Sunday, April 20, 2014

The Christ Conspiracy

by

Jaye Beldo

Note: In all my time as a book reviewer there is really only one review that I regret allowing to be published and that is The Christ Conspiracy review posted on the Konformist.Com. Pressured by the author herself, one Acharya S. (real name Murdoch), I caved in and watered the original review down - putting this oddly palliative goddess spin on it that I concocted ad hoc from what I now believe to be a rather dubious realm: a dimension of ill repute. However, my conscience has gnawed at me continually on this matter and I attempted to post a segment of the original review on Amazon.Com. Not surprisingly Ms. S. ordered it taken down shortly afterwards and Amazon, sad to say, caved into her demands. It puzzles me that if Acharya is so sure of her theory of the non-existence of Christ why she would be threatened by my review at all. I've come across the 'Christ never existed' bit before in David Icke's The Biggest Secret , Mark Amaru Pinkham's The Myth of Christ: The Redemption of the Peacock Angel and more recently in Brian Desborough's They Cast no Shadows. I'm surprised that it hasn't dawned on these authors that perhaps the Piso family who allegedly concocted the Jesus myth for the masses were so vibrationally freaked out by the presence of the Christ and his threat to the imperium (via his unconditional love) that they spun a story making him appear to be unbelievable. No reading between the Roman spin lines for these revisionists however. I recommend James Patrick Holding’s Tektonics site for further elucidation on this matter:

http://www.tektonics.org/af/achy01.html#jb

Acharya S. needs to move past her penchant for Avatar bashing and do something more proactive with her talents.
 

The Christ Conspiracy
Acharya S.
Book Review by Jaye Beldo

"I take great glee in telling the truth." Acharya S. author of 'The Christ Conspiracy: The Greatest Story ever Sold' told me. In her controversial tome, she claims that Jesus Christ never existed, that the God Man/Man God was simply a bit of stagecraft caprice, a mere fabrication of the Roman Aristocracy to keep the unwashed masses down as well as out for the count of their long lasting reign. She surely provides an impressive smorgasbord of erudite evidence supporting her claim to the truth. A scan of the book's bibliography which includes such amazing oddities as Anacalypsis by Godfrey Higgins as well as the works of GRS Mead and Sir James Frazer will prove that. But aside from her obviously fecund and thorough scholarship to back up her forensic claim, what exactly is the truth she is so sure of conveying to us?

I suggest, to counter her stake in an ultimate Christ Hoax where the Lamb of God's wool has been pulled over our eyes for the last 2K years, is that if Jesus was indeed a mere fabrication, we should then give profound thanks to the fabricators and not despise them as cavalier perpetrators of a great lie. No, we should not thank them for the institutionalized horrors that 'Christ-Insanity' has generated over the centuries, such as the Catholic Church and its inhumane inquisitions, but rather for the wily hatchers's profoundly brilliant if not deliciously nefarious imaginations. I don't think Acharya realizes what it would take to create such a story in the first place. I doubt that you or I could ever conjure up such a tale, even on our best tall tale day out on the back porch with a pint of whiskey, a two by four and a whittling knife. It would take one hell of a sophisticated imagination to pull the Christ story out of the air of heaven, let alone to disseminate the information in a convincing way and make it seem so dramatically real. If it really was that they indeed pulled off the Jesus con, then Kyrie Kudos to those crooks!
 


 Acharya S.: Avatar Basher

One need only to appreciate the art, music, poetry and literature that the Christ Mythos has generated over the centuries ranging from Bach's 'Jesu: The Joy of Man's Desiring' to El Greco's 'Assumption of the Virgin' to the vibrant Byzantine Mosaics to the breathless grandeur of 12th C. French Cathedrals. One need only to meditate for a few quiet moments on Leonardo's St. Ann and his tormentors or even Holbein's stark cartoon The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb. How about considering the little shop of horrors found in the visions of Colette of Corbie, the 15 C. Fransican reformer, where Christ appeared to her as a dish of 'carved-up flesh like that of a child.' (see this described in the work 'The Female body and Religious Practice in the Later Middle Ages' by Caroline Walker Bynum in ZONE Fragments for a History of the Human body Part One) God, without the Christ, we wouldn't have Frank Zappa's song, St. Alfonso's Pancake Breakfast! Without the Christ cozenage, we would have virtually none of these masterpieces of art,vision and parody. History, as well as our hearts, would be pretty barren places without them.

No mere conspirators bent on world control could inspire artists, poets, troubadours, bards and musicians for so many centuries if there wasn't something so catalytically spiritual in the Christ Mythos itself. Perhaps this is the pearl of irony that has been hidden away for so long and thanks to Acharya's efforts has now come out. I suggest that a little bit of light, something spiritually genuine, purely inspired, came out of these Imperial damage control dispatches Archaya convincingly describes and miraculously insinuated itself into the official storyline like the descent of the Dove into the lord at the Baptism of Jesus himself.

No cabal could compel people aspiring to love and freedom to align themselves to the Christ archetype in so many astonishingly strange and esoteric ways and risk facing persecution by the official church. No Tyrant spin doctors could have created such things as charity, forgiveness, the ability to ward off evil, the desire to help others if the light hadn't escaped through the chink in their propaganda armor to not only expose them but to benignly betray them as being highly vulnerable to their own game. I sense that these apocalyptic engineers will someday resurrect if not liberate themselves if we let them simply by acknowledging the favors they have unintentionally given us. I already see the ascent of the PR thugs at Hill and Knowlton and other lie agencies into the love and light of eternity.

Perhaps Acharya will someday set aside her totalizing polemic against the Christ myth and consider the esoteric dimensions of his mystery. I suggest she experience the works of Rudolph Steiner or even Drunvalo Melchizedek for a momentary change of perspective. I suggest she meditate on the Christ consciousness grid of the earth as spelled out in Bob Frisell's book, Something in this Book is True as a possible means to ward off the negative NWO matrix. Maybe a consideration of optimist Barbara Marx Hubbard's work 'Revelations' is in store as a part of her future scholarly endeavors. I only suggest these works because I worry that Ms. S. will inevitably join the likes of Frederick Crews who has devoted his life to crucifying poor ol' Sigmund Freud or that she'll join the 'School of Resentment' as Harold Bloom names the legions of loveless deconstructionists and revisionist hacks that plague our Politically Correct Universities. I trust that Acharya is more intelligent, more sensitive than that.

(c) 2008-Jaye Beldo

postscript: I wrote this review prior to knowing that Drunvalo has a CIA handler and that Hubbard actually promotes genocide (see Treason by Gurudas for more info on this.)

Friday, April 18, 2014

Ocean in a Bucket

by

Jaye Beldo


She circled the jumbo magic marker around and around the brass bowl she palmed and finally got the thing to ring as we labored up the mountain road in the work truck. She wore peacock feather earrings, fringe leather boots and smoked a clove cigarette. My co-worker beamed with pride as he drove. I did my best to make sure that my furtiveness was covert.

While we were down by the river, she examined a bit of geologic artistry in the form of some granite marbled rock. Her dog took advantage of the distraction and got into the water. The current swept her away but she was able to bail on a rock outcropping, then leapt to shore. The young woman scolded the pooch when it returned and threw her embroidered jacket over its head. She then rolled a joint and offered some to me but I declined. The dog remained in the silken, penal darkness and would not move.

As the bowl rang, I was left wondering where Grant met her. Probably under some bridge on the 101 he most likely scouts on a regular basis for such prizes. He claimed it was a vegan coffee shop but I doubted it.

When we got up top she came over and sat with me, then confessed that she was tired of chasing illusions. I strummed some Aeolian chords on my travel guitar and bit my tongue. When asked where she was coming from, her reply was, "I was camping." A euphemism for being homeless in these parts, no doubt.

"Cool." I replied, modulating my response with a barely audible riff of incidental music, in the key of A minor.

The next morning, I couldn't figure out the orange colored, plastic Home Depot bucket right outside my trailer . It even had a lid on it. Grant came out of the garage when he saw me using it for a coffee table while soaking in the sun.

"Finally, some ocean water for you."

It was truly out of place in my estimation, like his botched Just-For-Men job that left his hair and beard a shade short of absolute black. It was patently odd, like the time Grant went down to base camp from the job site and returned about a half hour later with A Course in Miracles book. He sat in the pick up while it idled, read a few paragraphs and stared out the window while I continued mixing concrete for the post holes. Had to bite my tongue on that one as well.

"It's a miracle." I said and returned to scrawling something dark in my journal, wondering why he thought I needed it. The chick was hanging on Grant's yoga ropes, dangling over a small trampoline behind him, unsure of what move to do. I was tempted to put my feet up on the bucket while I watched her perform but out of respect for the ocean, refrained from doing so.

I did some raking after they left and discovered slivers of a mica like substance where Grant had parked his car. It was dark, purplish blue and a bit translucent. Tourmaline? Zultanite? I couldn't tell as I had pitched my stone books years ago along with all the stones. I plucked some out of the pea gravel and examined it in the sun. It was different than the Kyanite his previous catch had placed on my kitchen table before she left and looked like it had been run over. Gathering up a handful of the slivers, I deposited some on a shattered slice of agate about an inch thick that was laying next to a metal cookie container filled with stinking compost. Then, I put some on the rusted trampoline parts that lay in plastic bins half filled with water. Grant told me it would activate my cellular body-jumping up and down on the thing. Maybe the gem offering I made would speed up the process of it getting assembled, along with the bicycle, the inversion machine that would stretch a persons spine an inch or two if you used it long enough and the wheat grass juicer as well.

I tossed what remained of slivers into the enormous pile of ash left after days of burning brush. After saying a little prayer, I wondered what else Grant would bring up the mountain in order to fulfill his manhood flaunting needs in the days to come and whether or not I'd be getting another delivery of ocean water as a form of recompense.




(C)2014-Jaye Beldo

Saturday, March 22, 2014

California Portraitures: The Flower of Life

by

Jaye Beldo

(editor's note: This is my last post on this P.O.S. blog. The pop up ads and active links in my copyrighted articles that I did not put in is the reason.)

After not seeing much of the new arrival for over a week, she knocked on my door and came in during a break in the rain. I had been inculcating her to go for walks, look for Lungwort and tune into the mountains but she chose to hide down in the bunk house.  She propped a leg up on the edge of a chair, hiked up her skirt, hid her crotch with an artist's sketch book and revealed the real reason for her self imposed quarantine.

“Looks like you got into some wild parsley.” I commented casually while putting my reading glasses on and examining a rather large, pus filled blister on her inner thigh.

“Why do you say that?” She asked while framing the wound with her fingers. “It's just a burn.”

“Oh, I remember seeing something like this at a commune I used to go to in Wisconsin.”

I reached for some Tea Tree oil and she swathed some of it on with a cotton ball. “Looks like it needs to get some air, maybe some sunlight would help it too.” I added a bit reluctantly.

She lowered the sketchbook, her leg still on display. I turned away and grabbed my twelve string guitar and strummed some chords as if providing her with some incidental drawing music.

“I love you.” She said. It sounded sincere but rang out in my own emptiness like a prosaic,declarative statement. I could not respond as my throat seized up. She asked me for my own sketchbook which was on couch next to her. She began drawing in it and I resumed playing.

“You should sit with the colors yellow and orange-breathe them into your solar plexus and your liver and gall bladder.”

“I've been thinking of those colors all day.” I said. I really had been.

She then penned: I Luv U under the diagram. “I'll be back to draw another one for you.” She promised me and gave me a hug. “Thank you for some of the most beautiful guitar music I've ever heard.” She said as she went out the door, The young woman got into her superannuated boyfriend's battered Prius just outside the trailer and they took off for a goddess retreat somewhere up in Humboldt from what he told me afterward.

When the sound of the vehicle faded, I contemplated the Flower of Life she conjured up, then tossed the sketchbook aside, somewhat impressed with her intuitive abilities.

I was even more impressed when I began vomiting around 2 AM and had the runs for four days afterwards. Laying in my sweat, I tried my best to breathe in the colors she recommended.  Odd how it was all spelled out in her diagnostic artwork-the food poisoning that is.  Perhaps the cause of this mysterious illness will be revealed in another Flower of Life she most likely will draw for me upon her imminent return.

(C)2014-Jaye Beldo

Saturday, February 22, 2014

California Portraitures: A Wake Epitaph

by

Jaye Beldo

(Please note: My apologies for the active links that mysteriously appeared when I published the following. I cannot get rid of them.)


 He was fluent in wave language, learning the required skills in his early days. Now some island horizon he once trolled has come back into view, a promise afforded him via a twin prop boat given to him. The thing should have enough horsepower to get out to the Tuna fetching over 20-30 dollars a pound back in the bay. Yet the prospect is 'iffy' as he would say. Some guy shot up the inside of his house with an Uzi then booked to Kauai before the cops came. His wife had to be ambulance helicoptered off the shoreline property he inherited from his mother and to a hospital in Wailea last summer. First day of her Maui vacation. Didn't even make it past the driveway before she collapsed. Ex-stripper I heard, now finishing off her liver with Vodka in the afternoons while I work with her husband on top of the mountain.

During a break, I dug my travel guitar out of the truck and played My Yellow Ginger Lei and could feel his heart resonate under all the scars, pain and sorrow. Maybe it was the Wahine tuning that caused it to hum stronger. He said his mom raised him to Slack Key. She died of a stroke a few years back. Taught him how to grow weed while he was still in grade school. As I put my guitar away, he was further compelled to tell me that he had to clean the brains of his uncle off of some apartment wall. The decrepit vet ex'ed himself with a deer rifle-the only kind of pain reliever he could afford apparently seeing his benefits got cut.

My friend should have cut the heart out of the buck he shot with a bow and arrow on the remote ridge across from here last summer and tossed it as an offering to the mountain lion staring at him as he dressed the kill. She was only fifty yards away he told me, perched on a ledge. He should have let the young bear that chased him into his living room eat the deer guts in his backyard down in the valley. But he emptied his .45 good and it teetered over like an ominous totem. Maybe it was a curse from all the cock fighting he was into that caused his Dodge Ram to roll of the edge of the 101-he even fitted the metal spurs on the contenders and managed the betting too. He woke up handcuffed to a hospital bed after the accident. Another rollover the year before dispersed over 20 processed p's onto a farmer's field and messed up his neck pretty bad. The Samoan who tore up the tranny in his 4WD trying to pull stumps down shore from his place may have been answering to the saboteur call as well. The guy never even apologized, so I heard later on in the day.

Yet, the cavalcade of misfortune most likely stemmed from the fact that he never went to the funeral for the body boarder they found floating in the foam on the shore one morning, all purple and bloated-just a wake epitaph carved with their surfboards crisscrossing over the area the guy got pulled into and instantly undertowed into the reefs. The waves were gnarly that day-no reason to miss out on any of them even after warning the guy not to go out there.

And now the surf beckons him from his landlocked predicament in the Emerald Triangle back to his homeland atoll, currents promising to take him out into the open ocean,to endless schools of Tuna and Snapper. But he will have to fish even deeper and all throughout the night to support his family, he confessed once more.

After the last hole was augured he rolled down the hill to check up on his wife, leaving me alone on the job site. I sat on a bale of straw and watched the sun disappear over the ridge behind me, contemplating his island invitation, my own prospects seeming just as iffy.



(C)-2014 Jaye Beldo


Tuesday, December 17, 2013

No Xmas

by

Jaye Beldo




 I prayed the Blood of Jesus over the Starbucks logo as I walked across the parking lot-a nod and a wink to Ishtar or maybe Asherah or some other dunce goddess feminists adulate, prior to entering the establishment. After I got my coffee, I sat down in the corner but there was a T.V. set above me. Couldn't get my eyes off of the Cookie Monster and an orange colored puppet wearing a headband with an eye emblem on it, wrestling with each other, fighting over some cookies with strange symbol codes engraved upon them. It all flashed too quick to decipher but I prayed anyway.  I had read about the Watchers the previous evening on the Demonbuster.Com site-so it really stood out-the eye that is and the fact the Watcher demons now monitor children from something as seemingly innocous as Sesame Street.

Hard to escape from this stuff. Some breaking employee turned around in her chair and changed the channel.  I saw some hollow newscaster standing outside a Wal Mart filled with police officers near the check out lanes. Was there a shooting there? They looked so merry-so perhaps so. Couldn't hear her report over some P.A. static but tried to connect, i.e., get attracted to her as she was blonde haired and blue eyed. But her emptiness kept bouncing me back into a deficient dimension. I gave up and countered it by downloading warfare prayers on my Acer Tablet. Then I looked up again at a spot on some famous basketball player volunteering to shop with a kid in what looked to be a Target. Not feed or clothe the poor on some urban decayed street-but guide the ready made waif to the latest X-Box offering in the back of the store and slam dunk the travesty down the gullets of desperate children across America.

No refuge for the weary during the holidays-except on my long desert walks and crag climbs through barren, Martian landscapes here in Arizona that beat up my legs quite a bit. I did eight miles the other day to get away from the malaise and was able to cathart a bit of the Xmas slag.

Standing in line the other morning at the same grocery store housing the Starbucks, waiting to pick up a something being wired to me overseas by a genuine friend, some old codger was at the counter ahead, buying lottery tickets. A lot of them. His hands shook so hard he could barely grasp the tickets when the cashier forked them over. Against all odds indeed, prompting me to pray for him in a 1 in 14 million kind of way.  The desperation in his face was indelible. Just read now that something like 1/3 rd of people living in the U.S.  believe that winning the lottery is the only way of becoming financially secure. Reflecting on this, I'm now reminded of a sign near the door of the grocery store where Salvation Army volunteers ring their feeble little bells. It stated that 35.5 million people face food insecurity, surely a sign of  better odds to come though, ones we can bank on that in a rock solid,  1% kind of way.

No Xmas. Nothing to celebrate.  Pray the Blood of Jesus over the chem trail blight above, pray it deep into the frack wounds in the earth and into each radioactive Fukushima molecule in a dying Pacific ocean. Cut your tree down for it has no roots other than the roots of Babylon and smash the ornaments which only incubate the embryos of future bankers worshipping Baal-Berith. Pray the Blood of Jesus over Santa Claus-Amanita huckster that he is. Pray it over astro-theologians who attempt to stellar pin point the birth of Christ, thus imprisoning him in some self satisfying, constellation calendar.  Pray it over the reindeer too-duped into aiding/abetting a thief-in-the night because they ate the mushrooms first in some snowy remote clime.



Pray the Blood of Jesus over Emperor Constantine who co-opted sun god worship and fixed the birth of our Lord within this thinly veiled Lupercalia. Pray it over that Akkadian crank Tammuz who peeps out from your Christmas lights and silently mocks you.
 
 No Xmas.

End of Scrooge screed but TBC,



http://www.demonbuster.com/christmas.html


http://www.demonbuster.com/watchers.html

Starbucks logo photo courtesy of:

http://revealingtruthtoday.wordpress.com/2012/04/11/starbucks-logo-exposed/


(C)2013-Jaye Beldo







Sunday, December 15, 2013

Carving Out One's Place in the World

by

Jaye Beldo

In the winter of '09 when it was -35 below zero early one morning, I was staying at a Best Western motel in Fergus Falls, Minnesota. I couldn't start my car and a man pulled up in a Dodge Ram pickup and offered to give me a jump. We stood in the freezing cold while my car warmed up and I told him how I had to forcibly remove my aging mother the day before and place her in a rest home but was too angry to go back home and deal with my in denial father. He listened to me intently and I could tell that he was genuinely sympathetic towards my plight. He then told me how four guys in a pick up truck tried running him over in that very parking lot one night and that he had to jump over a snow drift to avoid getting hit. I told him to wear a Minnesota Vikings hat to prevent any further trouble. He said that he couldn't do that and uttered a word that I cannot recall other than that he told me it meant, 'Carving out one's place in the world.' Listening to his story pretty much pushed me over the edge and I stood there shivering and crying in the cold because...well I just never have understood hatred and why people continue to hate others they perceive to be different than themselves.

About four months later, my sister and I went to visit my father in the hospital. He was not expected to live as he had a perforated gastric ulcer and we were taking an elevator up to ICU to see him, possibly for the last time. The elevator stopped en route and the doors opened up. In walked the man who had jumped my car, wearing scrubs and a Yarmulke.  I told him why we were there, a bit elated that he remembered helping me out. He shook my hand and said he would pray for my father and then disappeared out the doors on the surgery floor. Obviously, the hicks who threatened to kill the Dr. hadn't sufficiently intimidated him into hiding his identity, nor cause him to compromise his compassion. He probably wouldn't have any qualms whatsoever about doing open heart surgery on those who tried to do him in.

I still cannot remember, to this day, the Hebrew word he shared with me out  in the frozen hotel parking lot.  But I'll never forget my friend's kindness and generosity and courage as well during two of the lowest moments of my life.













(C)2013-Jaye Beldo

Monday, December 9, 2013

Review: The Christ Conspiracy





Note: In all my time as a book reviewer there is really only one review that I regret allowing to be published and that is The Christ Conspiracy review posted on the Konformist.Com. Pressured by the author herself, one Acharya S. (real name Murdoch), I caved in and watered the original review down - putting this oddly palliative goddess spin on it that I concocted ad hoc from what I now believe to be a rather dubious realm: a dimension of ill repute. However, my conscience has gnawed at me continually on this matter and I attempted to post a segment of the original review on Amazon.Com. Not surprisingly Ms. S. ordered it taken down shortly afterwards and Amazon, sad to say, caved into her demands. It puzzles me that if Acharya is so sure of her theory of the non-existence of Christ why she would be threatened by my review at all. I've come across the 'Christ never existed' bit before in David Icke's The Biggest Secret , Mark Amaru Pinkham's The Myth of Christ: The Redemption of the Peacock Angel and more recently in Brian Desborough's They Cast no Shadows. I'm surprised that it hasn't dawned on these authors that perhaps the Piso family who allegedly concocted the Jesus myth for the masses were so vibrationally freaked out by the presence of the Christ and his threat to the imperium (via his unconditional love) that they spun a story making him appear to be unbelievable. No reading between the Roman spin lines for these revisionists however. I recommend James Patrick Holding’s Tektonics site for further elucidation on this matter:

http://www.tektonics.org/af/achy01.html#jb

Acharya S. needs to move past her penchant for Avatar bashing and do something more proactive with her talents.



The Christ Conspiracy
Acharya S.

Book Review by Jaye Beldo

"I take great glee in telling the truth." Acharya S. author of 'The Christ Conspiracy: The Greatest Story ever Sold' told me. In her controversial tome, she claims that Jesus Christ never existed, that the God Man/Man God was simply a bit of stagecraft caprice, a mere fabrication of the Roman Aristocracy to keep the unwashed masses down as well as out for the count of their long lasting reign. She surely provides an impressive smorgasbord of erudite evidence supporting her claim to the truth. A scan of the book's bibliography which includes such amazing oddities as Anacalypsis by Godfrey Higgins as well as the works of GRS Mead and Sir James Frazer will prove that. But aside from her obviously fecund and thorough scholarship to back up her forensic claim, what exactly is the truth she is so sure of conveying to us?

I suggest, to counter her stake in an ultimate Christ Hoax where the Lamb of God's wool has been pulled over our eyes for the last 2K years, is that if Jesus was indeed a mere fabrication, we should then give profound thanks to the fabricators and not despise them as cavalier perpetrators of a great lie. No, we should not thank them for the institutionalized horrors that 'Christ-Insanity' has generated over the centuries, such as the Catholic Church and its inhumane inquisitions, but rather for the wily hatchers's profoundly brilliant if not deliciously nefarious imaginations. I don't think Acharya realizes what it would take to create such a story in the first place. I doubt that you or I could ever conjure up such a tale, even on our best tall tale day out on the back porch with a pint of whiskey, a two by four and a whittling knife. It would take one hell of a sophisticated imagination to pull the Christ story out of the air of heaven, let alone to disseminate the information in a convincing way and make it seem so dramatically real. If it really was that they indeed pulled off the Jesus con, then Kyrie Kudos to those crooks!


One need only to appreciate the art, music, poetry and literature that the Christ Mythos has generated over the centuries ranging from Bach's 'Jesu: The Joy of Man's Desiring' to El Greco's 'Assumption of the Virgin' to the vibrant Byzantine Mosaics to the breathless grandeur of 12th C. French Cathedrals. One need only to meditate for a few quiet moments on Leonardo's St. Ann and his tormentors or even Holbein's stark cartoon The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb. How about considering the little shop of horrors found in the visions of Colette of Corbie, the 15 C. Fransican reformer, where Christ appeared to her as a dish of 'carved-up flesh like that of a child.' (see this described in the work 'The Female body and Religious Practice in the Later Middle Ages' by Caroline Walker Bynum in ZONE Fragments for a History of the Human body Part One) God, without the Christ, we wouldn't have Frank Zappa's song, St. Alfonso's Pancake Breakfast! Without the Christ cozenage, we would have virtually none of these masterpieces of art,vision and parody. History, as well as our hearts, would be pretty barren places without them.

No mere conspirators bent on world control could inspire artists, poets, troubadours, bards and musicians for so many centuries if there wasn't something so catalytically spiritual in the Christ Mythos itself. Perhaps this is the pearl of irony that has been hidden away for so long and thanks to Acharya's efforts has now come out. I suggest that a little bit of light, something spiritually genuine, purely inspired, came out of these Imperial damage control dispatches Archaya convincingly describes and miraculously insinuated itself into the official storyline like the descent of the Dove into the lord at the Baptism of Jesus himself.

No cabal could compel people aspiring to love and freedom to align themselves to the Christ archetype in so many astonishingly strange and esoteric ways and risk facing persecution by the official church. No Tyrant spin doctors could have created such things as charity, forgiveness, the ability to ward off evil, the desire to help others if the light hadn't escaped through the chink in their propaganda armor to not only expose them but to benignly betray them as being highly vulnerable to their own game. I sense that these apocalyptic engineers will someday resurrect if not liberate themselves if we let them simply by acknowledging the favors they have unintentionally given us. I already see the ascent of the PR thugs at Hill and Knowlton and other lie agencies into the love and light of eternity.

Perhaps Acharya will someday set aside her totalizing polemic against the Christ myth and consider the esoteric dimensions of his mystery. I suggest she experience the works of Rudolph Steiner or even Drunvalo Melchizedek for a momentary change of perspective. I suggest she meditate on the Christ consciousness grid of the earth as spelled out in Bob Frisell's book, Something in this Book is True as a possible means to ward off the negative NWO matrix. Maybe a consideration of optimist Barbara Marx Hubbard's work 'Revelations' is in store as a part of her future scholarly endeavors. I only suggest these works because I worry that Ms. S. will inevitably join the likes of Frederick Crews who has devoted his life to crucifying poor ol' Sigmund Freud or that she'll join the 'School of Resentment' as Harold Bloom names the legions of loveless deconstructionists and revisionist hacks that plague our Politically Correct Universities. I trust that Acharya is more intelligent, more sensitive than that.

(c) 2008-Jaye Beldo

postscript: I wrote this review prior to knowing that Drunvalo has a CIA handler and that Hubbard actually promotes genocide (see Treason by Gurudas for more info on this.)