Sunday, October 4, 2015

The Mind-Body Connection

Physical Healing + Bigfooting + Conflict Resolution + Ghosting + Financial Security + UFO Research + Preventative Medicine

Whether one is bigfooting, ghosting, or conducting UFO investigations, it pays to remember that the imagination IS a factor.  This doesn't mean that one "makes up" anything in a fictional or a fraudulent sense. Rather, I'm talking about the way the imagination serves to "prime the pump," so to speak, when it comes to initiating contact.

In my video, I mention the way "image sending" helped to save my life during an abduction in New York City by a cab driver. Such sending bears a striking resemblance to the way I have successfully initiated contact with sasquatches for years. Granted, sending "picture postcards" is unorthodox, to say the least, and it does have some rather uncomfortable parallels with time-worn methods that have been used historically to invoke/conjure intradimensionals, but the results do in fact work when it comes to bigfoots--and yes, ghosts, as well.

I certainly did not initially set out to "conjure" bigfoots. Au contraire. Rather, I stumbled onto this technique through the back door, so to speak--through trial and error, as well as already moving in a similar direction with unrelated background experiences, such as growing up in a haunted house.

As I've mentioned in other blog posts, I was born into a family that has experience with remote viewing/astral travel and other supernatural forays into the realm of the wyrd. Some might call such a predisposition towards supernatural contact to be the product of genetic inheritance, but I'm not so sure.

As with alien contact, it seems that intra-dimensionals tend to prefer working with folks from families that have been involved in the process back through time, for whatever reason. Ghosts also tend to haunt families in many cases, rather than isolated individuals. My bigfooting and ghosting experiences began when I was quite young, and an encounter with UFO's happened to three of my family members when we were all kids, despite the fact that it was compartmentalized and never mentioned until about twenty years later when we all realized that we'd been having the same recurring dreams!

When it comes to bigfoot habituation, who is the subject and who is the object?

As for cultivating contact with bigfoots, a great many researchers tend to use food as a way to habituate forest giants to become accustomed to interacting with human beings. Oh, if only they knew what is doing the REAL habituation! 

In such cases, it is the sasquatches that are, in turn, habituating humans by allowing the humans to believe they are in charge.

So-called baiting stations, where food is left, can certainly help to establish a connection.

Whether the researcher is acting from a scientific standpoint by leaving bait, or a paranormalist perspective by leaving an offering, is actually fairly irrelevant.  Yes, the latter is quite a bit easier for IDE's to manipulate, but with time and patience even the most hardened scientist will come around, particularly if he or she returns often enough to check his or her "baiting station."

Such offerings are a form of wish fulfillment that sasquatches and other IDE's may or may not accept as a way to establish a psychic bond.  Often, the likelihood of "habituating" an IDE through such rudimentary methods has more to do with the type of psychic energy and body chemistry that the humans bring to the table.

The actual food that one leaves in such cases is fairly incidental. Yes, certain kinds of food are more tasty to a sasquatch than other kinds of food. Often, however, even if the food is taken it is not eaten.

Accepting an offering (or taking the bait) is a way of connecting with the mental signature of the human(s) involved.

The above video (at the top of this blog entry) discusses the "Mind-Body" connection primarily in terms of its application to supernatural phenomenon.  Establishing rapport with sasquatches, ghosts and other Intra-Dimensional Entities (IDE's) tends to accelerate the "meet-greet" process, thereby greatly improving outcomes . . . that is, if one considers contact to be a desirable outcome.

Historically, many different terms have been used for the process of establishing rapport between intra dimensionals and human beings.  Everything from conjuring to invoking to simply offering a greeting or salutation is applicable.  When one realizes this all-important fact, a kind of veil is lifted from one's outlook. Such a vision of what lies underneath can be liberating or greatly discouraging. It all depends upon one's cultural, religious, and philosophical orientation.

Admitting that bigfooting is really just another form of initiating contact between humans and IDE's is a big step for many researchers. Apers tend to poo-poo this very real facet of bigfooting, whereas many paranormalists err on the side of deifying sasquatchs as quasi-gods.

Ubernaturalists forge a path through the rough in order to reconcile each of the two divergent views, as well as lending a helping hand to individual researchers regardless of their orientation. Every field researcher who is conducting research deserves an audience. There are always plenty of interesting details they bring back with them from encounters that transcend the rather pedestrian line of demarcation between apers and supernaturalists.

As I've said, both schools tend to exhibit their own set of weaknesses and strengths. But the data transcends such handicaps. That is why it's so important for apers not to self-censor vital details!  Likewise, it's imperative that paranormalists strive to learn some logic skills from apers. 

At any rate, my video about the Mind-Body Connection was recorded in an attempt to explain the basics of mind-body physics and how these apply to preternatural subjects and objects of "outsideness" that fall outside the spectrum of normal human experience.

Statue of Mothman in Point Pleasant, West Virginia

Such a label of outsideness certainly applies to the "Mothman" phenomenon. Perhaps coincidentally, Mothman of Point Pleasant, West Virginia, was first seen a few months after I was born in 1966. Many years later, I attended Principia College in Elsah Illinois from 1984-1988. During this time, a rash of Mothman sightings flared up in the area during the time I attended college there, and then stopped almost immediately after I graduated near the end of 1988. I'm not saying there is a connection, of course, but the coincidence is interesting to note.

At the time, I instinctively recognized a connection between people's outlook and Mothman sightings. In fact, whenever local residents began to focus their thought on Mothman, which I called "Piasa" at the time (its longstanding Native American name), the creature would sometimes manifest and begin plaguing them with bad luck. This actually happened to me while I was in college. I saw a dark hulking shape high up in a tree during an electrical storm, and then ran back into my dorm room. The encounter seemed to give me a streak of bad luck for over a year afterwards. One bad thing after another came down the pike.

When I consciously made an effort to focus my thought away from the darkness (of what I called "The Piasa") and into the light of positive outcomes and possibilities, the bad luck faded away. In fact, $900 fell in my lap due to a strange twist of fate.

Lastly, I thought I would demonstrate how my understanding of the paranormal has evolved over the past twenty years or so. The above documentary was filmed before I understood how the "mind-body connection" applies to the field of bigfooting, as well as ghosting and other paranormal research. 
In fact, I mistakenly believed that my offerings of apples had more to do with the fruit themselves than with the intention by which I left them on the hiking trail. Kurt Lancaster's footage chronicles my pursuit of High Sasquatchery way back in the summer of 2002. Lancaster is currently a tenured Professor of Performance Studies at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff.
AFTER KULTUS, LANCASTER WENT ON TO PRODUCE ANOTHER SHORT DOCUMENTARY ABOUT ME WITHOUT MY PERMISSION OR KNOWLEDGE. Called Huckleberry August, the film won a few awards at film festivals in the Southwest until I caught wind of it and had the film yanked because it portrayed me as a womanizer and a wild man.
Actually, I found out about the film from a woman I had begun dating in Portland who suddenly broke off all contact with me, but not before sending me a link to the documentary on Lancaster's website!  
Many of my friends at the time found the documentary amusing and even somewhat complimentary but since I had a career as a professor to safeguard, I hired a lawyer and issued a Cease and Desist on the film, which was politely observed. Strange as it may seem, Lancaster and I are still friends. I forgave him entirely for his lapse in judgment and never pressed charges of any kind.
As for the area where most of the footage in Kultus was filmed, it proved to be remarkably squatchy.  About one third of the film is nocturnal bigfooting at Kultus Lake, WA. I took the opportunity to leave offerings. However, none of the apples I left were accepted by sasquatches. It's worth pointing out that the trail on which I left them was a fairly busy one during the daytime.
A high amount of human foot traffic could have certainly reduced the likelihood that a sasquatch would be paying attention. This said, one spot in particular on the trail did seem to give the impression that a cloaked sasquatch was nearby, at least judging by the severity of my own personal "dread response," as well as the documentary film maker's anxiety in one particular spot.
The entire documentary can be found here: Kultus: A Search for Sasquatch.  And, yes, it was filmed before I considered myself an Ubernaturalist.

Thursday, September 24, 2015

Herded Towards A Portal

In the summer of 2005, I got a crash course in portals. It was an experience that changed my life forever.

My girlfriend, Meg, and I drove up to camp by Tillicum Swamp in Southwestern Washington. The area is located in what I call "The Green Triangle."  Situated between Mount St. Helens, Rainier and Adams, it is filled with old forests, active volcanism, alpine swamps and bigfoots. There are also quite a bit of other strange goings-on there--everything from bizarre otherworldly animals walking (or flying) around to UFO activity to intra-dimensional portals. Even dinosaurs.

I say "intra dimensional" because it is my contention that such "folds" in space-time come from within rather than from without. In other words, we are talking about inner space.

So Meg and I assembled our put tent, and lay down to take a nap beside the swamp. Actually, there is an ancient pile of stones that seem rather mysterious near the campsite. It's occurred to me that they could possibly represent some sort of bigfoot cairn, although this possibility is probably remote at best. The area is certainly brimming with bigfoot activity, mostly of the "cloaked" variety.

Nearby, my friend Bjorn Johnson, who is the son of Jimmy Carter's White House librarian, once witnessed a huge cloaked sasquatch step on a tree branch that was lying in the road and break it in half. Immediately afterwards he came running into camp to tell another friend and I what had happened. He didn't explain it as a cloaked sasquatch (that was my interpretation), but he described the stick snapping in half on the ground near him and the sound of footsteps going off up the logging road away from him.

Paved road above Cayuse Meadow, and that's my "untrusty" KLR.

So the area is a pretty hot one for all things "ubernatural." As I said, the summer after Bjorn and I camped along the swamp, Meg and I set up camp and took a brief nap. Now, I was dabbling in what is called "remote viewing" at the time. This is a type of skill set in which one lets one's awareness exit one's body to "see" things in a non-corporeal way. Indeed, the CIA and the US military, in addition to the Russian military and many other military programs around the world, have spent hundreds of millions of dollars over the past sixty-five years experimenting with remote viewing (which is also called "astral flight").

Believe it or not, my father, Ed, experimented successfully with remote viewing after he had been etherized on an operating table to have a lung removed. He was twelve years old in Portland, Oregon. While under, the doctors were amazed to witness his lung re-inflate on its own, something that almost never happens. They called off the operation and my father eventually was revived from the ether. Ed told the doctors and nurses that he remembered everything they had done and said while he was unconscious. He explained how he had flown up over the table, watched them, and then passed back and forth through a wall a few times. The nurses laughed patiently, explaining to him that he had only been dreaming. When Ed proceeded to tell them verbatim everything that had been said and done, they were very uncomfortable with the fact that he was right, but they admitted as much to him.

Over the past week, upon returning from the hospital, my father experimented with remote viewing. After his experience with ether, it wasn't terribly hard to duplicate the effect without drugs of any kind. Ed conducted the experiments at night in his bed when he was getting ready to sleep. Each time he left his body to remote view, the experience caused worse and worse headaches when he returned to his body. The last time Ed tried it, he also inadvertently slipped forward in time to the next morning. In his astral form, he watched the sun come up through the living room windows. When he re-entered his body, still in the morning, and then traveled back to the previous night, a terrible migraine flared up. It did not stop for days. Ed abandoned his remote viewing experiments, never trying them again. He told me that he was lucky not to have died due to the fact that it was extremely difficult to regress back in time. He did not understand how he had slipped out of time during his final remote viewing episode.

When I was engrossed in training with remote viewing techniques while in my mid-30's, I bought quite a few books on the subject, along with an expensive military-grade DVD box set that I was able to purchase through Afterwards, I gave the materials to my father when I was done with that part of my training, thinking that he might be interested given the account he had related about his boyhood experiments. Later, Ed confessed that the material made him uncomfortable enough so that he put everything in a box and kept it in his basement.

I never suffered headaches during my experimentation with remote viewing, but then again, I was never able to slip forward or backward in time, either.  Right around the point at which I was camping with Meg, my girlfriend, by Tillicum Swamp, I was getting quite good at remote viewing experiments. The skill set tends to build through repetition and experience. If one doesn't practice it often, the ability withers and goes away. I had been practicing quite diligently and was able to "fly" up over Tillicum. As I did so, I let my mind also send out a signal to any sasquatches or old ones nearby (old ones are a more civilized form of sasquatch with rounder heads and often a more human-looking face).

My message seemed to be intercepted by a force that was directly to the northeast of where I was hovering in the astral plane over Tillicum Swamp. So I let the force pull me towards it. In my lucid dream state, I could see the topography of the area like never before. It was thrilling and also a bit disconcerting because I was not in control of an out of body experience for the first time since I had experimented with the technique.

After passing over Squaw Butte, I found myself coming down from the southwestern side of Cayuse Meadow, an area that I had camped many times before. In fact, Bjorn and I had camped there and made two discoveries: 1) the place was littered with elk bones as if it were some sort of "graveyard" where the beasts lied down to die, and 2) a huge sasquatch bellowed down at us at dusk as we set up our tents in the middle of the meadow on the area with the buried elk bones, which seemed to be the driest part of the meadow.

The view from "on high" was exhilarating as I soared over the meadow and up the eastern slopes towards the area where Bjorn and I had heard a huge forest giant bellowing during the previous summer. I was surprised that the pull on my astral body kept pulling me farther until I was nearly to the main paved road that led from the Wind River Highway to Tillicum Campground.

On a small gated fire road, I found my vision stopping at a place where the tops of the trees were all snapped off. A large number of Doug firs were affected, most of them about twenty-five years old and twenty feet tall. At this point, a clear voice telepathically called to me. It said, quite simply, "Come!"

The vision dream ended suddenly and I found myself lying next to Meg's unconscious body in the tent sleeping soundly. It was a warm afternoon. Insects were buzzing and the air smelled fragrantly of tree pitch and pine cones.  I got out of the tent and mounted my 250 KLR motorcycle.

On the motorcycle, I was able to take a few short cuts that I could not have done with my Jeep Liberty. In about thirty minutes, I found myself on the stretch of road near where I had seen the tree breaks from above as an extension of remote viewing and being guided by some unseen force.

It took another few hours before I found the precise spot with the tree breaks. In order to reach the spot, I'd looked up and down about a half dozen fire roads and paths. To my surprise, the tree breaks were located on one of the main fire roads that led down to a view point above Cayuse Meadow.  I was surprised because the road was obviously being used by forest rangers to keep an eye on the area. It was not deserted at all. In my dream state, since I had flown up over the meadow itself, the road had seemed more remote because I had not looked up to see the paved outline of Twin Buttes road nearby.

Aerial view of Lone Butte Meadow & Cayuse Meadow

As I rode into the midst of the tree breaks, my brand new motorcycle died suddenly, as if the electrical system had been cut off. The bike was a kick start, so I tried to turn over the engine with my foot unsuccessfully. In fact, the bike had been a bit of a lemon since I had first bought the thing, and it was known to die out in the middle of nowhere, but normally when this happened it was carburetor-related. As a result, the bottom of my hiking books had been nearly worn through by the ball of the kick start catching in the Vibram tread pattern of the soles.

I dismounted from the motorcycle, and removed my helmet. The air was very still. Something was different from the norm. An odd sort of heat seemed concentrated in the area, and no insects or birds could be heard. Indeed, a preternatural stillness had fallen across the forest. I walked about fifteen yards into the woods and immediately was greeted by a "Woo Woo" vocalization. It was a first for me at the time, and actually I had never read or heard of such a sound before.

As I walked slowly towards the sound, another "Woo Woo Woo" came from behind me, and then another to my left. At the time, I thought it was the same creature vocalizing, but how had it moved so rapidly?  In retrospect, there were most likely three cloaked sasquatches at the spot waiting for my arrival.

Considering the fact that the "woo woo woo" sounds came from three places, which seemed to rotate clockwise around me with all the military precision of a Seal team recon, it is highly unlikely that bears were involved.

At the time, I thought there was one sasquatch involved, which really makes no sense unless it was "warp jumping" from place to place with some sort of intra-dimensional ability. Be this as it may, the pattern of three "woo woo woo" vocalizations coming in quick succession around me probably indicates that three cloaked sasquatches were toying with me.

I became frustrated after about three or four minutes of the hide and seek "woo woo's" and eventually I charged one of the sounds. After that, there was silence. No more vocalizations. I went over to a nearby tree, picked up a heavy branch, and whacked it. The sound reverberated through the still and silent forest like the crack of a baseball bat on a fast-pitched hardball.

No response. I tried it once more. Nothing. At the time, I didn't understand that sasquatches rarely answered tree knocks when they were cloaked and that close to a human target. Evidently, there had been none in the distance interested enough to respond.

For some reason, I remembered a pair of "rattlesnake eggs" in my pocket. They were actually a child's toy that consisted of two oval magnets which would "sizzle" when thrown into the air by virtue of the way the two magnets came apart and together very fast in mid air. Just for fun, I threw up the magnets. They sizzled loudly, cutting through the forest like FM radio static.

The reaction in front of me was instantaneous: a huge sasquatch began charging me from about thirty yards into the forest. Trees and brush crashed as it pushed its way towards me with lightning fast speed. I was shocked. In my mind, I could only grasp the image of a bear charging. I didn't even have time to turn and run.

When the sasquatch reached the open clearing where I was standing next to the two magnets that had fallen to the ground, it stopped. I didn't see anything, and so I turned and ran back to my motorcycle. Thankfully, it started right up.

I took this pic while spinning around in a bigfoot hot spot (no effects, straight out of my iPhone). I think it conveys the sort of feeling one experiences near a portal.

Because my adrenaline was pumping, I didn't have the forethought to turn around and ride out towards the main paved road. Instead, I sped off down the fire road towards the viewpoint over Cayuse Meadow. The road took a turn to the right and then went down a steep hill with deep ruts from the winter rains and snows. I had to steer carefully to avoid the ruts, which would have thrown me over the handlebars of my KLR.

As I began to descend the hill, I began hearing a crashing coming towards me in the forest. It sounded as loud as the steam in a vintage locomotive!  I was terrified to eventually see trees pushing out of the way as something huge followed me! The sound was created by a huge amount of displaced brush and trees. A kind of supernatural power seemed behind the display, as if the creature was made of a denser kind of matter than terrestrial animals. Even a huge grizzly would have been hard pressed to match such a feat!

Riding as fast as I could manage, I followed the road as gravel turned to dirt and finally into a meadow laced with rotted deadfall trees. Eventually, the road ended. I turned and looked over my shoulder. Nothing. The trees were still with only a light wind ruffling the leaves. I removed my helmet in order to determine if the crashing sound was still coming from the distance. Nothing again. The forest was quiet, but not unnaturally so.

Insects whirred and buzzed and everything felt warm and safe there.  In retrospect, that sense of security I felt made no sense. Why would I feel confident enough to dismount from my motorcycle and walk around?  For whatever reason, that's exactly what I did. I looked out over the surreal view of the meadow hundreds of feet below. Elk grazed serenely in the grass. A raven flew by overhead. It was a beautiful spot that seemed almost too beautiful. I turned to regard the swampy field directly behind me, which emptied into a little stream that ran through a copse of hemlocks, many of which had died and withered into snags that jutted up against the sky like immense tombstones.

I was mentally exhausted from my encounter and my mind was working slowly, in a stunned way. It was all I could do just to walk around and catch my breath. I walked over to the stream, knowing that I shouldn't drink from it, but nearly thirsty enough to do so.

As I neared the water, a foul stench hit my nostrils. The odor was so strong, it lodged in my sinuses. Something about it was almost human. It reminded me of the smell of human wastes in the New York subway system, where eighty years of bum urine and feces created a ghastly reek near the subway platforms, out in the darkness of the tunnel systems. This same odor seemed to come from the direction of the forest up by the entrance to the cul de sac area.

With a heightened sense of awareness and smell, I detected something huge approaching from the same direction I had ridden into the area. A kind of dread took hold of my stomach. I leaned over and fought off the nausea. Was it triggered by my jangled nerves, or by the smell itself? I couldn't be sure. And then I felt a kind of stifling sensation that was very strange, almost like an energy field creeping up from behind.  The entity was stalking me!  My instincts told me to run for it!  Get the hell out of there!

I ran towards my bike, and as I ran, my invisible pursuer seemed to close in, gliding through the air like a shark encircling its prey. No footfalls, no crunching of vegetation or sticks. Nothing on the ground. But the presence was palpable. A hypnotic impulse seemed to take hold, pushing me towards the edge of the road.

As I looked over for a second, I could see a shimmering jellyfish-like shape hovering in mid air!  Colors were a bit distorted when I looked through it at the meadow far below, but the distortion itself revealed a circular contour that reminded me of gasoline on water in a mud puddle--a kind of rainbow effect that further revealed that a portal was right there, about five feet directly out from the steep embankment that was nearly a cliff, but not quite.

I leapt onto my motorcycle, kicked over the engine, revved my throttle and spun out a bunch of gravel as I lunged back up the road. Without looking back, I jumped the bike over punky logs that were fairly smooth, almost like speed bumps in the meadow and then the gravel started again, and I was making my way swiftly up the bank.

Riding my KLR with a kind of automatic muscle memory, I felt the jagged contours of the road as if my feet were running instead of tires. Adrenaline can work that way.  Time slowed down so that I was in control of every detail and yet also sped up because I didn't really remember doing what needed to be done after I'd done it.

The road wasn't that long, maybe a mile at most. In no time at all, I was back out to Twin Buttes road.  The sweating closeness of ubernatural terror was gone. As I paused at the edge of the asphalt, my thoughts went back to the events that had started the whole nightmare: losing power as my motorcycle entered the tree-snap area. Holy shit.  I was grateful that had not happened on the way out. 

Pausing at a stop sign, I recalled how, a few years earlier, while I had been whistling at night, a harsh shrill answering whistle had come from a clump of trees across the other side of the road, only a stone's throw away. After riding around for three night's worth of squatching, hoping for an encounter, when the seemingly impossible had happened, I had put my helmet back on and ridden off like a coward on my motorcycle (a different one from the KLR). 

There was something about being in the presence of a living, breathing sasquatch that stole one's courage like a vampire sucking blood. Such was the paradox of the ubernaturalist: he spends untold hours courting unearthly encounters, and then, when they actually came to pass, the old fight-flight instinct kicked in before a Class A visual sighting could take place.

Meg was still asleep when I got back to camp. She wasn't terribly upset when I told her that I would prefer to leave the area and hold off staying overnight. The whole rigmarole of camping was never really her thing anyhow; she'd come along with me in order to be agreeable. When I tried to tell her what had happened to me on the fire road with the crooked menagerie of tree breaks, I saw a look of amused disbelief on flash across her face. Since she had grown up with a schizophrenic mother, I knew that I'd better not push my luck in an attempt to convey what had just happened to me.

It would just sound crazy to Meg and ruffle her feathers.  I couldn't really blame her for that. Despite being a sweet lady, her mother was hopelessly out of touch with reality. Growing up like that had caused Meg to be extra dependent upon "staying inside the boundaries" of accepted reality, in other words, believing everything that modern science taught her as a veterinarian in training. Yes, she was a practicing vet, and eventually she rose to the position of lead vet at a large animal shelter in the Portland Metro area.

Trees near broken tops on the fire road

As I drove out of the main road, after packing up camp, I remembered the feeling I'd had, the way some unseen force had pulled me towards those tree breaks when I'd been remote viewing the area and sending out a psychic calling card. Would the intelligence follow me back to civilization? Would it hound me? Since I was a survivor of ghostly night smotherings, the notion of being hounded by some unseen thing that had attempted to herd me into a portal was terrifying.

To my relief, this dark scenario did not play out. In fact, a few months later, I attempted to telepathically "reach" the entity that I'd encountered in the forest that summer day while Meg as sleeping in our tent a few miles away. At the time, I was sitting in the front room of my apartment on Ladd Circle in Portland, hunkered back in my Lazy Boy chair. I'd just finished reading "Psychic Sasquatch" by Keewaunee. 

The book had been fairly inspiring and blanketed the whole telepathic-bigfoot connection with feel-good vibes. The familiar old "push/pull" of bigfooting proved too strong. While in the forest, I felt the urge to flee, but once back in the familiar confines of civilization, a kind of addictive desire for yet more contact took hold of me like a drug.  The view out of front window of century-old rhododendrons was so familiar and comforting. I felt as safe as safe could be, and so I decided to try out some of the techniques Keewaunee recommended.

My little experiment proved all to easy--much more so than I'd expected. The feeling I got was as if a presence had been waiting for me to initiate further contact. When I received what I thought was an answer from the creature or creatures involved, I asked them why they had chased me. The answer that came back indicated that I had not respected the proper boundaries for such an interaction. It also indicated surprise that I was able to remote view the area. I asked the creature's name and I was surprised at its answer.

The telepathic response indicated that the name was private and not to be shared with others. I looked up the name and was surprised to find that it was the ancient name for a Celtic priest!  I'd never heard it before. It didn't even sound like Celtic to me. Out of respect, I will not repeat the name here. Ironically, the word had came to be used as an insult for Catholic priests when Ireland had been converted to Christianity.

The "portal herding incident" was one of many that occurred at a time in my life when I was growing as an ubernaturalist, learning the boundaries of the playing field, so to speak. After my experiences dabbling in telepathy for a few years, I decided to cut off the communication. I found that it felt as though I were a child playing with matches next to entities that wielded the symbolic equivalent of fireworks . . . enough gunpowder and phosphorus to light up the entire night sky next to my puny sulfur match tip.

I also discovered that opening up psychic channels of communication often left one vulnerable to eavesdropping, and perhaps some things even worse. And so, I stopped experimenting with remote viewing and with telepathy, particularly in squatchy areas and in regard to the beings in squatchy areas of the forest.

My advice to those interested in remote viewing and telepathy is to take baby steps first. Practice in places one is familiar with, is the best strategy. Yes, experimenting in hot zones of squatch activity will greatly boost one's abilities, accelerating the learning curve nearly exponentially, but the price one can pay for such assistance is daunting. Any native American shaman worth his salt would discourage such foolishness.

Not counting lenticular clouds (see above), UFO's and strange lights are often seen in the "green triangle" which lies between Mt. Rainier, Mt. St. Helens, and Mt. Adams. I've been camping in the Cascades mountains with an eye out for supernatural goings-on ever since I was a kid. Curiosity about the supernatural runs in the family. My paternal grandfather was born in the shadow of Rainier. My maternal grandfather was born in the shadow of Mt. Shasta in the southern Cascades, which is also known for paranormal activity. He is rumored to have been a "time traveler" of sorts, but that is another story. Before she died, my paternal grandmother, Veta, told me about how she had witnessed a glowing portal full of "squirming beings" open up in my parent's kitchen while everyone else was at church on Sunday morning. Veta's father was nearly seven feet tall and immigrated to America from Wales before the turn of the Twentieth Century.

In fact, the very idea of dabbling and baiting "spirits" would cause them to shrink back and go the other way. I should know, I've tried asking some trusted native American friends about such techniques and scenarios and the conversations have never gone very well, except perhaps with the Millennials that are not in touch with their tribe's longstanding traditions (caution) about such things.

Down in the Southwest, things are different. A handful of skin walkers initiate contact with the spirit world, allegedly developing the ability to shape shift and read people's minds. But up here in the Pacific Northwest, I have yet to come across a tribal member who approves of my experiments in High Strangeness. Nay, such wise men and women have never advocated messing around with remote viewing and telepathy in a place like Cayuse Meadow, which is known as being "Kultus," a no good place full of dangerous influences and things. 

Be this as it may, more than a few of my native American friends have shown quite a bit of curiosity to learn about what I have come to know the "hard way." Uber is as uber does. Such is the plight of the ubernaturalist: friend to the underdog, outcast of humanity. One or two Indians have called me lucky to be alive after what I have done for the sake of uncovering hidden and lost knowledge in a bid to help the plight of mankind as livestock for top pyramid IDE's (intra-dimensional entities) that rule our sense plane from beyond, and through human vessels.

The youngest generation of Indians, like their mainstream American contemporaries, are more interested in the hype of "all things supernatural" than their parents and their grandparents usually are. The farther one goes, back into the bloodlines of a people that has come from a longstanding tradition of protecting itself from the supernatural on a regular basis, the less such folk seem interested in associating with a renegade squatcher like myself. Ironically, they are the ones I most like to chill out with. For they hold some match sticks worth lighting . . . in a safe place, and on their own terms.

Sunday, September 20, 2015

The Mysterious Men in Plaid

Two accounts of bigfoots & aliens

Something very strange happened when I was about an hour south of Crescent City, California, vocalizing on a lone and deserted stretch of road in the winter time.  Even in the chilly weather, the redwoods were awesome to behold, creating their own layer of fog that nestled over the foothills like a baby’s blanket.  I had been vocalizing out of my Jeep’s window (without a bullhorn) for a few nights, in areas that I had associated with particularly dramatic bigfoot sightings that were mentioned online.  

Three days of squatching were rewarded finally with a loud call-back.  By that time, my voice was rather hoarse.  After responding to my calls, a bold sasquatch began approaching from across a brackish swamp.  Its calls got louder and louder, until I could also hear the loud sloshing gait of something huge moving towards me.

I was thrilled and a little caught off guard by the gusto of this particular sasquatch, which made its northern relatives in Oregon seem timid by comparison.  Its voice was deep, resonant, and its actions were unabashedly bold—moving directly towards my somewhat feeble calls, which must have carried just right, out over the swamp, due to my location and the acoustics of the high bank. 

Right as the sasquatch began pushing up towards the hill upon which my Jeep was situated (behind thick layers of foliage), a car appeared in my rear view mirror.  The sight of it caught me off guard because I hadn’t seen another car in hours.  The area was fairly deserted due to the fact that it was a weeknight and the weather had been rainy and misty in wintertime.  Much to my shock and surprise, a man in the passenger side, pulled out what looked to me like a scuba diver’s light, and began flooding the swamp with the brightest strobe light I had ever seen. 

Out in the water, the reaction from that sasquatch was dramatic.  It bellowed, as if in pain, and rushed away across the swamp at a very fast rate, even for a sasquatch. 

Everything happened so fast that I didn’t have time to really think about the likelihood that a small car would appear seemingly out of nowhere, zero-in on the sasquatch that had responded to my calls, and then shoo it away with a gadget, which, aside from its unwieldy size, could have appeared in the film, Men In Black. 

I was angry, downright furious actually, on the verge of leaping out of my Jeep to give the strangers a tongue-lashing.  I nearly did open my door, when the other car pulled slowly out into the road and drove forward, until it stopped alongside my Jeep. 

The chilling expressions on the faces of those men instantly put my temper in check.  They peered at me with a kind of detached disdain, as if I were a lab rat in some sort of Skinnerian experiment that had gotten out of its cage and was threatening to chew threw a computer cable.  When the man in the passenger side raised his strobe light, I was horrified, and looked away, but the piercing strobes merely reflected off the trees and bushes on the other side of my Jeep, blinding me.  I don’t know if I lost consciousness, but the next memory I have is of the car, up ahead of me, flashing that strobe out over the swamp from atop a little bridge.  I have no clear memory of passing the car to leave the area. 

Even now, I can move towards the fuzzy outlines of what feels like a memory, but nothing is definite.  There is a nagging sense of the orange-red compact car returning and parking directly behind me, and of my foot jamming down the accelerator to get the hell out of there, but I can’t pin anything down.  My usual ability to recall details in an orderly and a clear fashion seems disturbed somehow—muddy, diffuse, uncertain.    

In a way, the terrifying experience reminds me of the way my friends reacted to sasquatch encounters with me, events that I could recall quite clearly a few years in the future, and which they had no recollection whatsoever, their memories seemingly wiped clean—tabula rasa.    

At any rate, getting back to the aftermath of my otherworldly encounter in the Redwoods, I drove sixty miles to a motel on the southern outskirts of Crescent City in record time, even though I have no memory of speeding. 

As I pulled out my credit card to pay for a room at the motel’s lobby, I noticed my hands were covered with mud, even under the fingernails.  Once I had checked into my room, I felt like crying.  A kind of smothering depression overcame me.  I desperately wanted to sleep, but no sleep would come.  I bought myself various odds and ends from the vending machine but could not hold down any food.  My favorite brand of soda tasted terrible, especially the carbonation.  
The left side of my face was sunburned in a way that felt unusual, and my left eye kept twitching involuntarily.  The eyeball itself seemed a bit sore, as well, especially in the outside corner.  (Even to this day, the corner of my eye continues to twitch occasionally.  Sometimes a numb burning sensation causes me to itch it with my finger, which always makes the condition worse rather than better.) 

What is perhaps even more surprising than the recurring physical discomfort in my left eye is the fact that I quickly suppressed the memory of what had happened to me that bizarre evening in the California Redwoods when the Men in Plaid drove up behind my vehicle, apparently in an effort to stop me from making contact with an unusually interactive sasquatch. 

Years later, I finally began to go over the event in my mind, eventually sharing it with Thom Powell, Henry Franzoni, and Joe Beelart—some close bigfooting friends of mine.  All of them were quite interested to hear the details, but as the parallel with "Men in Black" clichés from the Hollywood film became apparent, their interest waned. It's not as if they didn't believe, they just lost interest, as if they had "heard it all before." 
Be this as it may, the act of sharing was liberating. I began to think more and more about what had happened to me. After a few weeks, I stumbled across a hand-drawn sketch of a Nordic alien that really caught my attention.  Their high cheekbones held a striking resemblance to the Men in Plaid: the same large pale eyes, the same fine hair, high cheekbones, unusually gold-tinted skin, full lips, heavy brows, square jaws, and strong necks.   The hair length of the men I had seen was admittedly shorter than the ones in sketches, which sported a medieval type of garb that struck me as corny. 

And there were some other noteworthy differences, as well: The two guys in that Datsun wore lumberjack-style “square” plaid, not true Scottish plaid with stripes.  Their fabric of their shirts seemed new, and the vehicle they drove also seemed quite new considering its approximate model year of manufacture.  Their posture was conspicuously upright, and their arms and shoulders were fairly muscular, as if they lifted weights regularly.  The strobe light looked quite bulky in a heavy-duty sort of way, and yet the man in the passenger side of the vehicle handled it nimbly, as if it were made of lightweight aluminum, a metallic-looking type of plastic, or some sort of high-tech material.             

My drawing of one of the "men" I witnessed
Be this as it may, similarities with that sketch of Nordic aliens online were striking nonetheless—enough so that I quickly realized the two men I encountered on that forlorn stretch of back road in the California Redwoods did not look anything like classic depictions “Men in Black” at all, even though the strobe light they used was remarkably similar to the device made famous in the Hollywood film, despite the fact that it was large and unwieldy by comparison.

Of course, I am well aware that the surreal encounter seemed to draw upon memories that I already possessed: the car looked almost identical to the one my mother drove when I was a boy, and the strobe light could have passed for one of the scuba diving lights that my instructor had owned when I went through my Oregon Diving Schools certification at age thirteen.  The two men also seemed a bit too well groomed and their long-sleeved plaid wool shirts identical. 

The modus operandi of such a scenario is nothing new to ufologists, but to a bigfooter like myself, it was quite disconcerting to consider the possibility that my own memories could have been manipulated to cover up what really happened.  I began to weigh the likelihood about whether recollection had been "manufactured" in some way, or, at the very least, altered with technology far and above mainstream human capabilities. 

Had a hovercraft touched down behind my Jeep with aliens aboard?  Were they keeping their big hairy “employee” from fraternizing with a member of their “herd,” so to speak?  Was a black budget program going on out there in the redwoods with covert technology?  Were the “Men in Plaid” humans with advanced black budget gizmos?  Were they a splinter group of humans from a previous technological age, hundreds of thousands of years in the past, that went underground and remained on earth today? 

In a weird sort of way, science fiction scenarios like that seemed to make more sense than what actually happened to me, at least in terms of my recollection of the events in question.  There is no way that I will ever feel entirely comfortable with the memories of that particular evening when my unbridled joy of squatching was quashed forever.  

Looking back, I can’t say that toning down the overnighters to hot spots was an entirely negative thing in my life.  In some ways, it allowed me to get on with other things that were more important, as unpopular as that might sound to my fellow bigfooters.  Squatching is more than simply an “extreme sport.”  It is a way of life when taken to the extreme.  The adrenaline rush of being in close proximity to a sasquatch is far greater than any drug known to man.   

In my case, the rush mainlined into my brain, and, yes, it seemed to bestow after-effects, which endowed me with a fun little boost of “ESP” that was even more addictive than the actual squatching tended to be.  It was almost as if being around sasquatches in close proximity reawakened a dormant part of my brain that gave me an edge on human interactions, allowing me to anticipate what others were thinking, at least to a minor extent.  I’m not sure if this propensity has much in common with other squatchers. 

After I stopped squatching regularly, the ESP abilities seemed to die down for the most part.   Even when I went back into the woods and heard them, “feeling” they were near, I just couldn’t achieve the same level of sensitivity that I once had before my run-in with the Men in Plaid.  Could they have taken away some sort of bond I had formed with sasquatches?  Probably not, but I will never know for sure.  

Be this at it may, I certainly have seen more than my share of the most die-hard bigfooters come down with horribly debilitating diseases, lose their jobs, neglect and ruin their marriages, lose their other friends, etc.  In contemporary American society, at least back in the mid-200's, it simply wasn’t a culturally acceptable activity to pursue squatching—especially when it took up so much valuable time that would normally be spent fixing up one’s house, going on normal vacations, playing with one’s kids . . . the list goes on and on. 

In my case, I spent a great deal of my adult years bigfooting, and if I were to be honest it's probably cost me the opportunity of raising a family. Then again, it's never too late. So perhaps my run-in with the Men in Plaid wasn’t all bad, even though it sure was hell on earth to go through—both during and after it happened. The trauma associated with the Men in Plaid helped me to move on because I simply couldn't go squatching aftwards for several years without feeling nauseated and sick.
The biggest down-side in the scenario was the fact that I had to shelve my novel Kultus until I no longer felt nauseated when I dwelled at length on the subject of sasquatches. Thankfully, I was able to finish the novel in late 2013. This said, it's worth mentioning that I originally wrote an afterward which talked about the Men in Plaid episode.

Very shortly after writing it, I was hospitalized by a mysterious illness that was finally completely healed with the use of antibiotics. The illness went undiagnosed by puzzled doctors that could not figure out what was wrong with me. I finally demanded antibiotics. Ironically, it was the first time I had ever needed them. Yes, that's right, I'd never taken antibiotics before, partly due to being raised by parents that didn't think very highly of them unless them were absolutely necessary.

Needless to say, I removed all mention of the Men in Plaid from the afterward of Kultus

Saturday, September 19, 2015

Lo and Behold

Most people don't know about the Paracas skulls (above) or the fact that King Tut also had an elongated skull. Was King Tut's misshapen head the product of "binding" in infancy? Were pharaohs imitating the appearance of a previous age of giants?  Modern archaeology refuses to deal with these sorts of questions.
High Strangeness abounds . . . monsters of all shapes and sizes folded between dimensions. Sometimes they straighten out their lots by accident.  Sometimes they spend thousands of years seeking a way to enter our sense plane. Such are the hidden realms that bump and grind like rusty clockwork behind the fascia of every day reality.  
Steampunk Scientists are not shackled by rules, regulations, and peer pressure. They can pursue knowledgecraft in the comforts of their own space. Believe it or not, some of the greatest technological leaps in history were not made in corporate or academic labs. Most people have not heard about the really big private discoveries that occurred after the Nineteenth Century. Why? Because the information was occulted on a "need to know" basis.
Knowledge is power, lest we forget, and powerful inventions can be priceless. Ironically, many brilliant inventors over the past century were not aware of these all-important facts. Nicola Tesla found out the hard way.
Discoveries about supernatural beings and phenomenon are no different, and many of these were made long before the Nineteenth Century. Rare instances of alliances and friendships between supernatural sentients and humans have often been manipulated and abused by other supernaturals or by greedy third party humans for as long as our species has trod the globe. C'est la vie. 
Ubernaturalism is a system of analysis that acknowledges ancient knowledge of such things, while drawing from modern evidence and scientific reasoning. This said, it is more than a bunch of rules. Ubernaturalism, as a kind of psychic altruism, embraces the need for humanity to transcend livestockhood. It seeks to awaken the dormant sense of psychic awareness in all people.
The ubernaturalist, like the "steampunk scientist," commands scientific dogma to "Sit! Roll over!" But this does not mean that the virtues of science are overlooked or undervalued. Intuition and imagination are as important to the 21st Century as it was to the Seventeenth Century when Sir Isaac Newton spent as much time studying alchemy as he did calculus.  
Just because evidence of the paranormal does not fit neatly inside our present frame of reference, scientifically speaking--this does not mean it should be ignored . . . or worse, covered up. 
And so it goes . . . turn a screw, bust a nut.  Ubernatural data gathering, analysis, and interpretation is a lot hard work. There's no room for armchair philosophers or scientists in this new and budding post-scientific age discipline.

Friday, September 18, 2015

Bobo and Kirk Chase Ghosts

A few years ago, James Fay and I took the Shanghai Tunnel Ghost Tour together. Portland is famous for its ghost tours in Old Town.  As a man who used to live in Seattle, I actually find the Ghost Tour more interesting than Seattle's Underground City Tour. Also, it's worth pointing out that Portland has far more haunted places than Seattle does.
The Shanghai tours have quite a bit of drama since they touch upon a dark chapter in Portland's past.  Back in the late 1800's, human trafficking was a fairly substantial part its "underground" economy. This was not totally eradicated until the Seaman's Act was passed by the US Congress in 1915, after which time sailors were also paid a better wage.
Bobo on Conan
As you may know, James Fay (Bobo) stars in the Animal Planet network hit called Finding Bigfoot. He and I started drinking in a courtyard restaurant that is located inside a historic building from the Nineteenth Century. The place has full sized trees growing in the central courtyard. Five stories of wrought iron balconies on all sides reminded me of the French Quarter in New Orleans. The place was definitely period. I drank my beer and imagined all of the crazy shit that must have happened there when my grandparents were still wearing diapers.  
After another round, Bobo and I walked a few blocks over to Hobo's restaurant, which serves as the meeting place for the Shanghai Ghost Tour. We sat down at the bar in Hobo's for another beer to wait for the rest of our group to show up.  
Once everybody had arrived, we told the tour guide and he got things started.  We all climbed down through a hole in the floor. It looked a lot like the old trap doors that kidnappers had used, a century earlier, to ply their sordid trade in which human beings, some of whom had come from fairly affluent families, were sold like cattle to the highest bidder.
Like Seattle, Portland has a literal "underground" city beneath it.
This tunnel leads out to the Willamette. It is the last remaining Shanghai tunnel in Portland that still goes all the way to the river.    
The old wooden steps were very steep. I was surprised how low the basement roof was.  Bobo and I had to lean over to keep from hitting our heads on the beams. The basement reeked pungently like a root cellar full of potatoes that had gone to seed.   
While on the first leg of the tour, I didn't receive any Ubernatural vibes until I eventually decided to linger behind in the darkness as the tour group kept going. 
Bobo had to stoop over to keep from hitting his head on a brick arch. Both tour guides' flashlights bobbed up and down around the corner, and then vanished.  I had brought my own flashlight, of course, but I didn't turn it on.
There, in the pitch black, I sensed a few traces of what had obviously been ghostly vibes at one time, but they were stale and weak: psychic residue that didn't generate much in the way of a reaction. So many tours every day had obviously reamed out the atmosphere of the basements with human jibber-jabber and the smothering influence of cell phone radiation, which carried a ton of esoteric data from all over the world into a cramped and hidden corner of the past.  
This tourist trap was a far cry from the vibrational signature a century earlier when drugged young revelers had been kept imprisoned in subterranean prison cells, awaiting ships to dock that needed a few more crew members. Plenty of misery to go around, and then some. Trauma of such an intensity can most certainly blanket a place like the psychic equivalent of nuclear radiation. 
The Scottish call psychic stains upon a physical location "second sight." In rare cases, actual "loops" from the past continue to play, re-animated from contact by people who visit, often for the thrill of seeing a ghost.  Ironically, such visitors are mostly "tuning" into past events that continue to play there like a recording, over and over. 
To compound the irony, ghosts can pick up on the "juicy" psychic residue of intense suffering as easily as a driver on the freeway can spot a road sign. Ghosts sometimes end up "acting out" the roles expected of them like a medieval troop of actors performing for their suppers. Of course, in such cases, most of the energy being consumed is unwittingly supplied by people who live nearby and are frightened by such displays, or by visitors who show up at the just the right moment to witness a spectacle that will frighten, sometimes thrill, and almost always deplete their energy reserves. 
Most of the ghosts in Shanghai tunnels, it seemed, had moved on to haunt some place else, or to emerge through an intra-dimensional portal later when the tunnels were deserted. In fact, it's worth mentioning that a bunch of cell phones do tend to push ghosts away.  For whatever reason, IDE's (intra-dimensional entities) don't like microwave transmissions common to modern cell phones. Basically, microwaves in general, tend to "harsh their mellow." 
Bobo nearly hit his head on this jagged brick archway
Speaking of which, any time paranormal activity seems a little elevated in my home, I deliberately keep a cell phone near my bed. Every little precaution helps, especially if the ghosts have the audacity to vocalize, or, worse, to attempt entry into one's dreams in order to habituate one unconsciously so that a "feeding regimen" can be established, thus allowing the ghost to drain a person's energy reserves over the long term, usually while the person is sleeping.
It didn't help that my last housemate brought a particularly nasty ghost with her when she moved in upstairs. She admitted as much without my even asking. After I told her that had been around ghosts in the past, she opened up. Since that housemate has moved out, the hauntings have thankfully de-escalated. 
Sometimes I feel happy that I'm free from paranormal encumbrances, and then, at other times, I find myself wondering if, in fact, I really am free, after having grown up in a haunted house. My previous tenant complained about a female ghost calling her name at night. I hadn't mentioned to her that a female ghost had been calling my name at night, for the past three nights in a row.  When I told her, she was overjoyed and thrilled at the novelty of the situation. Being a veteran Ubernaturalist, however, I was less than thrilled.
Ghosts are like the Mafia: once you're in (successfully habituated by one of more of them), then you're in for life. The real question after you move somewhere else, or successfully banish the ghost, is whether you can stay off the ghostly radar long enough to live your life without being "made" once more.  If you can't, then the cycle of cat and mouse is liable to start again. So far, I've been lucky: the paranormal game of "tag, you're it" has only happened to me twice in my life.  
Both times, it was localized in a house.  When I moved out of the house, I was able to emancipate myself from the predatory IDE's involved.  But, as a former victim, I'm now a little leery of being "made" again by ghosts. 
A chute under the floor of a bar, where drunk or drugged young men were slid down to subterranean prison cells. 

After the tour, Bobes and I hung out topside, waiting for the rest of the group to emerge from the trapdoor in the floor. Hobo's restaurant was fairly busy. Evidently, the Shanghai tunnel tour was good for business. It was dimly lit inside with plenty of heavy oak paneling on the walls. Electric candelabras flickered like old-fashioned gas flames.  The faux-antique furnishings were more 1930's than 1890's, and so they did not reproduce the atmosphere of a late Nineteen Century "whisky bar" very effectively, but at least management was trying.
Quite a few respectable single malt scotches and bourbons were lined up on a shelf behind the bartender. A bottle of Talisker was calling my name. "Just one hit. . . ." Unfortunately, there was no more time for drinking. 
Bobo asked if I thought there were any ghosts "down there" (in the Shanghai tunnels). I was flattered that he would ask my opinion, but I wasn't surprised. I am known among Cliff's friends as a paranormalist with hot irons in other fires aside from bigfooting. 
"Yeah, sure," I said. "They're down there, but not in numbers. If you were to come back later tonight, after the bar was closed and most of the city was sleeping, that would be the best time to give some ghosting a try." 
"Right," Bobo agreed, "it's a nocturnal pursuit . . . like squatching." He then went on to school me on quite a few things about ghosts that I was not aware of. It was obvious that Bobes knew more about spirits and ghosts than I'd realized. He shared a few amazing accounts from California, as well as some powerful Native American wisdom on the subject. 
In fact, some of what he told me about spirits stayed with me for years afterwards until I visited the Big Island of Hawaii in 2014 and saw Puʻuhonua o Hōnaunau National Historical Park. The vibe in that place had been so overpowering that I'd almost lost consciousness at one point. During the visit, as I hiked gingerly around, as if the black lava trails had been lined with eggshells, I felt as though I were crossing through a twilit borderland between worlds, which was still home to ancient Intra-Dimensional Entities.

 Sailing ships docked in Portland, Circa 1885. Several of the captains of these ships most likely purchased dozens of sailors that were obtained through human trafficking. 
Looking back on my conversation with Bobo about ghosts after we went on the Shanghai Tunnel tour together, I think that I must have felt a new kind of respect for him. It allowed me to open up about something personal I'd told very few people up to that point.
I looked over at the bottle of Talisker whisky behind the bar.  It was calling my name. "There's this house I used to live in, over on southeast Woodward Street.  It was built in, like, 1882 or something. Anyway, three of my roommates and I saw ghosts. Actually, I saw two different ghosts. The first time, I saw a tall male ghost while I was watching TV.  I noticed it out of the corner of my eye.  It walked through the dining room table and out the front door."
"Cool," Bobo said. "What'd it look like?"
"Tall, thin.  Taller than you.  Dressed in dark colors. Actually, the ghost kind of resembled one of my roommates at the time, except it made no noise at all. And its face was very pale.  Like a porcelain mask."
Bobo nodded. "A stealthy, masked motherfucker."
"What about the other ghost?" Bobo asked. You said you saw another one."
"That's a pretty messed up story," I said.  "Not sure we have time to run through that one."
"Just give me a thumbnail sketch," Bobo said.
"Okay, the other ghost was a repeat offender. I saw it quite a few times, and then things got worse from there. All of the encounters happened upstairs in my bedroom. Over a period of, like, six months. A little more each time. Until things got totally out of control. This female ghost took a shine to me and nearly killed me."
"What'd it do," laughed Bobo. "Molest you?"
"No, well, yeah, sort of. Not sexually.  It happened upstairs in my bedroom."
"You're shittin' me."
"I shit you not, dude.  Squatcher's honor.  It's true.  The ghost was into 'night smothering'.  Really dark stuff.  Dark and ancient. Night smothering has been going on for as long as people have been on earth.  It's not talked about much because it's kind of personal, and embarrassing. Actually, though, night smothering is the second most common type of ghostly encounter that happens when a ghost actually touches someone."
"What's the most common?" Bobo asked.
"Squeezing," I said. "Usually through a sheet or a blanket when you are drifting off to sleep."
"What's a night smother?" Bobo asked. 
"It's when a ghost catches you when you are asleep, climbs on top of you, and then sucks out your life force."
"Jesus," Bobo said.  He scanned my face with the practiced scrutiny of a bigfoot expert who is used to verifying the authenticity of eyewitness accounts. The scan was habitual rather than conscious on his part, second nature to veteran squatchers like us. I passed the test, of course.
"The succubus usually wore a red dress," I went on. "She would creep through my bedroom, every now and again, around four in the morning. The pattern was always the same. She would peer through a crack in my bedroom door, pass through it, watch me sleeping, and then gaze longingly out the window."
The succubus/incubus phenomenon was discussed and pondered far more often in ancient times. However, despite being "swept under the carpet" by modern psychologists, it is the second most common type of ghostly encounter in the 21st Century.
"That sounds like a dream," Bobo said.  "A cheesy dream."
"Yes, you're right. It always started out as a dream. That's actually part of the way vampire ghosts roll. They use dreams to control a target. You know all about the idea of 'habituation' from squatching.  Well, these types of ghosts use dreams as a sophisticated form of habituation to literally fuck with their target's head. Eventually, the relationship escalates, and things get physical. In the worst possible way."
This caught Bobo's interest. "Go ahead, keeping going."
"If I wasn't completely asleep, then I would feel a light pressure on my leg through the blankets or a sheet.  That's how the ghosts would test to see if I was ready to be mounted. And then, if I pretended to be asleep, I would feel the ghost climb on the mattress. The weight of its hands and knees would push the mattress down."
"You couldn't see it?"
"So that's it? You would feel it on the bed with you?"
"No, I haven't gotten to the worst part yet. If I was asleep, and didn't wake up, the ghost would get on top of me, and start to suck out my vital energies. But whenever that happened, it was like I'd been paralyzed.  It took a huge effort to wake up. And if I did manage to wake up, I couldn't move.  The ghost had me in its spell. . . ."
Bobo glanced over at the staircase that led underground. Our friends were now emerging like moles through the trapdoor. "Sounds like a vampire," he said. "A vampire ghost!  Oh man, that's creepy." Bobo started to get up from his barstool.
"Wait, there's more. The last time I was smothered at night, the ghost wanted my energy real bad. She seemed desperate. Who knows, maybe she knew I was moving out the next day. Anyhow, she took a few risks too many, and so I was able to fight back."
"You hit the bitch?"
"I wish. No, it didn't come to blows unfortunately. If I could have, I would have punched the living shit out of that ghost. Or . . . the dead shit out of her."
"What happened?" Bobo asked, sitting back down on his stool.
"The last time she came to me, there was no dream: no red dress, no tall beautiful woman, nothing like that. I was just sleeping lightly, cat napping. It was around 4:30 in the morning.  Usually, the visitations happened between four and five, except in winter time.  In the dead of winter, sometimes they happened later. I know this because I kept a digital clock in my room. After the night smotherings, I would sit up and read my Bible. Like the old saying goes, there are no atheists in fox holes. Sometimes, I'd have a drink of whisky to calm my nerves. It's impossible to sleep after you've been attacked."
"I couldn't sleep either if that happened to me. Nobody could."
"The rest of the night after you've been attacked is just a waiting game until daylight."
"No shit," Bobo said. "I would drink a beer or two for sure."
"The last time I was approached, the tables were turned. I beat that damned ghost at her own game."
Bobo leaned forward on the bar. "What'd you do, set up a booby trap?"
"Normally, the ghost would climb onto my chest to perform the "succubus suck." But on this one last occasion, I'd been sleeping all night on my stomach. So the bitch had to climb on my back. Big mistake.  I felt her right away, and woke up. The paralysis hadn't worked. I was fully conscious with a fucking succubus on my back!"
"Did she get sexual?" Bobo asked. 
"No, nothing like that. She looked sexy, I guess, the dreams she gave me were mildly sexual, nothing beyond innuendos.  But, yeah, that's what succubi do, they hit a guy where he's vulnerable."
"Okay," Bobo said, "there's a horny vampire ghost perched on your back, the foreplay's gotten to second base . . . and then what?"
"I rolled to my left, and threw the bitch off!  She landed on the floor. After that, I guess she dematerialized. It was hard to tell because she was invisible. Anyway, the room felt empty, like she'd gone."
"How do you know she landed on the floor?"
"She hit the floorboards with a thud. I would say her weight was maybe that of a small chimpanzee. Or a dwarf.  Anyway, after she hit the floor, I was mad. Real mad. I leapt off my bed to grab her, but she was already gone. There was nothing to grab but air."
Woodward House: The place is haunted and I lived there for a year.  My bedroom was in the attic, on the far right. As a matter of fact, I saw a ghost look out that very window on more than one occasion. The Victorian house was built in 1887 when the Shanghai tunnels were going strong. By 1887, hundreds of human trafficked slaves had already been sold.
"Damn," Bobo said, "The 'succubus suck,' huh?  Sounds like the worst blow job ever."  He stood up from his barstool and stretched. By now, the others were standing around, waiting to leave.
We all stepped outside, blinking like trolls at the mouth of a cave.  Just then, a skirt with a pair of long legs walked by. Bobo and I rubbed our eyes. Yowza. Our "tunnel vision" hadn't adjusted to sunlight yet after having stumbled through so many dark basements.
Bobo smiled, and reached out to shake my hand. "Dude, you seem weirder every time I see you."
"Thanks, man," I said. "I'll take that as a compliment . . . coming from you."
The sky was painfully blue outside.  Not a cloud up there. The backs of my irises pounded.  It was amazing what an hour underground could do. Of course, I knew that the sun's electromagnetic radiation penetrated below the pavements, down into subterranean passages below. Even though they were dark as hell, daytime was still different from night. 
It's possible that solar energy keeps paranormal activity to a minimum, even in dark out of the way places. Like bigfoots, ghosts are nocturnal creatures.  For this reason, it's always best to go ghosting at night. Bobo was a quick study when it came to the supernatural.  He could take to ghosting in a heartbeat. The shamanistic vibe of Freak Power was strong with him. I debated telling him about a few places nearby in Portland that would make the Shanghai tunnel tour seem like child's play. 
Nineteenth century prison cell that was used to keep abductees who would later be Shanghaied. This was a particularly disturbing part of the tour for me. The vibe of suffering was intense.
"Hey, that tour was pretty fun," Bobo mused, "even though we didn't get jumped by any female ghosts."
A homeless guy was pushing his shopping cart past us on the sidewalk. I couldn't help reading the man's eyes. They seemed vague and diffuse, zombie-like, the perfect place for an IDE (intra-dimensional entity) to reside, safe within the power center of a terrestrial body--watching, biding its time, waiting for another, more advantageous, opportunity to avail itself. It has occurred to me on more than one occasion that some of the homeless in Portland, especially with "special" kinds of mental illness, could be possessed by ghosts. 
Modern psychology tends to downplay such possibilities. Personally, I find this tendency ironic, considering the fact that early psychologists were obsessed with table wrapping and mind reading. They called themselves "alienists."  I guess the nom de plume wasn't impressive enough, so the job title was changed to "psychologist" early in the 20th Century. 
Even still, after having worked in the Psych Department of NYU for five years, I can say for a fact that quite a few of the top professors there read books about the supernatural. Some of them had treated patients with peculiar maladies and abilities that caused the professor treating them to think outside the "academic box," so to speak.
Once the "two-legged cow" with the shopping cart had passed, I turned back towards Bobo. "So check this out," I said. "Before we met today, I heard this recording that a guy made down there in the Shanghai tunnels. He took a digital recorder and kept in on 'record' during the whole tour. There was some freaky whispering and a few words."
"Really?" Bobo said. "Where'd you hear that?  Youtube?"
"Yep.  Thank God for Youtube."
"It's a blessing and a curse," Bobo said over his shoulder, as he stepped off the curb to cross the street. "One man's food is another man's poison." I watched him walk down the street, towering over his friends: Exit, stage left.
Every once in a while, Bobo delivers a verdict that's a real zinger. Youtube is both a blessing and a curse, no doubt about it. A lot of stuff on the site is pure bullshit, but there's also some really valuable documentation and resources, even though sometimes it took an expert just to sift out the chaff from the wheat. That is certainly true of bigfoot documentation.  For every one piece of real footage or evidence, hundreds of fakes abound.
As for the Shanghai Tunnel Ghost Tour, it was a success, even though Bobo and I didn't see or hear any ghosts as we traipsed through the tunnel system with our friends.  But the tunnels were fascinating to see, especially with all of the rich history that accompanied them. 
It wasn't everyday that evidence of human trafficking was so tangible. The ghostly specter of slavery in modern times, particularly in the United States of America, seems so nebulous and vague.  But on this day, Bobo and I saw an actual prison cell that had once held hundreds of drugged and desperate young men, many of whom died behind those very bars from incorrect doses of the drugs used to render them unconscious. 
Of course, no matter what the occasion happens to be, hanging out with Bobes is always a great fucking time. Mission accomplished.
There's Bobo at a gig that I played last year.  He said that he liked my drumming, and he thought my drum set was cool.  That's the back of my head in the picture
Bobo and me shooting the shit: In this case about playing the drums around town in various projects. 
In a way, even though we are pretty much the same age, Bobo reminds me of my grandfather, Bob. I loved that guy. Bob was a crab fisherman in Oregon for most of his life.  He was also a heavyweight boxer. As rumor had it, he often went to bars up and down the coast from Depot Bay up to Warrenton for the fighting more than the drinking. 
If he were still alive, my Grandpa Bob would have had a lot to talk about with Bobo.  The man's fishing boat had once been run over by a cargo ship that sent him spiraling to the bottom of Astoria harbor when he was asleep down below on a bunk. And, of course, Bob had been "chased" by water spouts many times out in the Pacific ocean.   
Ghosting can be fun, but not while you sleep. Here is a machine I made to repel succubi.
These days, I really do take precautions to prevent ghosts from messing with me while I sleep. The above contraption seems to work fairly well.
The arrangement of the stones was my idea, but the big one is known by specialists for helping to eliminate nightmares. As for the quartz, it (allegedly) magnifies the energy of the other stones. In addition to the stones and the ionizer, I also keep a copy of Torah and the Bible next to my bed. Hey, man, it never hurts to hedge your bets. As the old saying goes, there are no atheists in foxholes. The same might be said for folks that have been victimized by IDE's, especially when they sleep.