Welcome to the Space that always is…


Chronic Illness Revisited…that was to be the title of this blog. Now it’s the first half.

I was heading to the library to write about the latest in lyme disease and it’s coinfections (particularly mycoplasma). I was going to tell you how the once maligned deer tick is not the real culprit.

It’s mice.

How a nearly a decade ago 1 in 5 ticks were carriers at the local state park here in Aptos, California.

Today, in the Pacific Northwest, estimates show that white-footed mice are the true lyme carriers. They infect 95 percent of all ticks that feed on them. Not only that, but mosquitoes, fleas, and mites also carry lyme and other newly designed, nefarious and infectious illnesses. 19 of 20 ticks. Lyme. This is like Russian roulette except all 6 bullet chambers have a live round. You’re only shot is a misfire.

Hundreds of years ago the Pneumonic Plague (black death) escorted one to a quick exit within a couple of days.

In 1918 it was the great influenza epidemic; that Spanish flu did in 40 million, 3-5 percent of the world’s population at the time. Most died within weeks of initial infection.

Today we have lyme and mycoplasma species. Both are biowarfare agents (yep, created in a lab to help us fight off our so-called enemies).

According to Dr. Mercola’s site:

“Since national surveillance began in 1982, the number of annual Lyme cases reported has increased nearly 25-fold.”

300,000 to 500,000 a year infected with Lyme. Mycoplasma infection rates defy diagnostic statistics because they hide intracellularly. A large portion of the world population are thought to be carriers of pathogenic strains of Mycoplasma.

What has actually transpired or is that conspired?

These engineered disease-causing agents (Lyme and Mycoplasma) have been let loose by what is often referred to as: Military-Medical-Wall Street-Political Industrial Complex. The entire U.S. population at large is under siege. A covert-stealth war has been going on under our noses, underneath our skin, inside our organs and blood.

Systemic infiltration. Textbook military stuff.

Forget about the possibility of war. It’s here right now and chewing people up, taking away their best years and damaging lives. No mutilated limbs,  irrefutable dismemberments or war widows; the new version is covered up in denial, confusion and ‘scientific’ disinformation.

But there is no denying that lyme disease can turn chronic and cause neurodegenerative effects. Often these symptoms are diagnosed as ALS, MS, Alzheimers, Parkinsons or other medical labels but at their center, behold: Lyme or Mycoplasma.

These testimonials from chronic neuro-Lyme patients are true:

“My husband has to write for me sometimes. My hands don’t want to hold the pen or are shaking too bad.”
“I had to leave a job that I loved because English no longer felt like a language I knew.”
“I had to leave my clinical social worker position because I was unable to complete documentation. What once took me 5 minutes would take me a half hour or more, just to find a common clinical term and string together a couple sentences.”
“I dropped out of my PhD program because I couldn’t organize a single paragraph anymore.”
“Once an excellent speller…can’t remember how to spell simple words sometimes.”
“My daughter had to take a medical leave from college.”
“At work I had people write things down because I couldn’t process the information. Horrible…and be a single parent. I went from three jobs to barely working.”
I feel humbled and lucky when I read these words. I can still walk, still write, even coherently at times.

According to Dietrich Klinghardt M.D. Ph.D, a world leader in the new and emerging chronic diseases:

“Even 15 years ago, most of us thought that chronic illness is the outcome of environmental toxicity and everything related to that. But we got a little wiser and realized that the issues go far deeper. What has been astounding to us when we look at illnesses that are well established in the conventional medical field like Parkinson or multiple sclerosis or chronic fatigue are all turning out to be primarily chronic infections with this particular expression of it.

Right at the center of that is really the ongoing discovery of Lyme disease…and then on the darker side of things, we do have some government documents that were leaked to us that shows in the 1950’s, 1960s and 70s or maybe into the 80s there were some wild experimentation going on in the U.S. military… experimenting with recombining different microbes in order to create stealthy microbes that make large populations ill so they lose their will to fight and to attack… I go over to Europe how different patients with Lyme disease look there. I worked half my life over there as a physician and half my life here. The people in the U.S. with chronic Lyme disease are far more ill. They have far less energy. It just looks like there is a viral element in our Lyme disease that we see here that is not present in Europe and that cannot be explained on pure biological grounds…”

And then I hit a squirrel.

I was leisurely descending the steep country road when a car appeared behind me. They quickly pressed close to my rear bumper. The new variety of tail-gater. Rushed, entitled, and lord of the road. Get left. Get right- but get out of my way.

A major pet peeve of mine, I admit. This is road rage, projected anger. A national pastime, a growing insanity. Usually I pull over but there was nowhere to stop. I had not the patience to wait a minute, to endure the frantic mind-pressing energy behind me, the ‘hurry-hurry-hurry! I think I am somebody who needs to get someplace and now’ energetics from the car behind me.

I accelerated to get some space and took my eyes and peripheral vision from the front windshield, glancing back via the rear view mirror.

“Asshole” -the mind silently muttered.

Then she appeared in front of me. Out of nowhere, a squirrel. The uncertain slide-shuffle steps of tiny feet, a few centimeters to the left, a few inches to the right.

“Make a decision girl!” I astral project:

‘Oh, no, she’s stopping I cry internally. Go sweetie run.’ Too late. ‘Oh, God no! Please go between my tires’.

That frozen millisecond in time. I brake hard. My heart breaks.

Gentle thud. Eyes back to the rear view mirror. She was not smashed and dead.


Crippled, mangled, unable to move–it seemed like one of her limbs, maybe two had been dislocated. She’s totally debilitated, writhing back and forth. Another car on the way. She slides from view. My heart sinks in dread. Permanent disability, immanent death.


What an incredible paradox. I’m on my way to write about death and induced plagues and I have sent a small innocent critter to nature’s morgue.

It wasn’t alcohol this time. Simply a brief moment of impatience.

It cost a life.

It’s just a squirrel? Yeah, right?! What if it was the squirrel I see every day playing at the base of the redwood canopy? The one that comes to the back steps and does this magnificent morning scurry that I am privileged to witness. Would that make it easier?

What if she was my dad? Reborn, reincarnated.

The truth is, she was a living being. My car hit her. Own it! Feel it!

She was part of me; I was part of her. Part of me died that instant too. It was a needed death. I can complain about being pushed from behind, the increasingly crazy drivers, wish I lived in the nature setting of a spiritually-oriented ashram, with no need to drive at all.

I can say it was one of those mornings where I wasn’t as alert–could have blamed it on brain fog and response times, abdominal pain, fatigue. I’m not sure if I even know the difference anymore. I feel as if I am in some kind of alternative bardo state, between worlds. Alive? Dead? They both feel equally true and completely insignificant. It’s not some morose, depressive trance speaking but a genuine attempt to explain the unexplainable.

I killed a squirrel or at least mortally wounded her. All this writing is an attempt to cover up for a feeling of utter helplessness and grief. For me, for the the innocent squirrel, who may well be dying or being eaten by a raven as I write.

The life force keeps spiking, with sporadic energies to keep this Michael organism going. Why, I do not know. I don’t feel it’s time to die nor do I feel able to take part in a world gone mad.

Bury me in a cryogenic freeze to be thawed and resuscitated in a few thousand years.

Bring me back to a time when Consciousness carries the day, where people remain mostly in silence because LOVE flows from THAT space as a fluent language instantly understood. In that timeless dimension, when words come they launch from the heart like an infant’s first COO; eyes gaze in wonder as the Self meets Itself, over and over, everywhere it looks.

For now, I’ll type into this tech contraption a few tidbits of my story, wondering if someone will catch even a small trace of what I am putting forth, what I am pointing to.

This blog is my epithet, my tombstone insignia:

Here wrote a wild man with a gentle heart, a throwback to the ancient days, he was dusted with the potpourri of the new age. He took his shot at what it means to be an authentic human being. He lives on.









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