UNIT 23

I met a woman at a sci-fi convention in Vegas in ‘96. I’d driven from LA on a whim. This was a fan celebration of the first (and only) season of Space: Above & Beyond, on FOX. Fandom was new to me; over time I found sci-fi fans to be invariably intelligent and considerate…well, most of them:)

In a crowded room filled with enthusiastic people, meeting in person for the first time (they’d become friends by chatting about our show on IRC and the internet) I felt drawn to a single woman, sitting apart. As if I were …bewitched. We spoke. From the Midwest, she visited me here and I visited her there. We fell in love. I invited her to move out here with me and create a life together.

She agreed. And I bought her a condo…across the path from my own. She deserved her own door to close, if that was what she needed. The market was down, my own home underwater …but I’d already bought a two bedroom here for my cousin, a drama professor at CSUN. So I bought my fiancé a one-bedroom. Unit 23.

It was spacious and surprisingly affirming space, thanks to the architectural taste of the designers, had planes and levels and a huge enclosed outdoor patio. It was a one-bedroom. The joke in the valley at that time was, “What’s the difference between gonorrhea and a one bedroom condo?” “You can get rid of the clap!” It was cheap, $25K and I signed the papers.

At some point, our marriage impending I learned that my true love desired to live in a “large house” To me, that meant liquidating and consolidating my assets – selling off properties; I had no stomach for being a landlord to strangers. So I sold Unit #23 to a woman leaving the military. I liked that, liked that I was helping a fellow veteran become home owner. And I made a tidy profit in the bargain, tripling my money

It was a also a good investment for her. The market continued to rise and when she finally chose to sell, she more than tripled her own money! Yet throughout her life in this home, to the very end, she remained vindictive, hostile, resentful. She made public accusations about me, as condo president that were probably libelous…but they were clearly the product of someone unstable and delusional. Eventually she sold her home and left.

The new owner became a landlord. Unit 23 is now his investment. Guess who his renters are, today? The couple with whom I’ve recently had differences.

Three different tenants. Three different women. All three at some point became hostile, emotional and vindictive towards me.

There are three common elements here: Unit 23…women…and me.

Now here’s where it gets deep. And this may be beyond your ken or belief systems to sit comfortably. That’s cool. Seriously.

For those willing to venture on, around that time in ’96 I was engaged in spiritual studies. I’d been befriended by gifted adepts who knew what my life was like, knew that I attracted attention, that I had always attracted attention. From my work, yes, and from the way I moved thru life. But also (and more importantly) attention from other realities, other planes. I was being taught how to shield myself from intrusion Even before I had asked my fiancé to join me out here, I’d received warnings from my teachers…that she was the host of a very powerful, malevolent entity.

Did I mention that I was in love…and for the first time in many years? It was a total surprise; I knew how unlikely I was to ever again experience that singular sensation.

If you’ve know it, being in love, then you know how unique that is. Not necessarily efficient or productive…but compelling. It’s surprising what we’ll do to allow that special state of being to continue to be. I abandoned the studies with my teachers…I chose my fiancé.

She lived there for about a year before talk about “a big house” began. When I put Unit 23 up for sale, we lived together in my home. After some months, issues arose. This was many years before I began medication. Long story short, we separate, she rents another apartment, we effort and eventually founder in 2000. I dodged a bullet. And I still love her:)

But there was a night that I lay down beside her…and I saw The Entity. I was chilled. I immediately slipped out of bed, walked downstairs and spent that night on the couch. I’ve never forgotten that vision.

I saged Unit 23 when it was first ready for occupancy. I know nothing about its prior owner. But I do know that my fiancé once lived there. And that the woman who next occupied the unit changed over the years. I remember a hostile exchange between us in a condo laundry room about laundry being touched. She later appeared outside my door, knocking, needing to apologize and I embraced her, grateful for her courage and candor. But she was irrevocably altered. And now there’s a new couple living in Unit 23…with whom I’ve experienced hostility.

1. My fiancé left something behind in Unit 23…call it a mojo:)
2. Unit 23 had a mojo before it even came into my life.
3. There is no mojo. This is all just…coincidence:)
4. The mojo in Unit 23 affected my fiancé, my buyer and the present tenants.

What do you think?

There will be more to this miniseries:) I’m gonna write a letter to this guy, now that I know where he lives. Dunno what I’m gonna say…but I suspect, at some point, we’ll sit down over beers and talk about our ‘event’…and if there’s a window of opportunity, I’ll ask him whether their relationship has changed since they’ve lived there. And perhaps, offer him some sage. I still have a bunch from my visit to Botswana.

28 April, 2012

POSSIBILITY

Those of you who’ve read my book or blog posts know that my world view may be very different from yours…and that what is so for me may very well not be so for you. I’m not interested in persuading anyone about anything. I simply share this old aphorism: “What you believe is a lie; what you experience is the truth.”

In my eclectic life, I’ve watched an object maneuver around and above Area 51 that “does not exist.” I’ve been out of my physical body twice…in combat. I’ve visited Machu Picchu and Chichen Itza at sacred moments during the solstice and equinox. I’ve observed telekinesis, telepathy, pre-cognition, astral travel, cloaking, remote viewing and many other phenomena that are outside mainstream reality. I have met and been guided by adepts who recognize other entities, other realities, other levels of consciousness. I can’t do all that at will…but I know that others can.

Perhaps there are many alternate realities. Perhaps we each live in intersecting and parallel realities. It is said that the first Native Americans to notice ships approaching did not in fact “see them”. They may have seen “something” but such a craft was so challenging to their beliefs that their minds, in survival mode, converted the ships to something that did resonate with their world views. Jung wrote of “screen memories”, the minds defense mechanisms, the need to convert the image of something so anomalous, so troubling to a memory of something more familiar; i.e., an owl rather than an alien grey.

I loved responses to a recent post. Each regarded and analyzed the events described, based upon their own belief systems…and the variety was intriguing.

So…we each have our own comfort levels. Some are more gifted, some more adventurous, some more compelled to venture into the deep end of the pool. Just remember that your existence can be as uncomplicated or as diverse as you’re willing to allow…and that there will be new stuff for you to learn for as long as you’re willing to learn.

NEIGHBORS

I’m sitting down in my living room, watching last nites Jon Stewart show…and my doorbell rings. As I mute the DVR, there is now pounding on my door! I open it to discover an enraged man who is screaming at me. “Don’t you curse my wife! Who do you think you are? You got a problem, you come talk to me….!”

He is beside himself with rage, shaking, unable to stand still, the anger rolling off him in waves, like smoke. Probably 6’ 2”, maybe 210 or so, in his 30’s, white and a total stranger to me. “I don’t know your wife…” I begin. He never stops shouting, never stops pacing, flexing, twice feints throwing a punch at me, his fists clenched. I’ve closed my door behind me, I’m now trapped, surrounded on all three sides by patio and stucco walls. And he continues to rant and pace.

Flashback – maybe 20 minutes ago. 7 PM. I went out to get my mail and notice a woman walking a large dog – in the interior courtyard beside our jacuzzi, cedar chips decorating the ground. I pass her without comment, get my mail and return. She is still there. I can’t believe this. Finally I ask, “You’re not walking your dog in here, are you?” She has a hat pulled down over her eyes, really can’t see her face and almost embarrassed says, “He wouldn’t go outside…” I say to her, “You can’t walk him in here. We all live here.” I’m not shouting, I’m being incredibly reasonable, just stating an obvious truth.

She snaps as she pulls her dog away to exit, “Don’t talk to me like a child!” I then say, “Fine. I’ll talk to you like an adult. Don’t walk your fucking dog inside of our courtyards.” She goes entirely ballistic. “Don’t you curse at me! Don’t you shout at me!”… and continues to exit. I’m shaking my head in disbelief. I guess I’d better drop our condo president a note; clearly this is unacceptable.

I was condo president for 5 years, a board member for 10. I stepped down several years ago, exhausted, weary of mediating owner madness, selfishness, greed, suspicion. 68 units. 67 differing opinions about rules, money, conduct, investment, etc. It’s a thankless job…but someone has to do it. Since I no longer own three units, just my home now, I’m happy to let others do the heavy lifting of governing.

Back to the present. This angry man’s voice echos thru the courtyard. I’m standing in front my home of 18 years, being berated and threatened by a stranger. I don’t like that, still don’t like the idea, days later. I try several times to reason with him. “Look, I don’t know you, I don’t know where you live. How could I even approach you to discuss anything…?” At no time does he use profanity…and mercifully race never enters the equation. Mercifully.

I have lots of errant thoughts, throughout this. Hmmm. Maybe I should keep my Glock downstairs, rather than beside my bed. Don’t much like that thought, not even a little. I’m watching him very carefully. He comes closer and pulls back, constantly circling, his expression and posture suggests this inner monologue, “Jesus, I just want to punch the living shit out of you!”

My hands never clench, my arms rest comfortably at my side. I’m watching his weight shifts, the position of his arms and I know there is a magic line between us…and when he crosses that line, I’ll have to respond. And I will. I have no choice, I’m trapped. I think about asking him, “What are you thinking? I’m 68 years old. I have shrapnel inside of me, three bulging discs, a newly implanted corneal lens, bad knees, totally out of shape, I’ve smoked since ’61 and probably couldn’t run very far if it were possible to run away….” I say none of that aloud. I just watch him rant…waiting.

Now this is perhaps a technicality…but in my mind I never cursed his wife. I wouldn’t do that, it’s just not me. But I am unashamedly profane, without question. I’m a soldier and we curse, as matter of course. “Don’t walk your fucking dog in our courtyard.” I guess you could say that I cursed her dog…OK? I’ll cop to that. Anyway, he is having none of it. He’s still shouting but seems to be winding down…and is slowly revealing himself. “My dog doesn’t crap or pee inside our property!” When I pointed out that was exactly what his wife intended, he snapped, “Well, I can buy a bag of cedar chips!” His last words are telling. “Don’t you ever curse my wife! I live in a one-bedroom apartment! I’ve got nothing to lose!” And then he wheels and walks back to his apartment. Clearly they both know where I live. I have no idea where they live…but it’s entirely possible that at some point I encountered them and exchanged “hellos”….I just don’t remember. Hell, they may very well live right across the inner path from me, for all I know. We all have patio fences, he could be like that guy in “Home Improvement”, just a disembodied voice.

OK. He’s gone. I reopen my door and sit back down in wonder. The last guy that threw a punch at me was in 1966. I ended up driving him to the hospital for stitches. That was before Vietnam. No fights since. None…and there have been opportunities, thru the years. I was once afraid NOT to fight. I was bullied some as a kid, I took my lumps and I always stood up. Something changed after Vietnam. I had nothing more to prove; not to myself, not to anyone else. At least about what I had inside me.

It’s amusing and maybe a little flattering that some friends suggest I’d have a fair shot at winning such an encounter. That’s laughable. There are no winners when someone goes to the hospital and someone goes to jail. So while I may have once been a fairly dangerous opponent, physically, that time is long past and it ain’t coming back. I’ve always had surprising muscle memory…that memory now has Alzheimer’s 🙂 The only just time to respond to force with force is when you have NO OTHER CHOICE.

Here’s the wonder part. I’ve always had a hair trigger temper. If I feel threatened, whenever my adrenaline kicks in, I can go from zero to ninety in a heartbeat! I know that surge of heat, that flame that makes everything slow down yet speed up, simultaneously. That didn’t happen Wednesday evening. I was ready…but I was always clear-headed. I knew he was dangerous to me but for whatever reasons, my chemistry didn’t push me into a place where a smart ass retort (and boy, were there opportunities:) an aggressive posture, a matching of my tone and volume to his could easily have taken this from an unpleasant encounter to something far more dangerous. It doesn’t take much in today’s world; everyone is stressed and pissed off about something… and your life can change for all time with one poor decision.

So within all this tsuris, there was a very small sense of success. I had handled myself well, appropriately. Perhaps because of my advanced years or my self-awareness or my PTSD medications or the joint I’d enjoyed minutes before he entered my life. I wasn’t baked…but my oven was surely turned on:) I’d have liked to have said, “Hey, come on in, let’s sit down, have a beer and talk about this like grown men.” But I didn’t.

For the next couple days, I was aware that I felt…less safe, less comfortable, fearful of BB’s safety, maybe awaiting another knock on my door. Don’t much like that. I’ve lived here for all these years because I truly love coming home, I LOVE living in my home. But perhaps this is a timely reminder that safe is always relative and safe is a state of mind. Nothing is certain…not life, not health, not security. BE HERE NOW

28 April 2012