrences will happen everywhere, all at once, in one’s life, as a spiritual “sign”, an alert that one is sadly far from one’s prearranged spiritual path.

When one has strayed too far away from one’s Heavenly, towards God,  pre-planned ‘blueprint’, self delineated in intricate fashion,  bad luck will stubbornly continue to manifest.

Then, It’s no coincidence that you lost your wallet, spilled the coffee on the computer keyboard, stepped on the cat, had a bathroom pipe leak down onto the kitchen ceiling, got a flat tire and missed the train and that was only Tuesday!

“Nothing is going right!”, life malfunctions, reveal that something else LARGER at stake, down a long hallway, and somewhere else behind our ‘curtains’, is ALSO not right.

Bad luck in series, is the tyrannical effort of Heaven, specifically,
our spirit guides and spirit helpers, who are more than  just trying to get our attention.

I can actually, at this point hear the known cynics and pernicious doubters yet again exclaim,”Your thesis, to me, personally, is just nonsense!”

What about those people who have one good luck event, after another good luck event follow them?

When one is on one’s correct preplanned blueprint’s spiritual path, ‘everything just seems to go right’?

Yes.

If we are progressing correctly, according to “plan”, then all of the little confluences and connections in our life begin to seem to work, and series of fortuitous coincidences occur like perfect magic:

We catch the bus, right on time, we meet that person we were hoping to see, we gain hope and guidance automatically, from kind strangers,  we find that misplaced thing we searched for, garner the needed finances that we sought ;

wonderful coincidences gather like flies at our mustaches.

Only when one is much too far from one’s self-set goals, does all Hell seem to break loose, everywhere and all at once, repeatedly.

Chronic and persistent ‘bad luck’ isn’t the ‘disease’ itself, but is instead an emergent ‘symptom’, of a disease.

But, can it be all that simple?

After learning this, minor constant misfortunes that never seem to end, rather than blindly depress you, will enlighten and cheer you, because it confirms that our path, is indeed a pre-planned path, and that, “Yes, Virginia, there really IS a Santa Claus,”

on ‘stage’, and ‘behind our curtains’.

Consistent negative synchronicities, are messages and bad luck events, now alert us that we are NOT up on our spiritual ‘toes’.

Ask oneself:

Am I being helpful to others or self-consumed and impish?

Am I forgiving, or nurturing grudges?

Am I consoling someone who needs consoling or am I, not wanting to ‘engage’,  avoiding them?

Am I offering charity to someone in need, or cautiously sidestepping involvement?

Am I being supportive or judgmental?

Am I being loving or impatient?

The cessation of bad luck troubles, relies and depends on one’s spiritual shift- of -perspective, a recognition that will appeal to your spirit helpers and spirit guides.

Be calm.

Listen to something emotionally releasing, like taped wholesome standup comedy; laughing can reset brain chemical imbalances from angst and is a wholesome therapy, instrumental in stopping deepening fugue, about persistent bad luck events..

Large doses of laughter can jump start and stir the cheer of one’s lagging soul .

Essentially, one must recognize those backstage  spiritual influences; a prayer for guidance and enlightenment is now tantamount.

Pray, IN THANKS to your spirit helpers and angels, who do a mostly thankless job, most often, and then, ask them for spiritual assistance.

Prayer, to be put back on the ‘right path’  will suffice, and  then all at once, as though in answer, the confluent series of ‘ bad luck’ events will suddenly abate.

Then, be sure to react with love to the situations that next present themselves, to you.

“Why me?!” is always the wrong question.

“Why NOW?” is more apt.

Bad luck in a series of repeated events means that
we have missed the inner signposts of mercy and patience and forgiveness and are indeed far from our set spiritual goals at that moment in time.

Series of bad luck incidents in our lives are NO accidents .

“All is written” may sound facile and glib, but one’s spirit helpers can and will reach from behind the curtains of Heaven and appear almost tyrannical, as they attempt to fast turn one into another direction, like adjusting a human skillet frying pan by grabbing one roughly, by the handle…..

For we are not humans having spiritual experiences, but spirits, having human experiences.

In school, we get the lesson, and then the test ; in spiritual life, we get the test, and then, the lesson..

The ‘spiritual tests’, come in many forms and are daily, weekly and monthly ‘pop-quizzes’ , life-involved, around key moments that internally/spiritually test for one’s :

charity, honesty, modesty, rescue, compassion, or.. sharing;

I usually recognize them, only in retrospect and then also decide that I likely, ‘failed’….

 

“Bad karma”,  emanates from spite, jealousy, anger, revenge, theft, greed and manifests in ‘unfinished spiritual lessons’ scenarios around those themes, throughout future incarnations.

THAT , is ‘bad karma’…

But, how to quickly end spates of bad luck incidents?

Prayer, with feelings only of gratitude, strongly helps to bring a message for the cessation of travails, until one’s head is re-screwed on, properly, to extend love, in all endeavors, to others..

“I think we consider too much the good luck of the early bird and not enough the bad luck of the early worm”

*******

AN ALTERNATIVE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE : A SPIRITUAL MESSAGE

by Paul Schroeder

A spiritual message, in a time of need, illuminated a larger life path:

“The Spell of the Yukon”

               By Robert W. Service

“I wanted the gold, and I sought it;

   I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.

Was it famine or scurvy—I fought it;

   I hurled my youth into a grave.

I wanted the gold, and I got it—

   Came out with a fortune last fall,—

Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it,

   And somehow the gold isn’t all…”

I rarely ever worked overtime, or sought spare part- time jobs to make more

money, seeking blue skies above to doing work indoors, and I relished my poorer beer

pockets without ever developing or resenting the absence of a richer champagne taste.

Those ambitious lads of my childhood who entered finance, medicine or law,  worked 24-7 towards a salaried lifestyle that flew them first class, overseas to luncheon meetings

and purchased them mansions in the  glass sky towers of Manhattan.

Effete, they would confess,”Those who say that money can’t buy you everything, don’t know where to shop!”

I  became a college instructor teacher who received a meager pittance, but though  I

relished my bankers’ hours’ 9 to 3  job, I deeply longed for the respite of work, each

academic year, within a ten week vacation, over the summer.

During academic semesters I recklessly ate up all of my sick days and personal days,

taking escapes in the sun at the beach, and landscaped land escapes in three and four

day weekends, at mountain lakes’ sites to hike in virgin woods alone.

Others in Higher Education had instead garnered many days, ‘in their bank’, saved

up jealously, to trade for cash, losing one day for every two saved, upon retirement.

To me, counter intuitively, non providentially, time away to think was worth more, as an

escape valve,  than half of some obscure future money.

Work was onerous and exacting, and freedom was a hiking-in-the-woods- relief, from

fluorescent overhead lights, and the grinding grading of incessant exams and papers.

For release,  the best part of my chosen vocation, I lectured and pontificated, teaching

American and English Literature, in a large lecture hall,  chain-smoking unfiltered

cigarettes, during class instructions, throughout, to self medicate.

I am presently retired, thirty-five years in teaching, and have a modest lovely home and

property, and as for wanderlust, I  have long found that armchair travel is the cheapest

kind of travel, content to read brochures, than take inoculations, to explore the world.

Money aversion- ennui got worse as I grew older.

 I soon preferred the sidelines of copious earnings, a spent man, seeking  to relax and to

write.

Why was I, so different, to care little for “success”, measured in hard work towards

riches?

I wasn’t remotely money excited, as a child, dimly knowing on a subliminal level, that

God didn’t place us here, on Earth,  on a special mission,  to make money.

A spiritual message experience, I received, as a teenager, a homeless runaway at

seventeen, running from a divorced household of violence and police- being -called -by-

the -neighbors,

became a core influence for my slant on monied life, a purposeful one of just getting by,

instead of working hard towards earning luxuries.

It was Christmas time in New York City and I was seventeen years old, homeless

penniless,  and wandering.

I had exited  the Museum of Natural History on Central Park West, where I had feasted

for hours, on museum eye -candy, but my stomach  had rumbled with hunger.

And now back on the street, I found that it had been and was now, snowing heavily.

I wondered worriedly where I would sleep, that night.

 A local movie manager,  a friend, Paul Gary, said that I could, when in Brooklyn, sleep in

a little used old loft room in his movie theatre, the Loews Oriental, in Bath Beach,

Brooklyn, in a dusty, haunted costume property room.

I was the inhabiting spirit.

The smell of freshly roasted chestnuts,  sold to passersby from a kiosk wagon, near to the

museum’s stone steps, in a blizzard of snow, wafted my way and roused me.

I had no money in my pockets; I salivated at the  sweet nutty perfume.

 Chestnuts were a seasonal treat I had  enjoyed, at this very museum’s site, when I had a

bountiful existence within my cantankerous parents’ marriage’s deep pockets’ circle of

influence.

I would ask my parents,  they’d  fish for loose change and I would relish the sweet flavor

of fire roasted hot chestnuts, now a new symbol of want and the faded memory of childhood .

I was alone upon the streets of Manhattan, hungry and had no money.

The  snow covered shoulders and face of the man who stood behind the kiosk wagon,

were wrapped in steam; he was small and dark, wearing mittens with holes for the

fingers.

The snow fell heavily in sheets that made a city of asphalt shock look gentler.

I  came close enough to  inhale the dark aroma of roasted chestnuts,  a childhood

memory token, an olfactory solace for my pangs of hunger.

 I  noticed that on one side of his kiosk wagon hung a large piece of grey cardboard with

a blue magic marker message upon it, his philosophy of the moment, but on an

unconscious level, one  for the rest of my adult life.

A raised consciousness was sparked.

It read:

“I really don’t like making money;

I don’t want to conquer the world,

and I don’t wish to ever be rich;

I don’t even want to set the world, on fire;

 I just want to keep my nuts warm.”

A spiritual message, in a time of need, illuminated a larger life path.

IN THE BATTLE OF THE SEXES, CAMOUFLAGE PREVAILS

 by Paul Schroeder

“Sex is not the answer.

Sex is the question.

The answer, is ‘YES’!”

(Woody Allen)

Since sex is less than five or ten percent of a marriage, those who marry just for sex, find

 

imposing reasons later on in the relationship, to not confine sex, within the parameters

 

of their marriage, but remain as faithful, as their options and opportunities.

 

After all, man DOES need woman for the artistry and complexity of friendship, for filial

fun, cute socializing, profound partnering, and deep soul intimacy, but they may not ALL

BE with the SAME woman.

Women wander sexually, as well, as statistics reveal, that every other wife strays to

 

another’s arms, for love making.

 

I  thought that women had it better than men and that if I were a woman, without

 

any love, that I’d be down at the docks, with no underwear, waiting for the fleet to come in, my skirt pulled over my head.

But, today, much older and jaded, I’m a cheap date, for myself, and even after sexy-self-

love, I don’t even take myself out to dinner or to a movie..

More and more women today, say aloud, that they “don’t need any man, anymore, even

 

for sex, but that they DO need men , sometimes, but then, ONLY, to lift and move, heavy things around…

 

There surely HAS to be some more dignified way of expressing desire and passionate

love for another human being, because the human body is a sad marvel, with its waste

disposal plant, immediately adjoining its amusement park area.

Sex, is forever something that parents are loathe to discuss with their children; when I

 

was a child of seven, they mentioned the fearful danger of sex, saying, “not to play

 

around with sex, because it was,”playing with fire.”

 

At seven years old, I recall thinking:

 

“Well, I HAVE a hose…

But one who marries, just for sex, is buying a 747 jet, just for the little bag of peanuts.

Surely, there’s other ways to get peanuts, if that’s all that you really want.

 

Yes, men are more shallow than one would imagine, and will as soon marry for

sumptuous breasts, than for love, an idea so repulsive and childish, that it takes much

head shaking, to comprehend,  because spiritual

love is appreciating, sharing, empathy and giving, quite bereft of the pangs of lust.

Yet, for all men’s fascination with women’s breasts, should men themselves,  overweight

develop breasts, they  do chafe ingloriously, upset about those unmanly acquisitions.

                                                 

Men are more juvenile in primitive sexual drives and emotional makeup, and women

 

are indeed, far better human beings, providential, sensitive, charitable, strong and beautiful.

 

This DNA primate difference can be demonstrated.

 

At a very young age, place a group of five-year-old girls, in a room together, and they will

sit, talk and relate to each other with civil chatter, sharing, and often with surprising

wisdom.

 But, place a group of five-year-old boys in a room together,  and soon they will roll all

over the floor, like shaved gorillas, lost in individual and mutual combative power

fantasies.

Our lingering social notion  that men are more important, more apt and more likely to be

leaders, is still a hard social prejudice to quell.

But, in emotional and spiritual essence, marked hormonal differences loom: women

generally speaking, need love, and are willing to give sex to achieve love, but men want

sex, and are willing to give love, to achieve sex.

Equality, in mutual passion, is easier to demonstrate:

 

When a cop on the beat encounters a young couple making love in the tall grass, in a

 

park, he does NOT tap their shoes with his nightstick to angrily demand:

 

” All right, now, WHO’S in charge, here ?!”

Progress will eventually turn HIStory, into HERstory.

 

Women remain naive and not the least bit aware of men’s glandular functioning

 

concepts towards all women.

 

At a party or wedding,

 

men view a woman’s public, licentious exaggerated undulations in dance as her being

naked,  and sexual fantasies unfurl

deep within men’s psyches.

 

Dance becomes sex in visualized fantasies of private encounters with these licentious,

and actively lithe women on the dance floor.

For women,  few rarely grasp that their public dancing, is clearly nothing but public,

 

overt, symbolic sex.

Most cultures associate ” beauty”, with a simple more precise symmetry, of the face,

 

where perfection is a mirror image of both sides of the face.

We equate physical beauty with inner goodness, which has allowed nice-featured  and

 

handsome psychopaths like Ted Bundy and Jefferey Dalmer to serial (successful) murder

so many duped women and duped so many gay men .

 

Men are suckers for a pretty (merely perfectly symmetrical) face and will sacrifice

marriage, family and children for a dalliance with one..

 

 

Perhaps this makeup makes it still a man’s world, because it’s much easier, in society, to BE a man:

Each solitary, individual feature on your face always stays its birth shade and original color.

 

Methinks, that If men wore makeup, most would be disconcertingly prettier than many women.

 

If a man chooses, he might, perhaps, consider a cosmetic shave, but ONLY to some parts

of his face and neck.

You can always wear shorts despite how awful your legs do look.

 

Your last name, regardless of marital -legal battles, stays put.

 

People do not ever stare at your breasts and your nipples when you’re happily chatting with them.

 

You are genetically and socially blind to any but the biggest wrinkles in your clothing.

Calorie intake and belly size are never a crucial consideration.

 

You always have the consummate and total freedom of choice about the growing of a mustache.

 

You don’t have to remove all of your clothes just to pee.

 

You can wake up just as attractive as you were when you went to bed, rather than have

your beauty somehow deteriorate, during the night.

 

You can more easily, socially, defend your space, with knee-jerk displays of violence.

Woman, as the pretty sex, is a relatively new idea:

 

Pirates who wore the perfumes, jewelry, silks and frills echoed this olden concept of

male beauty; a classical nude in statue, was almost ALWAYS male, historically, in ancient

Greece and Rome.

This classic maleness model of beauty oddly reversed itself in the eighteenth century and

women became the “pretty sex”, instead.

Throughout the animal world, whether it flies or swims, the male is STILL the colorful

 

sex, the female, the drab one.

 

But since the eighteenth century, sexual and cultural reversals have oddly persisted in

 

human affairs, and women instead have become the pretty sex.

But “pretty” means, slim and skinny, as fashion dictates.

 

Today, women who carry a few extra pounds, live longer than the men, who mention it…

Straight men, do not adorn themselves towards being highly polished- exceptions exist

for politicians, actors, sports-stars, head gangsters, and police detectives, for within these

 

men, narcissism, a sinful sense of entitlement, and monumental ego all loom.

 

In those egomaniac ‘types’ , highly-polished, self-preening is always accompanied by bullying others.

But the question remains, for the sake of guile and deceit: how curried and airbrushed is

too curried and airbrushed?

The first thing I look at, when I see a polished, curried woman, is her eyebrows; if they’re

natural, it’s a blast of honest sexuality that curls my toes.

If they’ve been removed and severe Groucho-Klingon brows, of crayola, at odd sharp

angles, or worse,  tattooed on, I experience an anxious ‘turn off’, a social warning of

duplicity, and all of my ‘antenna’ are up, and waving..

 Women’s eyebrow severity alerts me to that woman’s emotional instability , and the

more Klingon-Groucho -severe that her eyebrows are, correctly predicts more craziness.

Women with long lustrous hair have always been sought as mates, because hair grows

slowly and vividly reflects one’s general health, so mating was preferred with shiny,

long-haired lasses, who were lax with lasciviousness …

But the rub, is that many women who look like floss, patina and veneer, are mostly

shallow types who a man has to pay, for an intelligent conversation, because

 they have long cared ONLY about their outsides, and not ever about, their ‘insides’.

‘Beauty’ television commercials and ‘beauty’ magazine ads feature graphics of highly

 

curried women, extolling Western society’s virtues of vacuous, narcissistic women, who

 

gaze back at us, made over into a man’s surreal vision of what ‘beauty’ should look like..

 

In Maine, at a lobster restaurant, I went to the register to pay and behind the counter,

 

opening the register, was a tall, strikingly handsome, buxom woman, in a formal

 

ballgown who sported a large handlebar mustache.

 

Her startling visage has stayed with me, for many years, resplendent and role

indigestible..

It’s a cultural facade and mirage of the sadly discarded true value of beauty, which

always comes from within.

 A man in our culture says,”You’re beautiful”, before he says, “I love you”, and thus a

woman is wrongly taught , that if beauty fades, then love must also fade.

Again, most cultures associate ” beauty”, with a simple more precise symmetry, of the

face, where perfection is a mirror image of both sides of the face.

Poorly informed, desperately seeking love, she runs scared to the beauty parlor, nail

salon, hair stylist, cosmetic facial and breast implant surgeons, willing to suffer to

maintain an airbrushed, curried, artificial “beauty” , so that “love” will not also vanish.

Men perpetrate this hoax until they themselves believe it.

 

In truth, a woman is as sexy in bed as that woman was interesting, before bed, and interesting, after bed.

(“No man ever reached up a woman’s skirt, looking for her library card”)

Joan Rivers

 

But, for many non-self-respecting men, it’s all  just  about  a woman’s exterior patina, and veneer towards sex.

 

Men admit that they LOVE women who look hot and who act hot;  homespun, often

unwilling women, by comparison, are like radiators, men have to keep touching, to see if

the heat’s coming up.

Yes, men are more shallow than one would imagine, more vain than women and more

 

duplicitous in satisfying their overwhelming hormonal drives.

Women thus feel that loss of beauty means loss of love, and then rush off to plastic

 

surgeons, for tits and ass augmentation, nose jobs and liposuction, mascara and eyeliner

 

alert, to avoid NOT being a love object..

REAL beauty emanates ONLY from within, something not taught in our culture, where

 

women spend very much time on their outsides and little or no time spent, on their ‘insides’…

 

Women at an early age learn what dizzying effects their bodies have on men, and men’s

 

sex drive,  and use THAT against them ; women culturally have been taught guile and

 

deceit from a tender age, to ‘trap a man’, by using their physical, sexual allure:

 

They shave armpits,

 

shave legs and mustaches,

 

dye their hair,

 

use eye-liner,

 

mascara and false eyelashes,

face makeup,

 

(“Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald

head and a beer gut, and still think they are sexy”)

 

 foundation-makeup,

 

earrings,

 

tints of rouge blush,

 

sport uplift brassieres,

 

apply perfumes,

 

apply lipstick,

go for Botox or plastic surgery to erase facial wrinkles,

 

 install Hershey-kiss silicone fake breasts,

 

wear high heels,

 

designer fingernails,

 

contact lenses,

 

  paint fingers and toes.

They put on things, to make them look bigger, and things that make them look smaller, but

then, they meet a man,

and  they want, …

“HONESTY!!”

Man, refuses to accept that makeup glamour fools the eye and deludes the heart, until he

first awakens after the wedding, to see his bride without any makeup, and in shock

thinks,

“WHO is THAT?!”

Can such preoccupation with sexual camouflage avoid extra-marital diversion , and

 

allow longevity and truthfulness towards a meaningful marriage?

 

Many couples who have lasted together forever, don’t have to work hard,  to get along  in marriage’.

 

When George Burns and Gracie Allen were asked how they remained so in love after sixty years, he said:

 

 

‘Marriage is a business.

When you work too hard to make the business of marriage work, you get tired, and when you’re tired , you get annoyed, and when you’re annoyed,  arguments start, and when arguments start…then, you’re OUT of business’ .

I remember once being stopped and asked at Disneyland by a graying and aged couple,

to “photograph them”, for it was none other than their “fiftieth anniversary”.

 

I saw the way he held her hand and how they hugged and kissed as I struggled to find

and frame the picture.

I wondered what wisdom and marital advice they might share, for too many, marriages end sadly in divorce.

 

These too many short-term marriages, for too many men, seemed to me,  just like a tornado:

 

in the beginning, there’s a lot of sucking and blowing , and later on … you lose the house.

 

Whatever happened to the romantic woman and to the romantic man who said that they

could not live without each other?

 

He went East, and she went West… and they both lived.

My wife went over to speak with his wife to comment on how sweet they looked

 

together, but when

 

I returned the camera as he made his way  over to me,  I asked him the $500,000 lulu question:

 

“What’s the secret to being married, so successfully, for so long?”

 

He looked confidential and wise and peeked to see if his wife was engaged in

conversation before he spoke:

 

“You gotta cheat”, he whispered.

Men are like linoleum floors. Lay ’em right and you can walk all over them for thirty years. ~ Betsy Salkind

POSTSCRIPT:

A young couple making love in a car, on a hot steamy Summer night, decided that the

cool stones of a cemetery across the street afforded comfort, and they made love there,

all night long on the cool stones.

But next morning, her back was killing her from those rocks, so she went to an

orthopedic doctor and after a brief checkup he sounded worried and tentatively asked :

“Besides your back’s pain, how do you REALLY feel?”

She at once got scared and asked: ” Why!?”

And he said:

“Well, according to your ass, you died, in 1923!”

GHOSTS AND CATS OF BLOCK ISLAND

by Paul Schroeder

Block Island, an oasis off the coast of Rhode Island, is where I have spent  time musing and walking.

 

Ghosts, seen on Block Island are only part of the paranormal show, in town.

One late September,  almost October, I and my wife stayed at the hotel 1661 INN at Old Harbor on Block Island for a week to celebrate a vacation where

we enjoyed an island off season, bereft of tourists from the mainland to watch an island gear down from summer and close up in preparation for the winter.

Only a few bird watchers clubs frequented the island then, for the weather was windy, cold, blustery and rainy,

storms which added to our desire to stay close to the inn and in each other’s close company.

One stormy and windy evening at  ten o’clock in the evening, I went out to the backyard of the inn, tacitly to watch the view of whitecaps roiling on Old Harbor and to socialize with a pair of goats, which roamed freely on the property.

Out on the harbor,  a quarter of a mile from the shore among the rolling whitecaps, I saw a flickering, blue triangular light that vanished and then reappeared a short distance from where it had been.

At first glance, it looked like the angular sail and mast of a middle sized sailing craft, a craft in distress that struggled to make headway in the stormy waters, except that this sail radiated a surreal phosphorescent light, a glow that ebbed and waned like a dying flame .

The bluish sail’s color glowed in a purplish light and then vanished completely, only to reappear another short distance from where it was last sighted.

 

 

I initially surmised it to be a flame above the waves from ignited methane from the ocean floor.

I watched in  wonder as its shifting movements  made it jump from one location to another location every few seconds; its odd flickering flame glowing in a surreal sailboat triangular form, was something I’d never seen before.

It vanished completely, after a few minutes among the stormy waves, as though it had finally capsized .

The image of that strange vessel has haunted my memory for many years,

a famous Block Island ghost ship seen often in stormy weathers, by many others before and after me.

However, not until recently, some years later,  having read “Livermore’s History of Block Island”, did I realize that the book’s description of an oddly lit and shifting Palatine Ghost Ship seen off Block Island is precisely  what I caught and observed that windy white capped and rain swept evening.

Other ghostly goings-on prevail, there.

A woman seen carrying a clock, and observed talking to herself, is another famous full bodied apparition; she seemingly ignores the greetings of a rare tourist, on a deserted stretch of road at the  far end of the island, and then, clock in hand, she suddenly vanishes.

Even odder, some Block Island ghost stories are still in the making.

(from a communique from a friend):

“I was fishing off Misquamicut Beach in Rhode Island in 1995. I was in a boat, and we watched a big cloud of smoke appear off Block Island in the distance.

What  happened was that an airplane crashed into a restaurant.”

It appears that a young child, a wife and a doctor and his mother all perished en route,

in a small aircraft just before landing at Westerly Airport on Block Island.

The small plane hit a restaurant taking an additional islander life;

one small airstrip lay 500 feet parallel to a line of three coastal restaurants.

Block Island, an off-season haunt for me, now has the addition of these ghosts,  for the dead often remain at the site of their violent death, ghostly additions to  a place already  most assuredly  haunted.

There is resident talk of ghosts seen on the island, especially those spirits restless and active at the Old Town Inn, a hotel location, geographically central to the island.

I would often prefer to stay at the Old Town Inn, inspired by the stories of its often seen ghosts.

History indeed confirms that a State Senator who lived there in the early 1800’s, faced charges that he murdered his ailing mother for his inheritance, by throwing her down the long narrow stairway, a stairway still in evidence.

I surmise that he was acquitted.

But the staircase and basement area judge fate and history differently.

The owner told me that he had seen the bare bulb in the basement often spin of its own accord; it kept him and mainland workmen away from that basement.

Most locals were too leery an ilk to spend any real, required time down there, doing some essential repairs.

When restorations had initially begun, it had been noticed that all interior doors had been removed; when the new owners had queried contractors why this had been done, a disturbing answer had been returned.

The many doors’ constant opening and closing by themselves had unnerved, distracted and unsettled the mainland workmen.

They had removed the doors, and erased these house symptoms, but touched not the disease, itself.

Guests have asked the front desk about a ghostly woman, seen from their upstairs windows,  a spectre who has walked in the deeper shadows of the garden at night, in a pink, long, flowing gown, who has carried a pink parasol.

She can be  seen in the back garden, under a full moon, late at night, when weather conditions are perfect.

I would stay here on Block Island, despite its ghosts, because it was far from  scenic views of the harbor, and from crowds of daily ferried tourists.

This central location on Block Island allowed me to be more reclusive in my wanderings, far from people, which was my nature.

I wandered among persimmon trees, apple and wild plum, across vacant meadows and fields whose scattered vestigial remnants of ancient  stone foundation fragments revealed where houses once stood.

On one such long walk, a deer froze in a field to then bolt from view and

on my return to the Inn, on that same cold, windy afternoon, I saw a cat

quickly scurry under the foundation of the hotel, a cat as orange in color as the drifting early October Maple leaves.

Only the feral cats who roam the streets of Block Island know its ghosts as permanent residents,  lost and not yet found.

Block Island’s feral cats, independent and grateful creatures, like solitary ghosts, have astonished me in the oddest ways.

Whenever New York City snow drifts high enough to seal all the doors and windows of February, I conjure an image of frozen kittens cuddling in the Rhode Island icy snow.

That image haunts me,  though I’ve never seen it.

I was informed when I inquired at the inn, that she was feral and would have to over winter on the island alone, that she belonged to no one and had recently had a litter somewhere under the cellar.

The staff, who took pity on her and who fed her, would soon leave by early November.

The hotel wouldn’t re-open until mid April; in deep winter snows, with a new litter of kittens, she would be on her own.

I was moved to go into town to buy some canned cat food and these I presented to the kitchen staff who cared for her.

I was told that I could

feed her myself, as she was just outside the kitchen, awaiting a handout..

I opened two cans and spoke to her, watched her as she fed.

I wondered aloud to the kitchen staff what fate might bring to those kittens when heavy winter snow lay against the outside of those abandoned

kitchen doors, all winter long.

Later, about ten o’clock in the evening, I heard a knock on my door that stopped my writing and upon opening the door, I found the chef outside, smiling warmly.

He asked me if I could follow him down to the kitchen.

She had, he said, been grateful to me and had brought me a ‘thank you’ gift, in eloquent cat artistry.

A large, dead marsh rat lay by the back kitchen door, fully displayed, on the welcome mat.

Puffed up and very proud, she paraded back and forth over it, purring and repeatedly making eye contact with me.

She had caught it and then she had brought it to me,  as thanks, but also as a token.

It had somewhat assuaged my anxieties about her and her broods’  chances of survival, facing an icy cruel winter, with no food,  alone on the island with only ghosts, as her company..

I recall that cat’s unflawed nature, uncomplaining and noble and hershow of gratitude and
courageous

resiliency,  unfurling her fearlessness.

 

Ghosts and cats who roam Block Island would wander alone in the coming ice storms,

and she, bereft of food,

with new and hungry kittens to feed,  would face a winter

of killing blizzards.

GHOST-HUNTERS : BEYOND THIS PLACE, MONSTERS DWELL

by Paul Schroeder

The theory that consciousness ends with physical death, has never been proved, to me.

If one examines a plethora of diverse spiritual phenomena like, demonic possession, OBEs, NDEs, hauntings, poltergeists, reincarnation memories through regressive hypnosis, just to mention a few, the undeniable evidence looms as obvious as a trout in the milk.

We should all be born with lunch boxes for our stay here, in this school, is short, compared to the eternal spark of God within us that endures.

Children see ghosts and have paranormal experiences more so than adults because they are still close to the other side, having JUST crossed and because there’s evidence that children see a broader spectrum of light than adults , but to me, the most interesting and revealing aspects of listening to tapes of past life regressive hypnosis, is the time described by clients’ narratives of interactions and experiences,  IN- BETWEEN lifetimes…

 I try rescues, every so often, fifty concentration camp sites, all over Europe, where 2,000,000 Jewish children were turned into soap,  the most haunted places imaginable, exponentially more than any other global site where trapped souls lament.

Untold masses of tormented souls, in time’s layers, according to the transports where they were wholesale murdered, still suffer, above and around these sites.

Over 2,000,000 children were systematically slaughtered, children separated from their parents and families, in despair and horror and

 tossed alive into burning petrol pits by Ukrainian and Waffen S.S. hands.

Older children were dispatched by swinging them by the feet, headfirst into walls.

Focus,  on those frantic, horrified and trapped levels of ghosts, suspended in layers above those locales, and visualize  purple light and angels rescuing them.

These souls have suffered psychological/spiritual damage, that complicates spirit rescue;

 young souls,  in extreme fright, who perished at the hands of adults,

will not approach, or trust, any rescuing medium who is an adult.

Neither will such a fevered spirit who perished in flames, approach the “LIGHT”..

Millions of trapped  child souls, who died in terror and agony,  persist there in that same nightmarish state of mind.

Screams of children waft in the night air, audible to nearby villages, when meteorological conditions are perfect.

These murder sites are the most haunted sites, in the ghost realm, geographically.

Ghosthunters could care less:

They provoke, collect evidence and leave the scene in a moral turpitude, a  non- humaneness, towards trapped and stuck human souls, who suffer.

Dangers other than moral ones exist for  uninitiated amateurs who DO go “ghost-hunting”.

A “ghost box’,  fascinating as a doorway to the unseen, offers a dangerous opportunity for a masquerading  evil one to enter to feast on one’s energies,

 should powerful demonics, who often trap ghosts in a locale for feasting on their energies, also infest a  ‘haunted house’ and come into contact with ‘hunters’, who then become the ‘prey’.

 If you had either a loaded gun with a hair-trigger, or a ghost box,  the gun would be a safer tool to keep close,  for

 when one dabbles in the occult, it can fully open to one, and demons, more ubiquitous than imagined , drift in to feel tacit unspoken permission,

 to  feel that they own one, and make

one’s life and mind a nightmarish battleground.

Television shows create a sense of harmless fascination and fun with the Dark Side and deliver a false sense of safety within experimentation with the Occult Dark Side.

Ouija boards, commercially sold as novelty items, remain a threat unrecognized by the general public, viewing Ouija as “a board game,” like Monopoly or Scrabble, rather than  solid invitations (invocations) to Dark Force entities to approach , more directly.

Television shows with conjuring themes, like Witch Season, Witch Hunter, Charmed, Sabrina the Teenage Witch, Ghost Whisperer, Bewitched, suggest to the viewing public that there is no real danger in witchcraft, wizardry and “ghost hunting”, but

 spiritual and psychological dangers can await the unwitting who have  received this

  false sense of safety.

 ‘Hunting’ might  open a door that one  can’t close, again.

Predatory, negative, bullying entities exist : Devils (who can walk right into you), sinister Earthbound spirits, shadow people, demons,  and diabolical alien reptilians, who  often masquerade, as poltergeists or ghosts are phantoms who fill the air around us.

Which “Ghost Buster” can you successfully find in the Yellow Pages, at that point, because “what followed you home”, afterwards, was more than you were  prepared to deal with?

When spiritual filth follows a ghost-hunter home, the symptoms can be uniform:

-Concurrent with psychic attacks, (negative ideations and bad dreams) is poltergeist phenomena; things move within immediate vision, knocks and tapping occur on the walls occur and a general heavy, unhappy, creepy atmosphere envelops the house and the moods of its occupants.

Electrical problems, sudden onset of flies and cockroaches, and nightmares, worst scenario dreams, horrify and prevail.

Pranks predominate.Objects disappear to return days later in strange places and there’s always a powerful sense of being watched by large eyes.

Those troubled by hauntings are in a dilemma, for having discarded church-based organized religions, long ago, and having put the Bible on the same shelf, as the Tooth Fairy, they find themselves bereft of spiritual guidance.

But God  has always been down a long hall, and somewhere else.

 

 Hopefully, if things stay spiritually pedestrian, and one runs into ghosts, during such  “hunts”, can one think how

 dreadful, it must be for them to have their house invaded by strangers, who cannot see or hear their distress or their ire, for the intrusion of their privacy, and the ignoring of their cries for help.

 The emotional chaos of a human ghost,  who dwells in the world of mind, is dreadful.

 Still human, it is now in its original spirit form: an electromagnetic conscious fog, comprised of memories and an identity .

A paranormal tool, that hears word for word what a ghost speaks, would tremendously assist ghost-hunters and trapped spirits:

A parabolic directional microphone, with earphone headset, will pick up voices  magnified,  to allow a direct two-way conversation.

This is a wondrous tool for giving a ghost guidance, and insight into its plight, and to assist it in a much needed means out of its predicament.

EVPs are normally examined and discovered long after the haunt locale is left behind, but a parabolic directional microphone allows real time interactions for

ghostly voices as sounds are heard in real time.

Ghost “hunting”  bypasses the higher purpose of spirit rescue , for the untrained ‘hunters” care only about ‘evidence gathering’,  and feel no

moral responsibility,  to rescue a trapped human ‘spirit’ always in extreme distress .

All ‘hunters’ make game their ‘prey’, and that goes double for ‘hunting’ ghosts..

Many EVPs are heart-wrenching direct requests for help.

The directional, parabolic microphone with headset earphones, bypasses the need for a “medium”, and can also discern the graveled croaking of a demonic;

(some who charge much money, and  masqueradeas “mediums”, are indeed,

 “mediums”,  because anything, well done, is rare.)

The enlightened approach of a ghost hunter  must be the same as one  who enters a cave to find and  rescue a trapped child: a
humanitarian, ghost-humane stance.

We get a sure ride to Earth from Heaven, at birth, but sadly no guarantees for a safe return trip home, at  our death.

One’s destiny chooses one, and the only important days in one’s life, are the day that one is born, and the day that one knows, why.

  Should we, at physical death, find ourselves  trapped, stuck in ghostly form, we would loathe to be seen as sport, by “ghost-hunters”,  who observe evidence of our sad presence, like the enjoyment of a crowd, who applaud animals sorely abused, by rodeos and by circuses.

Ghost-Hunters, remember that ghosts are stuck, lost souls, trapped between worlds, and as a “hunter”,  and coincidentally ALSO a spirit, you are uniquely positioned to assist their rescue, as service, to ‘The Other Side’ and perhaps more importantly also rescue yourselves …

GRANDMA’S RUSSIAN ADVICE

Grandma’s Advice

by Paul Schroeder

Just before my grandmother on my mother’s side died at the age of 95, I whispered a kiss in her ear and thanked her for her wisdom.​

One odd piece of advice, that she had taught me when I was a child, I had carried close to my inner ear, all of my life.

It had been an Independence Day warning, borne of a distant Russian wisdom, one that

she had whispered to me four decades ago, when I was nine or ten years old,

impressionable and the apple of her eye.

The imprecation that I got from her, the warning whispered in my small rapt ear when I

was nine or ten years old had been an odd warning that had ruled and had guided my life, and through raw angst, had come to define a larger part, of what I called my soul.

Her ‘Russian optimism’ for the world, was childhood overwhelming for me.

For her, life was always a cup of optimism, half filled ….. but, with something, that could  likely kill you.

Now, she at ninety-five was far from that woman who in giving advice could be ironic and poetical.

She had used lipstick as a rouge to color her cheeks and then decided that her whole face was of a pallor that also needed color, rubbed lipstick all over her face.

She was quite a shock when I got onto the seventh floor of the retirement home and

turned the corner and saw her sitting in a wheelchair, as though apparently waiting for me.

 

She still had her sense of humor.

She earnestly asked with a childlike innocence if I could bring her some new makeup

and some big diamond jewelry for her to wear to dress herself up, when I visited her next?

Cautiously, I had asked her, skeptically dubious ;”What type of diamond jewelry?” She had said;

“Expensive, fancy jewelry.”

She labored under the delusion that she was in a hotel in Miami, one that slouched in basic standards;

“The meals at this hotel are terrible, but what is a person to do?”

She did not ever surmise herself to be in a nursing home near the beach in Coney Island, Brooklyn.

 

A person’s senior mind can lend a type of psychic anesthesia that acts in many ways to

protect it from uncompromising and painful truths. .

Now I was an odd adult.

I wanted her to know that I loved her, how her whisper had returned years later as my gratitude.

I had loved to cherish ideas; a rare few philosophers had touched my early soul .

Dr. Seuss had barely competed with grandma.

But, he  wrote :

 

“Be who you are and say what you think, because those who matter don’t

mind, and those who mind, don’t matter!”

 

But grandma didn’t recall her similar advice or the small pleasures and agonies of our past.

 

My other odd philosopher was sitting here in her wheelchair, armed and propped with a

pillow/ alarm that would audibly alert nurses in the retirement home if she pitched

forward and left her chair’s upright fixed position.

She was different the next time I saw her, the way she used to be ;

” Hello, Paul; sharp as a matzoh and twice as crummy!”

“How come you don’t call your grandma more often? Humph!!”

“Humph;You going to wait until I’m in the cemetery and THEN you’ll visit me?”

“I’m sorry, that you’ll be sorry, but THEN it’ll be too late!”

This was the same verbatim greeting that I had gotten from her over the years over the

telephone .  I presumed that I was calloused to it all.

 

It always deeply riddled me with guilt but I never let her know, but instead I saw it

 

rather as a good sign that she was still feeling feisty.

When she successfully aimed ring-toss-Velcro-guilt in my direction, I rationalized, she

 

must be feeling much better.

I quickly tried to change the subject to refocus her mind.

” Grandma, I remember that boardwalk, we can see

 

here in Brighton Beach from a time when you were fifty years old and I was about nine

years old, on the Fourth of July fireworks and I still remember the good advice that you

 

gave me, back then.”

“What advice did I give you?”

I told her.

It had stayed with me for many years as a token of her wisdom.

 

“You brought me to you on a bench on that boardwalk, in Coney Island, on a hot 4th of

 

July afternoon, when the whole family was there suddenly hugging and kissing each other,

 

happy for once, to be all together and happy seeing the fireworks, and then you whispered it in my ear:

“Don’t get too close to people; you’ll catch their dreams,” You told me.

“What?”, she said, so I told her again;

“Don’t get too close to people; you’ll catch their dreams.”

 

“OH!”, she said,”I am VERY sorry, if I ever told you that!.”

 

“I AM very sorry.”

I reminded her, however, what an impact she’d had on me then.

“That whisper, as a recommended life philosophy, was both poetry and  true and that,

your advice, really stayed deeply with me.”

 

Taken to heart, it had allowed me to remain aloof and separate from everyone, as a type

 

of self protection,  to preserve my OWN dream.

 

She looked at me as though I were some stranger in a dream.

I said it, again;

“Don’t get too close to people, you’ll catch their dreams.”

She was thoughtful and then looked worried.

 

She looked into my eyes., her eyes now clear and sharp.

“I never told you THAT.” …

 

“You shouldn’t get too close, because…”

“Germs”, she said.

” I said that you’ll catch their GERMS.”

“I told you and your sister MANY times;

“Don’t get too close to people, ’cause you’ll catch their GERMS.” she said, again.

 

“And YOU’RE supposed to be the SMART one?!”

“Oh,” she groaned in pain.

“Take me over to the dining room; it’s still too early for the lunch, but I want to get there

anyway, early.”

That wrong belief had overshadowed every relationship in my life with an ambivalence

and a craving to just be left alone.

If one was alone, one was safe from the awful things that loving people could do to you, I

had always reasoned.

 

But, I had been running away from my own shadow.

One marriage and a dozen influenza later, I had realized her truth, too late.

 

POSTSCRIPT:

 

In school, first the lesson, then the test;

in life, first the test, then the lesson…

 

HOW TO SUMMON ANGELS

by Paul Schroeder

Angels are divine beings, go-betweens between human beings and God,

 another sentient creation of God, who speak only telepathically, and who are usually

depicted as splendid, most holy beings, who have varied wings.

The color and size of their wings delineate the level of their angelic status, as

the angelic realms are highly structured and have specific hierarchies; there are many

levels as well as many categories.

Angels have surely mesmerized spiritual people for millennia, who sought these beings

 

because

of their love for those with open hearts to God, beings noted for instilling a spiritual

 

sense of gratefulness to God.

However, our soul and our spirituality, is of an essence that we, as a race of beings, are

only barely aware of. Therein lies the rub.

Angels will never or will rarely attempt to interfere in your life unless they are

specifically pleaded with to do so.

Although I have discovered that, contrary to popular belief, angels will not perform overt

 

miracles directly into one’s life, they will however make suggestions and help one to

avoid potential roadblocks.

We are seemingly divine enough to ask , and divine enough, to receive.

All they ask is for us  to sense that a spark within us is eternal, and thus to recognize our spirituality.

Spirituality, isn’t about religious beliefs, but it is about having direct spiritual experiences.

 

The impersonation, masquerade of ancient aliens as, “God”, helmeted and duped the world in the Old Testament ..

God, our true spiritual father, is much too imbued within us, and within everything all around us, to be so easily discerned.

Religion, instead is the bane, creating religious multitudes of harsh judgement and excluding beliefs.

Gandhi said : ” I very much like your Christ , but do not at all like, your Christians”.

I began my own spiritual explorations as a young boy.

 

I always had a burning curiosity about what bodies existed beyond the five skeletons of my physical senses for some unknown reason.

Ghost hunting is sad to me for it does not offer direct help to a trapped, lost, wandering ghost, but a ghost is still astonishing, and self-affirming that we are more than our bodies,  for we step out of our body,  just as we step out of our car, and our clothing, and that we are not our body, any more than we are our clothing, or our car.

I have since learned that the human mind, imbued by God, is part of the quantum physics of the universe.

I never learned much about angels as a youngster but after the bliss I felt in their presence, after praying long and hard,  when in a paranormal  crisis,

 

I  assure you that if you think about these entities long enough, you will have many joyful experiences.

I was slowly amazed at the presence of joy that these unseen loving beings brought, when I was in spiritual angst and  implored them to visit me.

 

When I need to, when  I find that I am again in a spiritual struggle with an impish, untoward, persistent energy,  I  call upon ‘warrior angels of light’ and ‘rescue-beings-of- light”, to assist me in removing the dark spirit troublemaker to ‘its- rightful- place- in- the- right- colored- light-towards-its-next-perfection’.

Just like a trip throughout the world can deeply change your reality perceptions, your life will metamorphose by calling in angels.

 

Working with these beings is another rung on the ladder and an essential part of a rich and  love oriented spiritual life.

Meditation

How can one get to know angels?

Although it appears to sound really very simple, it just isn’t absolutely easy

to learn how to quiet one’s mind and  then to listen to angels who speak to one.

Amazingly,  angelic beings are merely waiting for one to give them specific permission to assist one;

if one can open one’s mind and then one’s heart to receive their astounding guidance one’s world will take on a new and exciting spiritual dimension.

Begin by spending a few minutes each day tuning in to their frequency by using

 meditation, an easy process, we wrongly make  difficult.

 

The easiest way to meditate is to focus on following your breathing in and out and to

 pay attention only to your breathing.

Your mind will normally speed away  with pedestrian thoughts; that’s precisely what one’s mind normally does.

To meditate, allow your mind to do its thing and think but re-focus your attention back to your breathing.

Imagine that you are standing at a terminal window at an airport.

Meditating is simply a process of standing on the tarmac and watching your ideas and thoughts fly by like arranged flights, while you merely stand there, watching the activity.

The mind screen of flying thoughts, may leak but staunch the flow.

If you however get on-board and find yourself lost in a thought, bring your attention back to your breathing.

You can relish the learning curve of  meditation if you avoid judging the process and focus on breathing.

After you have focused your attention on your breathing, internally ask an angel to arrive and to work with you and then in amazement you will feel their  loving presence as a glow of sudden happiness.

Although they will begin to be there as soon as you do call on them,  it may take you  quite some time to sense their presence and to then begin to receive guidance.

It is comforting to work with angelic beings,  unseen and as close as the nose on your face, and represent the goodness inherent in the Universe.

These wondrous angelic entities have always been there, just at the edges of our limited reality, waiting for us to request their presences  into our life.

Take the added time to then listen to their most  whispered ideas and to
recognize and welcome their heavenly help.

There are many religious folks who maintain that such angel summoning will only bring in demons, who are so opportunistic, that they will masquerade as angels.

Such advice is precisely like telling someone to never go swimming because sharks coast unseen nearby where you seek to swim and will devour you if you give them half a chance.

While it may be cautious advice it is not good advice because

when one goes swimming in shark infested waters, the dangers surely outweigh the benefits of swimming.

 

Demons, like sharks, are dreadful, but like sharks, rare in most waters.

“Open the angelic door and demon gangsters will stalk in, so don’t do it”, is thus poor advice.

Always remember that If you feel any remote fear, the spiritual presence is not from God

 but

if you do sense a demon the remedy is facile:

Tell God to send his Arch- angels (Raphael and Michael) to your side, and they will be there before you know it.

Talk to your angelic Helpers and

call them, ‘ your angelic Helpers’.

Pay attention to the feeling of comfort within you when they do come in contact and

you can tell they are with you when you feel that strong urge to calm yourself.

Then doubt will leave you and you will be able to communicate with them.

Once you have achieved this feeling, you are ready to talk to them and get their help.

Talk to them as you would a respected friend or family member.

Telepathy or audible language is OK.

 

They will speak to you through telepathy as an understanding, or an internal conversation in which you would swear you are talking to and carrying on a conversation with, just yourself,

asking and answering your own questions.

 

It can be quite fast,

and you might feel completely foolish, but

listen to their first answers, and try not to second guess them.

They will always be right the first time.

There is NEVER any fear attached to talking to your angelic Helpers and

the minute you feel fear, be assured that it is no longer them.

Try then to reestablish your feeling of comfort, so as to continue listening to your angelic Helpers.

 

Tell your angelic helpers what it is that you need of them, and then just wait.

If you are deeply in need, remind them how desperate you are and tell them to hurry with

 confidence and thankfulness and never be afraid.

What do panic/anxiety attacks have to do with dark-force-entities?

 

Psychic-mediums know truths medicated patients will never learn:

When is a ‘psychiatric’ problem, an actual  ‘spiritual’ problem?

Try an “experiment’ for your or a loved one’s next ‘panic/ ‘anxiety-attack’ :

Forcible, audibly order the fear/panic away, in the name of anything you hold ‘Holy’..

Why?

The fear/panic onset is a natural reaction imposed by your spirit BECAUSE of  a psychic intrusion by an unseen intruder ; if you “Order -It-Away!” (in the name of light and love) the panic attack will instantly abate, to reveal some of what I have told you.

It will again, however surface and reappear soon, as ‘anxiety’, because these entities are persistent and intrusive.

Try that ‘experiment’..

Maintaining that conversation, internally and feeling confidence in the subtle exchange is the tandem combination for success.

We truly come from the spirit realm and we also try so hard, often just to return, so we can indeed avail ourselves of heaven’s angelic power,  in an internal talking to heaven.

You surely more than deserve to feel the presence of the love and divine guidance of these creations that always surround you,

and to instead fill your life with the magic assistance and guidance of God’s angelic beings.

AN ALTERNATIVE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE : A SPIRITUAL MESSAGE

by Paul Schroeder

A spiritual message, in a time of need, illuminated a larger life path:

“The Spell of the Yukon”

By Robert W. Service

“I wanted the gold, and I sought it;

   I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.

Was it famine or scurvy—I fought it;

   I hurled my youth into a grave.

I wanted the gold, and I got it—

   Came out with a fortune last fall,—

Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it,

   And somehow the gold isn’t all…”

I rarely ever worked overtime, or sought spare part- time jobs to make more money, seeking blue skies above to doing work indoors, and I relished my poorer beer pockets without ever developing or resenting the absence of a richer champagne taste.

Those ambitious lads of my childhood who entered finance, medicine or law,  worked 24-7 towards a salaried lifestyle that flew them first class, overseas to luncheon meetings and purchased them mansions in the  glass sky towers of Manhattan.

Effete, they would confess,”Those who say that money can’t buy you everything, don’t know where to shop!”

I  became a college instructor teacher who received a meager pittance, but though  I relished my bankers’ hours’ 9 to 3  job, I deeply longed for the respite of work, each academic year, within a ten week vacation, over the summer.

During academic semesters I recklessly ate up all of my sick days and personal days, taking escapes in the sun at the beach, and landscaped land escapes in three and four day weekends, at mountain lakes’ sites to hike in virgin woods alone.

Others in Higher Education had instead garnered many days, ‘in their bank’, saved up jealously, to trade for cash, losing one day for every two saved, upon retirement.

To me, counter intuitively, non providentially, time away to think was worth more, as an escape valve,  than half of some obscure future money.

Work was onerous and exacting, and freedom was a hiking-in-the-woods- relief, from fluorescent overhead lights, and the grinding grading of incessant exams and papers.

For release,  the best part of my chosen vocation, I lectured and pontificated, teaching American and English Literature, in a large lecture hall,  chain-smoking unfiltered cigarettes, during class instructions, throughout, to self medicate.

I am presently retired, thirty-five years in teaching, and have a modest lovely home and property, and as for wanderlust, I  have long found that armchair travel is the cheapest kind of travel, content to read brochures, than take inoculations, to explore the world.

Money aversion- ennui got worse as I grew older.

 I soon preferred the sidelines of copious earnings, a spent man, seeking  to relax and to write.

Why was I, so different, to care little for “success”, measured in hard work towards riches?

I wasn’t remotely money excited,  as a child, dimly knowing on a subliminal level that God didn’t place us here, on Earth,  on a special mission,  to make money.

A spiritual message experience, I received, as a teenager, a homeless runaway at seventeen, running from a divorced household of violence and police- being -called -by- the -neighbors,

became a core influence for my slant on monied life, a purposeful one of just getting by, instead of working hard towards earning luxuries.

It was Christmas time in New York City and I was seventeen years old, homeless penniless,  and wandering.

I had exited  the Museum of Natural History on Central Park West, where I had feasted for hours, on museum eye -candy, but my stomach  had rumbled with hunger.

And now back on the street, I found that it had been and was now, snowing heavily.

I wondered worriedly where I would sleep, that night.

 A local movie manager,  a friend, Paul Gary, said that I could, when in Brooklyn, sleep in a little used old loft room in his movie theatre, the Loews Oriental, in Bath Beach, Brooklyn, in a dusty, haunted costume property room.

I was the inhabiting spirit.

The smell of freshly roasted chestnuts,  sold to passerbys from a kiosk wagon, near to the museum’s stone steps, in a blizzard of snow, wafted my way and roused me.

I had no money in my pockets; I salivated at the  sweet nutty perfume.

 Chestnuts were a seasonal treat I had  enjoyed, at this very museum’s site, when I had a bountiful existence within my cantankerous parents’ marriage’s deep pockets’ circle of influence.

I would ask my parents,  they’d  fish for loose change and I would relish the sweet flavor of fire roasted hot chestnuts, now a new symbol of want and the faded memory of childhood .

I was alone upon the streets of Manhattan, hungry and had no money.

The  snow covered shoulders and face of the man who stood behind the kiosk wagon, were wrapped in steam; he was small and dark, wearing mittens with holes for the fingers.

The snow fell heavily in sheets that made a city of asphalt shock look gentler.

I  came close enough to  inhale the dark aroma of roasted chestnuts,  a childhood memory token, an olfactory solace for my pangs of hunger.

 I  noticed that on one side of his kiosk wagon hung a large piece of grey cardboard with a blue magic marker message upon it, his philosophy of the moment, but on an unconscious level, one  for the rest of my adult life.

A raised consciousness was sparked.

It read:

“I really don’t like making money;

I don’t want to conquer the world,

and I don’t wish to ever be rich;

I don’t even want to set the world, on fire;

 I just want to keep my nuts warm.”

A spiritual message, in a time of need, illuminated a larger life path.

 

HOW TO RECOGNIZE AND SURVIVE A SERIAL KILLER ENCOUNTER

 

 

How to Recognize and Survive the Approach of a Serial Killer

 

by Paul Schroeder

 

 

(“There are two kinds of serial killers as far as the victim is concerned: the kind that you

 

don’t see before they pounce on you and the kind you see and don’t expect to pounce on

you.

There are many more serial killers living outside the prison walls than inside.”

 

Pat Brown)

The expression,”serial killer”, denotes the word, ‘serial’, which means, successful killer .

Ted Bundy said that he often wore his arm in a sling to perfectly trap random

compassionate women, who traveled to his car door to assist him with his theatrical

‘struggle’ with packages.

These outgoing, caring women were brutally clubbed into his trunk for later torture.

Serial murderers who instead of passion, kill in ‘cold blood’, and  do not know their

victims, beforehand, for they kill randomly, purposefully moving from town to town, city

to city, without any remote tinge of latent regret or  accumulative  feelings of guilt.

Unlike a murder of marital or  organized crime Mafia passion, there is no plan for a pre-

dug grave or a methodical bother to dismember the corpse.

They make no attempt to hide the bodies of their victims.

They  stop on a deserted road and open the hood of their car to flag down a helpful

motorist to kill them with a gun.

Back into the victim’s stolen car, in the next town,

they  lure a child into a car by asking them to help find a lost puppy or by offering them a

kitten from a box of kittens, which disarms any child, and then  stab the child to death.

Later that night, they stop at a truck stop to pick up a prostitute to then strangle her

afterwards leaving her body on the side of the road.

They remember to be most careful to use a different method of murder, each time to

confuse police efforts from various jurisdictions, from establishing an M. O. pattern

 

that links random killings into a single silhouette, the  fingerprint of a singular serial murderer.

Interstate highways lend a unique anonymous isolation to the mentality that serial

killers love and use:

Truck-stops are high risk areas, as are truckers, themselves, and especially long off-

ramps are  over represented with highway murder deaths, a study of  murder statistics show.

A big, friendly, helpful smile, or a helpful assist from a total stranger, is the last thing one

will ever see and one will never see it coming, the guise of

serial killer psychopaths .

These serial killer psychopaths travel from state to state blithely killing random people,

leaving corpses on roadsides the way that we leave cigarette butts, without a single afterthought ,

psychopaths who from childhood, have had  their consciences, all of their lives, sit in the

corner, like a well trained German Shepard .

 

 

Serial killers enter

back into this harsh world without a written ‘blueprint’, without spirit helpers and

without  protecting angels and

do again return to become serial murderers, and

 

 they  manifest the

same three  signature traits of  Dark Force Entities:

 

sinister, predatory and self justifying.

 

It is good advice that one should avoid them, sidestep them, and never attempt to tackle them head on.

But one CAN recognize and survive an encounter with such a serial killer predator, by

taking careful notes from serial murderers who have explained their ‘trade-craft’

( from Internet unknown source):

” Trust your intuition:

Do not ignore your instincts or intuition.

You have likely recognized something indefinite that spells out danger, and your mind

has not caught up with your recognition – you do not yet perceive how to dissect it

logically.

This is intuition.

If something does not feel right, then it is not right.

Never ignore such inklings; do not be embarrassed to change your mind in front of a

stranger or have fear of being rude.

It’s better to be rude than dead.

Under no circumstances get into the Car:

Once victims get into the car, few return alive and are later found dead at a secondary

crime scene.

Whether you’re helping some stranger carry a package to the car, being offered a ride, or

having someone else near your car, they can all end with you being murdered.

The presence of a baby seat or children’s toys in the vehicle – or even children

themselves- are tools that a serial killer uses to mentally disarm victims.

The Green River Killer, Gary Ridgeway, once returned to a body dump site to have sex

with the corpse of one of his victims while his son slept in the vehicle.

– Serial Killer Warning Signs of Entrapment-:

A Pretended injury/weakness:

The murderer makes a huge effort to let you know that he is physically weaker than you.

He may stumble and drop packages

“Please help me carry this to my car. Ever since my spine injury, I can hardly move.”

He may wear a cast or walk with a cane in the Ted Bundy method, to trap his victim.

Too much information:

The murderer will give you too much unnecessary, detailed information:

“My sister has a sweater just like that. She was living in California but she moved home

last year. Her boyfriend gave it to her for Christmas, but afterward they broke up …”

When such a serial murderer is telling a lie, though it sounds credible to you, he often

has little confidence in his talking-trap method and will tend to add too much detail,

more than necessary to support it.

This ruse of details makes a serial murderer seem less a stranger and appear more

familiar than he really is.

The un requested promise:

“Just one drink and then I will take you home, I swear!”, when you never asked him to

promise you anything.

Sudden unsolicited promises can be a sign of an underlying sinister agenda.

Friendly authority:

The stranger projects some kind of non threatening authority:

“I’m the security guard/ the park ranger/ a police officer.”

“You didn’t see the signs; this is closed. I’ll escort/drive you out of here.”

‘You shouldn’t be alone here; we are on the lookout for a serial killer in this

neighborhood. Get in and I’ll drive you out of here.”

No law enforcement official would tell you that there was a serial killer, for

they avoid giving outside knowledge TO  ANYONE of an ongoing case for media

avoidance purposes.

Some serial killers come tricked out with police identification and police-like vehicles.

Insist that he call a uniformed backup if you did nothing wrong but are being “arrested.”

Challenging your personality:

The killer labels you, in a critical way, hoping that you will attempt to prove them wrong,

“You’re too weak to help me lift this box into the back of my van.”

“You’re not frightened of me, are you?”

Teaming:

Often a killer will manipulate you to “team up” with him.

You and he instantly become a “we” – “I hate drinking alone, I know a great place we can

go to up the road.”

“I’m going there too, we can get there in my car.”

This attempt to bond with you is a way to quickly establish a familiarity.

Imposed obligation:

A serial killer will impose his help on you, hoping that you will feel obligated to help him back.

“Let me help you carry that to your car” will lead to “Can you give me a lift to the corner?”

You leave your home to find your tire flat.

“Let me change that flat tire for you” will be followed by “May I come inside to wash my

hands?”

But he WAS the one who punctured the tire in the first place.

Having already accepted his help, he hopes that you feel bad enough to refuse a request like that.

Once inside, you’re a murder victim.

An appeal to a feeling of being vulnerable:

“Help me find my lost puppy before it gets away too far.”

“I need to drop off this medicine to an elderly person upstairs, but I can’t legally park

here; just come and sit in my car while I run in for five minutes?”

“My little girl is missing, will you help find her?”

– Not taking,” no”, for an answer-A classic murderer’s tool.

No matter how many times you say, “That’s okay, I don’t need your help,” the stranger insists on helping you.

If you give some weak excuse or sound unsure, he will persist.

Do not be afraid to be loudly blunt and rude: “I said, NO! Go away! I do not want your

help!.”

Many are loquacious and charming, but it’s only a ‘tool’ to conceal a demonic intent:

“I’m the most cold-blooded sonofabitch you’ll ever meet,”  said Ted Bundy.

“I just liked to kill, I wanted to kill.”

The signature symptom of the psychopath is his inability to see others as worthy of

compassion.

Victims thus become dehumanized, “flattened into worthless objects in the murderer’s mind”.

John Gacy, who never showed an ounce of remorse, called his victims “worthless little

queers and punks,” while the “Yorkshire Ripper” Peter Sutcliffe declared that he was

“cleaning up the streets” of ‘ human trash’

All of these killings were managed with an initial charming smile, a smile carefully

contrived, before a lethal knife or hammer fell.

Would YOU have easily fallen, do you suppose, for one of these “tricks of the trade”?

Would you have been naturally leery enough to survive such tactics or would you be

clearly very prone to an evil stranger’s charm and closeness, to become yet another murder victim?

And many rare victims who survived later said, “But, he was so sweet!”

Sweetness, is not the same as being sweet.

Sweetness can be used as a deadly manipulative tool.

A charming smile can mask the most evil intentions.

Once one is alerted to these uniform techniques employed by many

incarcerated successful, serial murderers, one can teach one’s spouse, one’s children,

one’s colleagues and one’s easily duped friends, to be much less trusting, to raise their

fence higher, around themselves, to prevent them  from becoming  the next victims of

a murderer.

One must teach one’s loved ones  to be immediately suspect, of any close-hand

encounter with a stranger, who pretends a stance of authoritarianism, need, or one

warmly disarmingly charming,  widely used  tactics that serial killers rely on.

An approaching car, one that passes close by you, while you are out walking late, in an

abandoned hour, or in an empty place like a deserted parking lot, could  easily spell such an unplanned

death.

They are everywhere and in transit through small towns; be wary, be aware, beware.

 

One must be taught, instead, to be poised to bolt, to be alarmed by any car’s or person’s

close proximity to one, in a lonely place and moment, and to lose one’s sense of blind

trust, of one’s presumed safety with a total stranger.

The suspicious always appears “ordinary”, until suddenly, it isn’t.

Can anything be done to change and redeem such serial killers’ dark minds and souls?

Capital punishment for such murderers is spiritually counter-intuitive, because after

physical death, they linger on this plane and join together with dark others, to

accomplish yet more evil than they ever could have done, when they were alive.

 

Only God can and will “shift” them, in His own time,

but until such time,

don’t talk to strangers..

TALKING TO HEAVEN, BUT LOST IN TRANSLATION: THE “SOFTWARE” TO SPEAK UP TO “HEAVEN’s EARS”

 

TALKING TO HEAVEN, BUT, LOST IN TRANSLATION

by Paul Schroeder

 

Translation trip- ups, are screw-ups, mistakes that can alter reality.

 

President Carter visited Poland, in 1977.

 

Through an inexperienced translator, Carter said,” for your desires in the future”, which

 

instead was wrongly translated as,”your lusts for the future”, and said,

 

“When I left the United States”, which came out as,”when I abandoned the United States”,

 

mistakes that the press found amusing.

Nikita Khrushchev, gave a speech, at the U.N., during the Cold War, in which he said a

 

phrase, interpreted wrongly in Russian,” We will bury you!”,

 

which gave cause for alarm to NSA and CIA, when the more accurate meaning was

 

actually,

 

“We will outlast you!”

 One’s personal destiny, much like history, is also affected by such screw-ups in

translation.

 

I had the same interpretive conundrum trying  futilely to communicate with angelic

 

beings, spirit helpers and my Higher Self,

 

for I desperately needed spiritual help, protection against untoward, unpleasant and

 

unwanted paranormal experiences.

 

 

 I felt that perhaps I could also be able to assist myself, because I  knew fully well that

 

the human mind, in itself, has Godlike  powers, to alter reality.

The mind, the conscious soul, by sheer force of  will, is able to  alter our  predetermined

 

and programmed  ‘reality’,

 

 our life- scenarios,  pre-arranged in a blueprint.

 

This blueprint,  carefully pre-planned by us, our spirit helpers, and guides,  before our

 

birth, is for spiritual learning, within this school, that we call, “Earth”..

 

Whenever I attempted “to create my own creation”, I was

always in dreamscape told ” LET IT BE” and was aware of

my blueprint being read( You wouldn’t imagine by what type of creature) atoning :

” FIRST, A HARD LESSON, THEN, A LIGHT LESSON!”

which always astounded my awareness of pre-planned

destiny and previous alignments that should be adhered to,

as well as depressed me, at my seeming inability to ‘create

my own creation’, while in midstream of that “blueprint’s” rapid’s

current..

So vibrate “higher, I must needs do, I wisely surmised.

 

But the more that I fervently prayed, with angst, to Heaven to  cease and desist

 

paranormal untoward horrid experiences , the more things got worse.

 

 

 I had close encounter sightings of overhead UFOs and  then suffered subsequent

 

abductions by, brilliantly diabolical reptilians, ceiling-tall who radiated hatred and who

imposed vivid, nightmares.

My prayers, I thought, all my life heard and responded to,  now failed to elicit  spiritual help.

 

My mind also failed to translate its power to tell ‘reality’,  to stop paranormal encounters

 

that loomed as dreadful.

 

I discovered that fearful pleading to Heaven for respite and relief did NOT mean that one had the language to effectively communicate.

 

Why did things get worse, after  desperately fervent prayer?

 

Why were my experiences worsening and  my intense requests lost, in translation?

 

I felt an electric mortal terror of  persistent , nighttime bedroom alien critters.

 

After abductions, I felt harmed, threatened and  wounded.

 My fervent prayers to Heaven’s Hosts for  protective relief  were ignored.

When I experienced panic attacks , it was long before I suspected that I was a “sensitive” and that

 

free-floating-panic, was simply the soul’s reaction, to ‘intrusion’ psychically.

 

I needed access to a more correct language, to reach Heaven’s ears, the spiritual software

 

in spirituality to reprogram my blueprint, while still submerged  in life’s midstream .

But instead,  my  suffering  expressed in focused prayers, made all Hell break loose:

 

Ghosts, demons, shadow people, poltergeist phenomena, dreadful , vivid nightmares, Out

 

of Body Experiences, and aliens in overhead craft who abducted me.

 

  I was flirting with an onslaught of inter dimensional bleed-throughs,  and face to face

 

with The Beasts of Inter-dimensional Madness.​

 

I  agonized over my thwarted  spiritual rights  to demand cessation, seek

balance, grounding and  protection, from my angels, my guides, God and my Higher Self.

 But, the more that I worried, petitioned and implored, in despair, to Heaven, to end

 

bizarre encounters, the more that unholy creatures carrying butter knives, pranced

 

naked, into my bedroom’s nightmares.

 

The uninvited fully devoured me, at night.

Why does the buttered slice of bread always fall butter side down?

 

It’s not the weight of the butter.

 

I herein share a mystic’s revelation,  that took me ten years to discover.

Fearful worrying,  negative energy, manifests those very things, that keep you up at

 

night, worrying about.

Since your energy goes where your attention goes, chronic fearful worry, only brings

 

more wolves, to all of your doors.

Though we are not ever alone in this life, we may as well be, for our Higher Self, spirit

 

helpers, angels and spirit guides, do NOT use the King’s English, in the same way as we do.

 

Communication from you to them  is interpreted,

 

not by  words, but by the inner focus of the mind’s emotional energy.

 

It’s a translation problem, that makes things that you desperately seek cessation from, to

 

continue to manifest in your direct path.

Lost in translation, the spirit world  naturally and wrongly  assumes, that  horrid events,

 

 

are precisely what you are asking for: praying for relief from ‘wolves at the door’,

 

counter-intuitively, only brings MORE ‘wolves to the door’.

 

Like trying to avoid a dangerous road obstruction, just ahead, in front of you, while you

 

are driving, your  fearful focused gaze directed at it, only helps you, to hit it.

The translation software apparatus that works  requires that  you never despair, or resign yourself to grief.

 

Like a weary survivor lost at sea, tired of swimming , in terror, that he will drown, who

 

decides to end his suffering agony, by

 

 inhaling a merciful  lungful of water, exemplifies how  negative fear and worry bring

 

about ruination.

 

The  spiritual translation software instead  requires the  swimmer to relax and float,

 

expectantly grateful,

 

with relief , certain of a wondrous rescue.

However counter-intuitive this may feel, then spiritual help will begin on its way.

 

 The  translation- language, to reach  those, ‘behind one’s curtains’,  requires one  to

 

 feel GRATEFUL, THANKFUL, and JOYFUL, as though full relief  has already been afforded you.

 

This  translation program,  however oblique and counter-intuitive, is an emotional

 

software language  which works.

 

                                   Program translation RULE

 

Stay positive.

 

Shift  from the negative

unhappiness expressed in :

 

“Oh, MY DEAR God!,  I beg you, PLEASE help me with——–!”, with angst

 

to:

 

“THANK YOU, GOD, for your wondrous help in successfully keeping all traces of——–

 

forever far away from me!”, with

 

 an inner emotional stance of

 

THANKFULNESS, APPRECIATION, GRATITUDE and RELIEF,

 

AS THOUGH WHAT YOU DESPERATELY SOUGHT ,  from Heaven,

HAD ALREADY  BEEN DELIVERED TO YOU…

 

 

  Like magic,  I was finally able to communicate passed translation bottlenecks, using

 

emotional relief and deep gratitude, regarding my travails.

 

Rather than send  more wolves, Heaven instead began to perfect a remedy for me.

 

A spiritual technophobe, slow to learn,  it took me ten years to figure this out.

 

 

A prayer request using RELIEF combined with GRATEFULNESS,   gains and re-adjusts

 

‘the ear’ of our Higher Selves, angels and spirit helpers, who manifest reality for us,

 

according to the emotional energy focus, of our heart and  mind.

.

Paranormal inter- dimensional untoward bleed-through experiences  have  diminished,

 

in ferocity and incidence, as a direct result of this ‘language’ software shift in demeanor,

 

to

 

lend a new meaning, to the expression, “from your lips to God’s ears” .

 

As one reader commented:

 

 “One must keep a positive energy when communicating to the Creator (God). Just as

 

when you are floating on the water.. you remain relaxed and at peace, the water and you

 

are performing a sort of “dance” ..a partnership in your communication between the

 

water and you.

 

The same is true when communicating with the Creator. Stay calm, confident, peaceful,

 

and relaxed.

 

Be thankful and serene as you SHARE in your petitions to the Creator.. “

 

 

 

 

 

God is real, but down a long hall, but somewhere else other than world religions’

 

wrongness,  about the ‘vengeful’ nature of God, for God has a natural of love for

humankind..