Cryptic material removed from the appendices of SILICON EMBRACE – my novel Re-edited for the new edition

• • •


There are no Zetans. I’m not saying there are no extraterrestrials; there just might be a few saucer-pilots checking us out.
There are no “gray alien” abductions. There are no implants. Unless these events are staged by—as some have suggested—government intelligence services.
I have seen the enemy and he is us.
• • •
In real life, and not just in this book, American intelligence services had—and some say, still have—a Black Project devoted to mind control, to some extent using mass media, called MK Ultra. This program experimented with direct control of human behavior through the transmission of microwave impulses (every paranoid schizophrenic’s fantasy), through the (much documented) use of LSD and other drugs on unwitting, non-voluntary subjects, and, some claim, through such devices as the Warren Commission, which “investigated” the assassination of John F. Kennedy, and the subsequent selling of the commission’s “Oswald was a lone nut” conclusion to the public by means of a pliable media.

There are also numerous rumors—some of which have percolated into mass media via The X-Files television series—that MK Ultra was involved in creating the “alien abduction” stories, in fabricating the tales of UFO abductions to cover up other nefarious intelligence activities, or, as yet another rumor goes, as a test of mind control methodology.
After all, if you can make someone believe they’ve been abducted by creatures from outer space, alien beings who’ve poked probes into their asses and stolen some of their “time,” you can make them believe anything.
Researcher and writer Jacques Vallée reported that an investigation into an apparent UFO abduction in France turned up evidence that the whole thing had been staged by human beings: a man was drugged and then found himself swallowed up in a luminous fog. He woke up days later with a vague memory of alien abduction. Certain agents of French Intelligence admitted to Vallée, in Paris, that they had staged this entire event as an experiment in mind control.
There are indications that a “UFO close encounter” at an American air base in England, widely reported in the press, may have been staged by American military Intelligence. The medium here is the Staged Event. It is theatre disguised as reality—and the theatre extends even into the news media reporting the Staged Event. The same may apply to the notorious “alien autopsy” film which is likely a fabrication involving certain notorious crop-circle hoaxers collaborating with an American CIA agent—perhaps working for MK Ultra—with some arcane mind control agenda.

The USSR, during a time when the SALT treaty was newly in force, reported a rash of UFO sightings in Siberia. Their media interviewed bemused country folk who spoke in awed tones of the strange lights in the sky. Post-USSR revelations of KGB documents revealed that the “lights” were in fact night time missile tests carried out by the Soviets under the camouflage of a “rash of ‘flying saucer’ sightings,” in order to avoid exposing their violation of the SALT treaty. The KGB, too, is the likely source of the notorious UMMO letters supposedly from “extraterrestrials” circulated a few years back.
Rael. Solar Temple. Look for cults to arise who use UFO imagery to seduce the lost and rootless into their agendas. Trust in God but tie your camel down.

• • •


Something more about Anatole.
Anatole, very tired, came home from his work at the school, and wrote a letter to Farraday’s son Jason, before going for his walk on the beach. There was a long PS. The PS was longer than the letter:

PS: Jason, you asked about Soul Making, as your father called it, and you asked about the Meta. That term, Soul Making, is a bit deceptive, though there’s a sense in which it is literally true. I refer you to the list of books I gave you last time, including the Moses Maimonides and the Boris Mouravieff, and the Gospel of Thomas (the Gnostic version of the gospels, from the Nag Hammadhi Library). Eg, from the Gospel According to Thomas: “…These are the secret words which the Living Jesus spoke arid Didymos Judas Thomas wrote: And He said: Whoever finds the explanation of these words will not taste death. Jesus said; Let him who seeks, not cease seeking until he finds, and when he finds/he will be troubled, and when he has been troubled, he will marvel, and he will reign over the All. Jesus said: If those who lead you say to you: ‘See, the Kingdom is in Heaven’, then the birds of the Heavens will precede you. If they say to you: ‘It is in the sea’, then the fish will precede you. But the Kingdom is within you and it is without you. If you will know yourselves, then you will be known, and you will know that you are the sons of the Living Father. But if you do not know yourselves then you are in poverty and you are poverty.”
This “knowing yourself” is not so easy. There is a story (several extant versions) of a Zen monk who went to his Master and said, “Master I want to be like you, and soon. How will this be accomplished?” And the Master said, “It can be accomplished like this: go for just seven days watching everything you do and everything you feel, and do not let your attention lapse at all for those seven days.” The Monk said: “Piece of cake!” He went and tried to do this, and after just a few minutes found he was thinking, instead, of dinner and ceasing to be vigilant within himself. He tried again and again but could not be completely vigilant for more than a few minutes at a time. And he had been asked to be vigilant continually for seven days! So he returned to his Master and said, “It is too difficult to learn to do this in seven days—can you give me more time?” The Master said, “Yes. Take seventy years.”
The time of the gifts given by the Meta is past. The Meta have removed to their own vibratory home-base, as it were. We can go to them, and they can give us, through that Higher thing, a sort of help, but they—and Ceph, who is with them now—can no longer come here and take us into their substance as they did with Lila and me, and as Ceph did, after his transfiguration, and offer an immediate exposure to the energies of transformation.
Now they have moved up, beyond our immediate reach, and they call to us and we must strive to rise to them; strive to burn with a consciousness that is like a fire in wood, and release the sparks that rise: that slow burning, that slow striving, that is how the process works. And even that which they gave us, in those days, is not permanent. It is an open window but it is not an open door. Lila is now, once more, in Tibet, working to open that door (my work with children keeps me here this time). Even Enlightenment, you see, can be trod down under the usual identification with life. So we have to work. And work and work, second by second, year after year, with the methods given to us by the various traditions which are at root one tradition; we have to walk the Way ourselves, step by trudging step. We cannot be carried.
• • •
Having written this, Anatole Osterberg, aka Anatole Sullivan, went for his walk on the beach, near his house.
…Dusk on the sea. Fine energies moved in keenly attenuated waves through the hard and soft places of the world. Anatole felt the gentle tug of apocalypse,of mass epiphany, another cycle of change coming.
He smiled wearily and shrugged.
He was more interested in this moment on the beach on San Francisco Bay. There were machinations in the sea. Walking near the lacy fringe of the water, Anatole could see machinery just under the surface. DuChamp’s pistons and vents and, vaster than that, a subaquatic architecture of chrome, made of vast pipe organ arrays locked into chromium dynamos, like some flooded Fritz Lang set (remembering the Fritz Lang videos cinema-obsessed Quinn had lent him); part of it moving in machine-precise patterns, part of it stationary as a mountain of iron. Inflexible laws improbably seen in the purely chaotic. Machines of the sea. Impossible, paradoxical, and glisteningly evident.
An orbital shuttle rising from the Zetan airbase thudded through the sound barrier; the only sound the nullgrav vehicle made. Several small children in cutoffs were thrashing through the surf, playing Good Zetan and Bad Zetan, and they waded right through his visioned machinery, up to their knees in steel, and yet Anatole knew it was there, knew he was not hallucinating. A vision is not a hallucination. A vision is a disclosure.
Why the sea? he wondered. What inexorable function is prefigured here?
Breeze-blown sidewinders of sand skirled the beach, struck at his ankles, between his socks and cuffs, with a pleasant grainy stinging; the sky roiled with sullen power, and at the horizon small angels in dull neon were strung like children’s paper dolls, refolding into crystalline orbs.
Gazing at the horizon, Anatole thought of time and loss… magic and loss… and of course thought of Lila. The separation from her hurt like a son of a bitch.
Looking at this suffering as a thing-in-itself, Anatole thought of the place at the cusp of Being, just beneath the Absolute, at the juncture of the Pleroma: the place where plus and minus meet; where positive and negative, active and passive neutralize; where two needles meet point to point, their infinitely sharp points exactly poised one on the other; the needles (widening past the junctured points to infinitely expanding cones) turning each in the direction opposite the other.
And pinned between these infinitely sharp points is consciousness, present tense: the first circle of consciousness, the stone dropped in the pond. Between these point-on-point spikes is crucified this: the unspeakable suffering of God.
The unspeakable suffering of God.
And radiating from this suffering: The ineffable mercy of God.
He felt Lila, nearby. Close: Only on the other side of the planet. Close as a heartbeat.

End of Appendices

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