Tuesday, September 1, 2015

Bobo and Kirk Chase Ghosts

A few years ago, Bobo 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 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 Pu╩╗uhonua o H┼Źnaunau 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 it's face was very pale.  Like a porcelain mask."
Bobo nodded. "A stealthy, masked motherfucker."
"What about the other ghost. You said you saw another one?"
"Well, that is a fucked up story," I said.  "I'm not sure we have time."
"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 ghosts uses 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 was totally 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. I feel a kinship with Bobo because both he and I tend not to "self-censor" much.  He has said some of the most profound things that I've ever heard over a beer, and he don't take no shit from nobody.  In a word: refreshing.
Believe it or not, I've been in my share of brawls. I have a big mouth. Thank goodness I have a fast right hook to back it up!  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. 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.     
Cliff Barackman also knows a ton about taking care of B.I. Bidness. Both he and I are no strangers to Wing Chun Kung Fu and the martial arts. Cliff's got a quick wit, and a steel trap mind. He rarely ever backs down if he is in the right and the point is worth making. I've heard about Cliff standing up to a bully that outweighed him by a good hundred pounds, and the bully was the one to walk away confused and disoriented. In a word: impressive.
Both Cliff and Bobes are my kind of peeps.  They work hard, play hard, walk the walk, and talk the talk--not only about bigfooting, but in general. They are students of the supernatural with warrior spirits.
Credo ut intelligam: I believe so that I may understand.
Kirk Out.

Monday, August 31, 2015

Way of the Ubernaturalist

Are those two "orbs" behind me in the pic?  Naw, probably just droplets of water on the lens, or mist in the air (although they did not show up in any of the other pics taken within seconds of this one).  A full moon hangs over my head, glowing through the clouds like a sergeant. This picture was taken last week.
The King of Wyrd is no stranger to ghosts, bigfoots, or UFO's. As the old saying goes, "trouble comes in threes!"  If most people encounter something out of the ordinary, they often keep it to themselves for obvious reasons. Our society tends to look suspiciously on such people as nutters and whackos. 
For those who finally spill the beans, and decide to discuss their experiences with family and friends, the reactions they get don't always lead to resolution and a happy ending.  People who can't relate to the paranormal tend to freeze up, as if they are in danger of being exposed to some sort of contagious mental plague. This can cause witnesses to clam up forever.
Be this as it may, The King of Wyrd can't leave well enough alone. I tell it like it is.  This is The Way of the Ubernaturalist, his "credo," if you will. 
Here is the reason: ignoring the supernatural does NOT make it go away. 
I base this opinion on the school of hard knocks (literally, on the other side of the attic). In my case, as a child, ignoring ghostly predation allowed the spirits to take advantage of me by feeding on my energy signature (which is normally quite strong and sweet in children).  Ghosts generally crave the extra-potent energy of girls entering puberty most of all. 
Here I am at 5 years of age. I lived next to a pond with bullfrogs that sung me to sleep at night in summer time. On one occasion, I awoke at night in my attic bedroom to find a ghost dressed in a tattered black suit. He was sitting on a chair next to my bed, gazing out the window. 
Two stories down, out across a horse pasture, moonlight shone on the face of my favorite little pond on earth.  Willow trees waved back at us, animated by the cool night breeze.  When the ghost turned to regard me, I saw that his eyes were gone. He smiled understandingly.
"See," he said.  "See?"  The two holes in his face tugged at me, at first weakly. But as I focused on them, I was able to see through the artificial face and into a kind of hypnotic otherness. The presence reached out and caught hold of me, like the current in a deep river. Right away, my soul began to feel lighter and lighter, colder, as it pulled lose from the anchor of my body. 
"Yes, good," the ghost intoned. "You see."  Energy flowed like water, from light to dark, moving between me and the awful thing sitting on a chair next to my bed. "No," I said weakly. "No." It took all of my might to look away. Through the corners of my eyes, I could see that the ghost had stopped smiling. 
I hid under the covers and waited for the inevitable, but nothing more happened that night. I awoke to a fresh beam of sunshine pouring into the attic bedroom.  A new day had dawned, and I was free once more . . . free to play outside, free to build tree forts, free to catch frogs in the pond, and free to be a happy boy once more . . . until the next dark visitation crossed over from the other side of the attic. . . .
Thank goodness my family moved from the haunted ranch house where I grew up before my two little sisters reached the "ripe old age" of puberty!  Odds bodkins!  The worst thing in the world for my parents to have done, if we had stayed in that rotten house, would have been for them to move sister, Karin, up into the remote attic bedroom. If they had done that, there probably would have been a feeding frenzy, an "all you can eat ghost buffet." A person with that sort of energy signature would have lured quite a few Shadow People through the portal on the other side of the attic. 
At any rate, it's worth pointing out that the three "wise" monkeys (hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil) are not much more intelligent than an ostrich putting its head in the sand. The "evil" that they are attempting to escape by ignoring it won't go away by wishful thinking. 
Okay, maybe some people interpret the proverb as the monkeys not taking part in evil deeds. Well, in that case, the proverb is accurate. Avoiding an evil lifestyle is wise.  But once the ghosts "come knockin" on your door, it's as if you're already joined the Mafia of Mean. Getting out is not an option at that point. For what ever reason, you've been "made" by ghosts, and now it's time to buck up and deal with it. 
See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil: These three monkeys directly contradict the credo of the Ubernaturalist: Silence is defeat. Because humanity is interconnected spiritually, it's best to share what you learn with others, in order to try and make the world a better place to live in.
Getting back to the "wisdom" of those three monkeys, it's worth pointing out that as animals, moneys are pretty damned smart.  And curious.  So ignoring stuff is not in their nature at all!  In this way, the proverb is counter-intuitive.
Think about it: which animals in the old fables and myths were the smart ones that knew what in the hell was going on? Eagles, coyotes, cats, elephants, foxes, and weasels. Yes, some of these animals are thought of as sneaky and even thieving, but not all. 
I happen to like the eagle, soaring high above the world and paying attention to what is happening below. And yet, many folks don't realize that eagles are essentially scavengers, like ravens and buzzards.  Paying attention to the world around us is not a liability, in my opinion. It may not be a virtue exactly, but it is clever, wise, and smart.  What you do choose to do with the knowledge you gain is up to you.
The logic of the Ubernaturalist goes something like this: In a world of uncertainties, the only thing we can be sure of is what we see with all three of our eyes: The two that we normally use in our faces, as well as a pineal "third eye" that sits smack dab in the middle of our foreheads like a meditating yogi, or a Viking shaman in repose. And the same logic holds true for what he hear, taste, smell, and feel out of the ordinary. 
If human beings, down through the ages, were smart enough to catalog and remember poisonous plants to keep from accidently eating them, then why not keep track of dangerous types of spirits and ghosts? Why not study how to master them?  And if we are not able to control them, then why not learn at least how to co-exist with them in a way that keeps them from taking advantage of willful ignorance?
Ancient cultures were totally tuned into this extra sensory sense organ, and so must we tune in and pay attention to supernatural events if we hope grow as sentient beings beyond the pale of a single short life on earth. 
Late August, 2015.  The full moon was really cool.

People who find themselves haunted by ghosts also seem to be more prone to get involved in bigfooting.  Don't ask me why. Still, this fact is noteworthy. I can rattle off the names of half a dozen of my bigfooter friends who have seen ghosts and also have seen one or more sightings of a bigfoot.  And yet, they will fight tooth and nail to cover up this connection.

And guess what: I can say the same thing about UFO's.  As a matter of fact, one of my most famous bigfooter friends has seen UFO's, as well as other kinds of supernatural creatures, even though he is loathe to admit it. 

Hey, that's okay with me, I can keep a secret.  I've got a bro's back, every single time. Freak Power.  But that doesn't mean I have to agree with such a desire to cherry pick through life's most extraordinary experiences with eyes wide shut.

Compartmentalization is the name of the game for most bigfooters, actually, but not for me. I dive into the water with my eyes wide open, not wide shut.  Yes, this can be "hard on the eyes," so to speak

But I must pay attention to IDE's (Intra-Dimensional Entities) when they happen to cross my path.  I feel compelled to seek out bigfoots.  And I have paid close attention to UFO's on a few rare occasions in my life when they hovered nearby . . . such as on a Sunday in late October, 2004, when I finished a long day of bigfooting on Goat Mountain and decided to test out a new air of binoculars. 

Two huge soft white luminescent (not radiant) spheres began ascending and descending behind a nearby tree line, much to my astonishment.  I was surprised when a few cars drove past as if nothing was happening. Nobody in the vehicles happened to be looking out over the valley below. I might have been the only person who noticed the objects.

On another occasion, in the summer of 1995, at a truck stop in the California Redwoods, I was the only person who noticed a UFO hovering over a nearby hill.  But I made sure to point and make a fuss about it. In a matter of seconds, two or three dozen people were staring at it intently and talking excitedly about it.  How is it that I happened to be the only person in the whole crowd that looked up from my plate of road chow on a picnic table behind the burger stand and saw the UFO. 

I'd already been studying the large hovering craft for several minutes before I realized that nobody else was looking at it. The locals certainly knew the difference between that object and timber helicopters. In fact, that was one of the reasons I pointed it out so loudly, to see if the other people found it odd or not since I was not from that part of the country and was not familiar with local types of craft having to do with logging.

This photograph of an attic is very similar to "the other side" of the attic I lived in as a boy from age 2-8.  Since the ranch house was L-shaped, one half of the attic was finished as a bedroom, and the other half looked like the above picture.  It was crammed full of stuff left behind by the former home owners, as well as own family's storage. In addition, I now believe that some sort of portal on the other side of the attic allowed IDE's to come and go from the house, mostly at night. For me, the horror show started when these "shadow people" began crossing over to my side of the attic to feed on my energy like vampires, often while I was sleeping.

Ghostly hauntings are yet another type of supernatural occurrence that often is overlooked by others. I lived in a ranch house from age 2-8 and none of the other members of my family realized the house was being visited regularly by spirits. I spoke of the problem so often that my father actually forbade me to discuss ghosts! 

Eventually, my parents decided to move because the house "just didn't feel right." I'd been asking them to move for the past five or six years (in my own little kid way).  Be this at it may, I was the most relieved kid on earth the day we loaded everything into a U-Haul and high-tailed it out of there.  And, you know, I wasn't bothered by ghosts again . . . at least, not for many years.

Ubernaturalism is not for "weekend warriors" to blow off steam.  Ubernaturalism is not for the feint of heart.  Ubernaturalism is not a fair weather sport.  Ubernaturalism is a way of life.  It is an outlook, an orientation, and sometimes an addiction. 

It goes without saying that ghosting and bigfooting are the ultimate "extreme sports."  Why?  Because IDE's stimulate human adrenals by way of course.  And if they don't consume the energy that is released, it feels incredibly exhilarating to the ghost-curious or squatch-curious human--more so than cocaine or any other stimulant.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Heartbeat of the Universe

Drum Circle at "Summer Solstice Whoop!" 2015
For Sig (my lifelong nickname) playing drums goes hand in hand with a love of the supernatural. The body, the planet, the solar system, and the universe all function with rhythms and patterns. Rhythm is the primary language of nature and string theory has helped to hammer this point home for both academicians and the general public.
Prior to string theory in the field of theoretical physics, folks used the term "vibes" to describe the pulsating nature of intuition and the way life forms relate to each other.
The Beach Boys' song, "Good Vibrations," really helped to popularize the idea in the late 1960's.  Rhythm is what helps to make life possible. Heart beats are only the beginning of this magickal relationship between sound and sensation.
The human ear is really just a complex censor designed to interpret sound waves generated by vibrations. Even less organically complex life forms like insects and fish use other variations of Mother Nature's "beat box" to hear and interpret rhythms in order to navigate their way through fantastical realms of experience that are quite foreign to the world we know as humans. 
Some of the world's tiniest creatures have entire bodies that are built to sense vibrations through hairs and other ultra-sensitive appendages. Big animals with the most sensitive of ears, such as elephants and whales, use rhythm as a critical part of their consciousness. Dolphins can send 3-D imagery by blasting sonar messages, which are then interpreted by the internal hearing of other dolphins up to hundreds of miles away.
X Marks the Spot: "Feeling" the beat is what makes a drummer. At eleven years of age, I was fascinated by ghosts, bigfoot, aliens, water monsters, and the drum set.  Even today, I often play drums with my eyes closed to find the "groove pocket" of a song.
Sasquatches are no different. Despite the fact that "apers" (scientifically-oriented bigfoot researchers) compare them to primates, which do not have as finely tuned ears as many other mammals in the forests of North America, rhythm is still an undeniable way that sasquatches express themselves and communicate with one another.
Since sasquatches are not merely primates, in my view, but rather are intra-dimensional entities (IDE's), their ability to interpret "vibes" could be far more complex than any strictly terrestrial mammal or primate. In fact, they might well be able to manipulate the "vibrating strings" of our reality to shape shift or to teleport in and out of our dimension and from one place in our dimension to another. The term "intra" is far more accurate than "extradimensional" or "interdimensional."
I have gone back and forth many many times with sasquatches through the medium of rock and tree knocking, as well as vocalizations. The exhilaration (whether positive or negative) one feels when receiving an answer from a non-human sentient being is almost indescribable. Films like Close EncountersETStarman, The Exorcist, It Follows, and The Babadook illustrate this idea graphically.  And like the ancient gladiator competitions of Rome, some people have a great deal to lose, more than most of them realize, through interactions with sasquatches.

Now I'm an overgrown kid still fascinated by ghosts, bigfoot, aliens, water monsters, and playing the drums in fun projects like Cliff's band, as well as a jazz combo, and a rock cover band. Here I am pounding the skins in Cliff's trio, my favorite project. Cliff is a bad ass guitarist, to be sure, and a really creative singer. His songs remind me of a cross between The Residents, They Might Be Giants, and Django Reinhardt.
Playing a shaman's drum, along with the burning of sage, is one way to interrupt an IDE's feeding habits and mode of attack. When effectively performed and felt,  metaphysically-oriented drumming is like a can of Raid bug spray. It can help to banish a spirit that has become dangerous and too comfortable living near or even inside one or more human host(s). 
It's no accident that I have been a drummer all of my life. I grew up in a haunted house and during camping trips to Horseshoe Lake in the High Cascades I witnessed tree knocking in my earliest formative years. Rhythm to me is a valuable way to communicate with the spirit world, as well as protecting oneself from spiritual predation. 
A shamanic drum made from natural animal hide and wood is an indispensable part of any ubernaturalist's bag of instruments and tools to use in field research, as well as keeping at home for protection and purification of the living space.
On one occasion, while my friend, Joe Beelart and I were camping up on Devil's Ridge, my Jembe drum caused a nearby sasquatch to literally push over a tree by way of a reaction to the deep and resonant tonals.

Sig beating his elk hide forest drum. It's loud!
Was it irritated with me for pounding my drum in the bosom of night?  Perhaps. But I would do it again to hear that tree tearing loose from the earth and crashing down at the hands of a forest giant. It was certainly thrilling to witness. This said, some very strange things happened to my friend, Joe, after he fell asleep on a mattress in the bed of his pickup.
He awoke with radiation burns on half of his entire body (even beneath his clothing). He was also fairly disoriented. He believed he had been visited by aliens after he fell asleep. However, it's worth pointing out that sasquatches themselves are indeed aliens, although they are not greys or reptilians.
I suffered minor burns on the same side of my face and neck from Joe's burns, but they were far less pronounced and they did not extend beneath the line of my clothing. I bring up this eerie point of interest to illustrate a point: one does not know just what messing around with the supernatural might bring into one's life. Sometimes, the side effects might not manifest for months or even years later, and they need not be physical in nature.
Ghosts and spirits, also IDE's, use banging, rapping, scraping and clicking to express themselves, or to announce their presence. In my opinion, ghostly percussive sounds are also often used to stimulate human adrenals; this process instinctually opens up the floodgates of people's nervous systems, which generates tasty energy for a spirit to consume.
Kirk's Shamanic drum performance recorded last month in The Lodge
*Note: As a researcher, I invented the terms "Ubernaturalist," Aper, and IDE. I have also invented other terms like "Source Consciousness," which have since entered the public lexicon due to radio interviews I have done on Coast to Coast and other nationally syndicated programs over the years.
See forest drum (above) that I bought for Cori, my girlfriend. She decorated it with ancient colors reminiscent of a time when paints were made exclusively from plants and minerals rather than modern synthesized compounds.

Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Knick Nacks & Brick-a-brack

Before Mods: Beat up tank with cracking paint, crooked frame, crushed tail pipe, torn up seat, old factory paint, cracked mirror on one side, shredded rear tire, etc.

My 2009 Triumph Bonneville: after the final mods (modifications). I suped it up, and modded the shit out of it until it was truly a work of art. People stopped me on the street to marvel. I loved that bike. Sold it in 2013 because I was nearly t-boned twice on Powell Boulevard near my home. Portland drivers are not very good at paying attention to motorcyclists.
If I lived in the country, I would have kept the bike forever. A part of my soul left with that bike and I almost wept to see it drive off down the street with a new owner that barely knew how to ride, and, gods forbid, was bound to drop 'er, sooner rather than later. . . .
The original KLR Kawasaki "Mudsicle" (mud-eatin' motorcycle). It got me across rockslides next to sheer cliffs for bigfooting field research. Great low center of gravity for offroad but the kickstart was a lemon, so it had to go. If I counted the number of times I had to push it back to basecamp, I would run out of fingers.

My second "Mudsicle." This one was too high off the ground for me. Kind of a "goldie locks" syndrome. The first one was too low, and the second one was too high. It was a 2012 KLX 250. Bigfooting requires slower speeds through deep mud and other challenging terrain that just did not work for this bike. It was designed for races and tracks more than deep woods off-road squatching.
This third mudsicle is "just right" in terms of the goldie locks syndrome. A 2013 Yamaha TW200.  Just the right height and perfect for squatchy swamp buggin, while also doubling around town as a really nice super moto scooter.  Big ole phat tires. Umm hmmm. I can't wait to mod my Tee Dub with a bunch of Japanese factory extras. It will soon be "bad azz" on trail or in town. This ultimate "dual sport" mudsicle has Sig's Seal of Approval.
Properly modded  Yamaha TW200 Squatch Buggin'  Mudsicle.  Someday mine will be like this . . . with a few exceptions like a side chrome pipe to make it swamp worthy, and a bigger aluminum tank.
As  a kid, I used to love to build tree forts. Here I am building a fort for my two nine year-old nephews.
And here I am at nine years of age building my own tree fort. Time keeps on slippin' into the future.

By the pricking of my thumbs, something squatchy this way comes. . . .  No, wait, is that a blogsquatch that remains stubbornly out of focus when photographed? 
Just kidding, the above picture was taken of Guy Edwards, founder of Bigfoot Lunch Club and HopsSquatch. Before the weather turned cold, I took him to a hotspot near Goat Mountain, Oregon. We didn't hear any knocks that day, but the bigfoot "vibe" was strong. 
If Guy had walked down through the "dark corridor," a path through a one mile alpine swamp on the side of the mountain, as I advised him to do after sunset, then he most likely would have experienced a "watcher haunting" (my word for a bigfoot encounter).  Guy's reluctance to facilitate a Watcher Haunting is more the rule than the exception. Humans have a built-in reflex to avoid bigfoots. I believe this instinct is ancient and powerful, like a fear of poisonous snakes and spiders. 
The reason for this is quite interesting: it is likely that humans, in ancient of days, rubbed elbows with sasquatches a great deal more than in modern times. And my hypothesis as to why that might be is equally surprising: because the high tier IDE's that rule this planet, and which sasquatches often serve, have purposefully phased in a new era in which bigfoots and other IDE's have been  marginalized as "fiction" to the average human.
In time, this "agenda of disbelief" (which sometimes amounts to willful ignorance) will change as a new world belief system is phased in.  This new world view will reintegrate IDE's into a pantheon of lesser gods, so to speak. The process may take hundreds more years to accomplish if things progress at the present rate.  Or it might be greatly accelerated by something like an "alien invasion," which will "threaten" the well-being of humanity.  In the meantime, humanity is still in a neutral zone when the existence of bigfoots and other IDE's is regarded (publicly) by academia and other authority figures of our present world as fiction rather than fact.  
Guy and me (above pic) at Slingshot Lounge on August 24, 2015.  I proposed a fun event for Cliff, Guy, Flippy, Glen (who specializes in military pyrotechnics), and Doug (who is a professional hypnotist). We will camp up on Goat Mountain overnight at a quarry. Guy will shave his head and dress in his old Buddhist monk robes from when he was a monk in Thailand (he is half Thai).
He then must "walk the gauntlet" through the Dark Corridor, and retrieve a picture tacked to a tree at the end of the trail. He will only be allowed to carry an infrared and night vision. No flashlight allowed. Flippy will film it. The rest of us will be partying up top at the quarry awaiting Guy's triumphant return. I predict that, if Guy actually does this, he will "loose his cherry" thereby having first bona fide BF (bigfoot) encounter in the Dark Corridor. Nobody who stands in the present of a sasquatch is every the same again. The memory is haunting and the body also has a physically tangible "memory" of the encounter. Word.
Guy (left) during his two year stint as a Buddhist monk in Thailand, circa 2000.
Speaking of the Dark Corridor . . .  I took a newlywed couple there several years ago and they heard moan-like talking from behind a tree. I was there with Seth and McKenzie and the talking was indeed an authentic bigfoot interaction, albeit in a partially dematerialized state.

Divining rods are an indispensable part of the Ubernaturalists' way of Bigfooting and Ghosting
Hey, man, like I always say, "Materialize ain't just in yo head." You need to use intuition! Things can pass in and out of our space/time. Sometimes your third eye (pineal gland) sees more than the other two:
For the sparrow, a flock.
For the crow, a murder.
For the raven, an unfortunate.
For the squatch, First Tribe.
And for humanity, the World Wide Ranch.
If I ain't a genius of "outsideness," that sweet and sour place between worlds, then somebody call me a frickin' genie. . . . Ironically, most people do not realize that the word genius comes from the word genie. The two go hand in hand.
Elk Spirit Strong: new decorative cast iron hook for my frame drum so that I can mount it on the wall. It also doubles as a totem spirit when I get bored. The woman who made my elk hide drum said that I am an "elk man in the spiritual sense." I have no idea what that means, but I will take it as a compliment. My elk forest drum kicks ass, fo sho. In 2005, I came face to face with a huge bull elk on the edges of Skookum Meadow. It stepped out from behind a tree.  I backed away slowly, and the bull proceeded to chase after a cow (female elk) out in the watery meadow. It was a serene moment. These days, I pay more attention to elk mating season when I go bigfooting.
Do I really think I'm a "genius?" No, not really. Life is too short on this planet to focus on such distinctions, which can only breed reptiles of the mind in the standing water of one's ego.
You gotta have red blood to go bigfooting and mine is redder than Babe Ruth's sox . . . Speaking of which, a person used to be said to "have" a genius for a certain skills, rather than "being" a genius. The reason for this distinction is simple: in the Middle Ages folks believed that a genie would perch on the shoulder of especially bright or especially charismatic people and whisper advice into their ear. Hey, that's cheating! Heh, heh, heh. 
My master's thesis at New York University's Literature Department was called "A Gothic Approach to Lovecraft's Sense of Outsideness."  Due to my exposure to the supernatural at a young age, growing up in a haunted house, I gravitated in the direction of supernatural literature for the rest of my life. I earned a master's degree from NYU and then entered the PhD program at Columbia University.
Despite the fact that 85% of my tuition was paid for, I got restless and moved back to the Pacific Northwest, taking a job as a ghost writer at the University of Washington's Suicide Prevention program in the main hospital there. The stint lasted for a year, and then I moved to Portland, Oregon, where I became a college professor at Chemeketa in Salem, and then a professor or writing at Portland Community College. 
Despite a deep love of horses, I sometimes deign to wear horsehide jackets. They are just so darned comfortable and no animals are sacrificed to make the garments. All hides come from old animals or wild horses on forest lands that would be destroyed anyhow. Yes, sometimes life and its travails makes you feel guilty. Not everything can come out on top all of the time. It's just one of those things.
Sometimes I wonder if human misery and suffering is harnessed to feed intra-dimensional entities (IDE's)--not entirely unlike the way horses are sometimes converted into horsemeat and leather. The main difference in the above analogy would be that humans supply an energetic resource, both psychically and electromagnetically, where as livestock are utilized by humans for material food and material resources like hides and bones (which Elmer's uses to make glue, for example).
Be this as it may, the physical bodies of livestock are tokens of the energy output of their lifetimes. Cows spend a lot of time and energy growing bigger, eating, caring for each other, struggling with each other, and sniffing and exulting in simple joys like sunshine and fresh air.
In this way, might the advent of 21st Century factory ranching have a few things in common with the future of humanity, which seems to be headed towards bio-chemical mechanization and increased genetic modification?  Well, that famous old classic film, The Matrix, seemed to think so.  For the time being, such hypotheses are relegated to the virtual realm of science fiction for the most part.
There's no way to tell for sure whether humanity is being at least partially utilized as a resource for IDE's, but if I were a betting man, and the correct answer was assured by a neutral third party in the know, then I would have no problem laying down a few thousand bucks on the wager. I hope it's not true, but I suspect it is true. C'est la vie.
Turn a screw, bust a nut. Matrix is what Matrix does. The nature of existence is not easy to figure out, whether you're an aper or an ubernaturalist. In a way, humanity needs both camps working in their own specialties to help make sense of the world. 
Each camp can teach a few things to the other.  But that doesn't mean "it's all good."  A healthy debate, with plenty of evidence to back up both sides, and perhaps a bit of drama, is part of what makes life interesting.  Kirk out.