Stay In Love

Michael Jaco’s channel on YouTube is just tickling me pink, as they say.  I haven’t had nearly enough time to absorb.  Back in my legit commercial driving days (as opposed to merely staffing a mobile shower I happened to deliver), I’d consume so much audio content I’d get headphone rash on my tender little ears.  Mostly Teal Swan, Abraham Hicks, Jordan Peterson, and Jason Aldean lol.   

Yesterday I sent away my helper and trainee, almost forcibly, to get Indian Tacos at a faraway roadside stand for lunch so I could listen to Michael Jaco while doing our big afternoon deep clean by myself.  Everyone at this fire camp is crazy about these tacos, which I’ve always thought were called Navajo Tacos but these aren’t Navajos.  It’s just a bunch of stuff on top of a piece of fry bread, for the uninitiated.  This particular taco stand has been here since the 70’s apparently.  That’s impressive, but I still don’t want that combination of things in my gut, ever.  

Watching the news is like visiting a raving, brain damaged relative who’s safely ensconced in the sanitarium (thank god thank god), and can’t hurt anyone anymore, who you feel you should visit from time to time.  You shudder as you drive away again through the neatly trimmed hedges and ornate double gate.  All this normalcy out here but you always know: Uncle Rusty is still, and always, rattling his shackles and shrieking himself hoarse, in the pastel green room with the tiny, barred window.

The various iterations of “news” that have inevitably arisen in response to Uncle Rusty’s total mental collapse are better, of course, but I’m finding myself bored, in an ultimate way, all the same.  A lot of it serves as, like, Uncle Rusty’s legal counsel; translating rationally to the rest of the world trends in his lucidity, and providing context for what all the garbled shrieking seems to be about this time.

Michael Jaco simply takes it for granted that his viewers are up to speed on the spiritual crossroads aspect of this time in history, AS WELL AS the fact that many churches and religions serve to keep people unconscious.  Becoming “fifth dimensional” conscious is his whole deal, so he’s always talking about staying in love, staying in your bubble of love, your bubble of calm, praying and visualizing golden bubbles around yourself, sending golden bubbles of love and protection against dark forces to Trump, Melania, and others, as they play chess with the Deep State; the intuitive and time travel elements of remote viewing, which he assures his audience are accessible to everyone willing to let go of wounds and stay in love, not only to a select few; basically getting up out of these dark realms of hellish unconsciousness and being up in the light.  

But his narrative about this is peppered with references to, like, intercontinental ballistic missile systems and government/military stuff; he’s a former Navy S.E.A.L., which he doesn’t make a big deal of per se.  He regards various bad actors as either clones or the result of demonic possession, in this casually delivered way.  

Best of all, he is this super masculine man, which you can obviously just feel, and he makes big recommendations for men to embrace feminine energy, within themselves and in general, at this point in time particularly, as a way of supercharging their own insight and abilities.  I hardly ever, and I mean ever, run across people discussing gender, and its accompanying energy, from a place that seems remotely healthy, let alone leading edge.  So frankly I don’t get a lot of his references, and that’s okay — he’s dealing with subject matter on a level that resonates with me despite my amateur perspective.

I think what’s been missing for me, in my journey of woo-woo, is someone who’s not functioning in a compartmentalized fashion.  Like, what’s the point of getting up in consciousness and up in love if you achieved it by meditating in a cave, and then you maintain it by meditating in a cave?  Like, I learned in cardiopulmonary school how to optimize a patient’s experience of being on a ventilator, in these really controlled practice scenarios, and that’s fine — then it became necessary to go out in the world, out into the ICU, and figure out how to do all that in real time, with real patients, having real problems, and with me having real time crunches relative to other patients, etc.  

My favorite woo-woo thought leaders are wonderful, but they operate in something of a bubble, compared to Michael Jaco.  I feel ready for a teacher like this, who can translate the biggest trends of our time into consciousness terms, eternal self terms, because that’s the dimension in which I’m absolutely starving, otherwise, in my consumption of these other…”news” sources.  I don’t even care if he’s right or wrong, per se, and he’s absolutely non-manipulative, which is the other thing I love.  He talks to the audience as if they’re highly evolved beings figuring things out, and if he can help that’s great.  He’s also authentic and totally unpolished, and room service brought towels to the door while he was trying to make this blog, and he was just wonderful and respectful to the maids, of course.  

And having this perspective come from the masculine is the ultimate for me, because it makes me realize it’s been so typical for it to come from the feminine, via whatever format.  When I watch the “world”, the “news”, it’s highly fragmented and delivered to me by people I absolutely would not expect to receive deep insight from, on any level, least of all a characterization of events I should care about; I don’t even think they care about it.  I can’t tell what they care about at all, frankly, except saving their own worthless skins from some elephant in the room no one’s mentioning (except Michael Jaco).  It’s a time of great, disconnected uselessness, much ado about spiritually nothing, when spiritual-everything is occurring; a Las Vegas style buffet of nutritionless food just when we’re at our hungriest.

I’ve often felt like some overarching theme of my experience, here on earth, concerns being firmly situated in my feminine energy while demonstrating that it’s possible to play and frolic in the masculine energies and thought forms of the world.  I’ve never experienced personal conflict or a sense of dilemma on that level, as so many do; this is less a self-congratulation and more an observation that we all come in as teachers of something, but we’re often unaware of what, exactly, because that “something” is necessarily effortless and therefore invisible to us.  I probably won’t know until I croak what exactly I came here to show, but discovering an essentially masculine being comfortably sparring on the realm of the mystic and the feminine, the symbolic and the intuitive, is infinitely interesting to me.  It gets me excited, all over again, about how truly god-like and powerful we could all be, were we to heal our gender-energy wounds and unapologetically gather the best, juiciest psychic fruits from either side, while honoring and comfortably existing within our bodies and genders, however they manifest.  As usual, that miracle can only occur by surrendering the traumas of the past, individually and collectively (the witch burnings are a particular sore spot for me, for instance), and embracing our dual god-animal natures, which are at least partially eternal, in service to a bigger idea, a bigger self, a bigger human.  

Now, I was tempted to share this really funny anecdote a couple blogs ago, when I was referencing the perspective of Joseph, channeled by medium Michael Reccia.  I know I throw a lot at you guys, but Joseph was the one who’s fucking had it with everyone on earth continuing to reincarnate here instead of moving on, because we created this metaphysical prison planet in an attempt to hasten our expansion process; we all decided to have amnesia about God and our god-selves, to make the IMAX movie that much more immersive, and it’s only resulted in us destroying ourselves and the planet’s ability to sustain us twice before, and we’re closing down on a third time, like lemmings with the spiritual attention span of goldfish.  Apparently every form of higher consciousness in the universe has basically banded together to wake us up; kind of like that scene in Airplane where all the passengers line up for their turn to slap the hysterical woman and tell her to snap out of it.  People always think that channeled writings are really dignified and loving, and sometimes they are, but there’s no comedian like a cosmic comedian, feeling aggrieved by events much larger than their last, mostly-manufactured interaction with a New Yorker at a hot dog stand.  Joseph, or the combination of non-embodied perspectives currently going by that name, is like one of the people trying to get to work when BLM holds up the whole interstate; so he locates the nearest human host to serve as a medium, who happens to be Michael Reccia, says “hold my beer,” and essentially goes up to have it out with the guy holding the bullhorn, which is everyone on earth in this instance.   

So, one funny thing about Joseph was a transcript where a lady in the audience asks when the feminine energy problems will be resolved.  Obviously she’s feeling wounded and oppressed by masculine energies.  Joseph is like, “Yeah, that’s a great question.  Feminine energy is really out of control and shitting all over everything, right now.  It will be great when masculine comes online and regulates.”  (I’m paraphrasing from distant memory.)  The lady, of course, is like, WTF?  

My brother and I just fell out, reading this.  I don’t know if I’ve ever laughed that hard.  We’re SO accustomed to thinking about everything through this meat puppet lens, this political lens, this patriarchal tyranny lens.  But energetically, a different drama is playing out, and the two are intrinsically connected but it’s like a mirror image, you know?  A psychic wound is different from a physical wound.  A wounded energy collective manifests as physically oppressive and violent, in some sense.  We, as women, can get so hooked on the drama of being physically, politically, and historically oppressed by men that we can’t see the forest for the trees — the wounded, fragmented, un-healed masculine energy driving that imbalance, and the similarly wounded female energies driving aspects of the current imbalance as a reaction.

So men, and masculinity, have a long way to go, while women, and feminine energies, have a lot of re-calibrating to do.  Functioning like men, fracturing like men, and shutting down like men has never, and will never, be aligned for us.  And obviously it’s not aligned for men either, but as they say — the best defense is a good offense, and as long as either of those two impulses is in play, neither gender is winning anything.  

So I appreciate Michael Jaco, looking exactly like a former Navy S.E.A.L. and graciously accepting fresh towels in his hotel room while video blogging about golden love bubbles and Deep State panic, angelic and demonic energies, and the value of masculine men everywhere integrating their feminine, intuitive, calmly connected selves, up-regulated spiritually in service of the energetic warfare currently playing out.  Now *that* is my jam.

A funny thing happened, listening to this video.  I had my headphones on and the world around me shut out, just cleaning shower stalls and not worried about customers because it was our closed time.  A call from Nick came through so I clicked over with the bluetooth headphones button — he stopped my dad from taking the fridge to the dump but was meeting resistance on discarding any of the sixteen extra table legs — and so I was then wiping and spraying and chatting with Nick.  I moved over to the next stall and found it locked (they lock themselves, sometimes, when they bang closed, really annoying); I was attempting to reach down inside the stall with my spray bottle and slide the latch back; and suddenly a wet hand touched my wrist and I was like OH MY GOD.  It just scared me and I ripped off my headphones.  Turns out some Marines had come for showers, not noticed we were closed, headed on into the shower stalls despite there being a cleaning, phone chatting female bustling around in there, and then this guy felt alarmed because I was about to unlock his door while he was inside, in his altogether.  So we all scared each other.  I was like, goddammit!  First of all I can get in trouble for sexual harassment or god knows what — there’s not ever supposed to be a female in the male side when it’s occupied and vice versa, privacy partitions notwithstanding; and second of all, get my attention and ask, for chrissakes!  The Marines are just so polite, so yes ma’am no ma’am, they probably didn’t want to rock the boat so they just tried to be circumspect.

So that’s kind of where my head’s at, today, here at the baseball diamond where I live, now.  I woke up and had this funny thought: I guess I’m not making my bed, again.  “My bed” is a folding cot in the vicinity of first base, off on the darker and quieter side of the chase trailer.  My blankets fall off into the dirt sometimes, in the middle of the night.  “Going to bed” is literally just a getting-horizontal maneuver, with none of the trimmings, and waking up is simple becoming vertical again.  I wake up surrounded by smoke and I make my coffee in the smoke; it’s just an anti-climate, an anti-place.  It clears up some later in the day, but the day isn’t really day with all the smoke, and the night isn’t really night with the moon being so bright lately, and Mars right there above it.  The temperature even seems fake — not cold, not hot.  There’s no wind or even breeze.  I might as well be in space, or purgatory.  So yeah, my bed is not something I’m “making”, currently, in the mornings.  I sit in the pickup truck to blog, because it feels like an actually anchored place at least, and I just yell out the window to customers what shower stall they should go into, over the generator’s drone.  Sometimes I forget to mention how truly bizarre and surrealistically neutral my surroundings are, as I’m writing.     

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