Saturday, August 2, 2014

The Optimism Gestapo


Jaye Beldo

(editor's note: I originally wrote the following for Mysteries Magazine and it has gotten considerable internet airplay since then. Why is it that the world seems to be getting worst the more 'optimistic' people are becoming? The 'return of the repressed' most likely is the answer.)


Zen fascists will control you
100% natural
You will jog for the master race

And always wear the happy face

California Uber Alles, Dead Kennedys

Why has there not been a mass transformation of consciousness, culminating in peace on earth, as so many promised back in the early days of the New Age movement? The answer is that there may be a metaphysical COINTELPRO at work, all under the cover of love and light.
Most people remember COINTELPRO from the days of the Black Panthers, Yippies, and other revolutionary groups who threatened our government during the civil rights movement and the Vietnam war. Sensing that these groups might incite American citizens into radical action, the FBI sent in agents to agitate members of these various groups, often pitting them against each other through various forms of subterfuge, such as blackmail.

It appears that the CIA, FBI, and NSA are now sending their goons into the metaphysical marketplace, making sure that people who think they are aspiring to higher and positively transformative things are, in reality, only becoming more self-indulgent, disconnected, and confused.
The biggest influx of these agents occurred during the blossoming of the “human potential” movement in the early ‘70s, through such institutions as Esalen. Legions of people threw away their protest banners and followed their bliss during a time when directly addressing the socio-political problems of the day was imperative.

Since then, the emphasis on personal development—and more recently, the You Create Your Own Reality movement—a significant segment of the population has been brainwashed into disdaining all socio-political issues. For what better way to disempower people than to have them focus on their personal evolution at the expense of their families, communities, and the countries they live in?

Metaphysical Double-Speak

Probably the most flagrant examples of New Age COINTELPRO are channelers who convey disturbing messages from supposedly highly evolved discarnate entities. For example, when the war in Iraq first started in 2003, a well-known channeler in Santa Fe, NM, who channels the ancient Egyptian goddess Sekhmet, allegedly claimed that the war was an “ultimate expression of [Sekhmet’s] compassion for the human race.” It would take a considerable amount of gullibility to swallow this kind of nonsense, but swallow it the New Agers did.

With such multidimensional “logic” at hand, practically any injustice, whether torture, environmental destruction, or manipulation of the economy by global powers, can be justified as an act of compassion. This is no different from the theocratic stance of George W. Bush when he said that God told him to invade Iraq!

Such metaphysical double-speak is dangerous, yet is nevertheless seeping into popular culture.
Of course, not all channelers are working for the shadow government. Rather, we should use much discernment in regard to channeled information. If channeled information through predictions of global cataclysm, for instance, creates fear and makes us feel ungrounded, unsure, and mistrusting, then it probably is coming from a COINTELPRO source and should be taken with an immense grain of salt.

The Optimism Gestapo

However, perhaps the most insidious aspect of the New Age movement is what I call the Optimism Gestapo, or those who regulate and insist on positive thinking by any means necessary, where any criticism or expression of negative or painful emotions are disdained.

I once brought up to an Ashtar Command “ascencionist” (i.e. someone who believes that extraterrestrials will come and save her), the fact that democratic senator Paul Wellstone may have been murdered in order to get republican Norm Coleman elected. Before I could elaborate, she cut me off by saying, “It was just his time.”

She was intolerant of the fact that I dared interfere with the reality she was creating, free of conspiracy, cutthroat politicians, and skullduggery. And the more I have played devil’s advocate with New Agers, the more I have discovered that such intolerance is the norm. For there currently is a belief amongst New Agers that anything negative that one expresses will only further magnetize negativity. However, those who pursue this line of thinking just end up repressing their negative emotions, only to have them burst forth in uncontrollable ways.

As an example, I once was in a massage therapist’s office proofreading a manuscript for him. I was reading how he had a deep respect for his Japanese ancestors who originated the massage techniques he used in his practice. The phone rang and I heard him say, “Just dial 911,” then slammed the phone down. He then turned to me and explained, “That was my wife. My kid just fell down some stairs. I can’t deal with it.”

On the surface, the  massage therapist conveyed an aura of humaneness and caring, all the while repressing his shadow side, as evidenced by his coldness towards his wife and child. Dr. Carl Jung recognized the danger of such repression and recommended confronting the nether-regions of our psyches—primarily through dream work—as a way of achieving healthy psychological equilibrium.
Anyone seeking a supportive metaphysical community should first ask themselves if their ability to think independently is being compromised. For keeping one’s metaphysical radar functioning is most important in a world crawling with “forced cheer” gurus, COINTELPRO channelers, and self-help authors.

Jaye Beldo
Mysteries Magazine
Fall 2007

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

Ocean in a Bucket: Part II


Jaye Beldo

Out in the blast of morning sun, I thwanged some power chords on my travel guitar in hopes to stimulate some growth, using the Layover tuning. Walking down the dirt path, I intended to play for the cabbage and lettuce as well, but stopped short of the orange bucket that had been moved from in front of my trailer and down to the garden about a month prior. There was Grant, hovering over some hot mix, wearing a dust mask and Ironman sunglasses that had a perversely blue, petroleum sheen on the lenses. I had nowhere to escape and he saw me before I could backtrack. He dropped his shovel and came over to me.

"I'm sorry." He said, dust mask still on. "It's been Sandra all this time. And I think I'm over it now."

I refrained from telling him that the young lovely bared her inner thigh to me in my trailer when it was cold and rainy a few months ago and told me that she loved me.

"Apology accepted." I said and did my best to hug him. He then showed me the results of applying the prescribed 30:1 ratio of freshwater/ ocean water to his plants. Most breathtaking was the intricately veined Chard, looking very exuberant and healthy. It truly was stunning. The corn too looked robust, but I wondered how any ears would manifest since he planted it all in two gallon pots, along with everything else. Looking at the beautiful array of starts, I then said, "In the mountains one has to open their heart as wide as possible. Then open it again, even wider." Some advice I myself have had to follow in order to survive here.

He looked so tormented even though his mouth and eyes were still hidden by his mask. In an attempt to disambiguate himself, he told me he had no earth whatsoever in his astrology chart. After musing on his planetary dilemma, I slung my guitar over my shoulder and hiked back up top and surveyed all of his puer aeternus apparatus: a rusted trampoline he got at a garage sale, still unassembled,an inversion machine to stretch the spine, a beaten up mountain bike he must have plucked from some alley in the rez below-useless in such demanding terrain and the Weber grill cradled in a hub that hadn't moved since he got it. The camper top he spent an entire work day acquiring leaned against a tree covered with spider webs next to it. They all morphed on me into toddler toys in a crib.

Outside the garage was a Christmas cookie tin filled with compost, unopened since the holidays. Next to this was a cracked slab of agate about an inch thick and of which I once spun the back tire of the 125 over when I was mad at him. His Course in Miracles book lay on the dirty couch in the garage that one of the dogs vomited on, the page edges soiled black. He was on day 90 or thereabouts of his "I am God." affirmations he had told me down below during the heartfelt apology. I then opened the fridge, looking for a snack: a  large bottle of acidophilous, kombucha tea in canning jars topped with some odd mold, raw goat milk cheese, hand made bread he had gotten from the farmer's market and other holistic oddities abound. There was little room for the other workers's food and anything non-organic/non-vegan got inevitably got stuffed into the vegetable bins at the bottom so as not to contaminate his cache.

I then drove the motorcycle to the top near the house and surveyed what was supposed to be our garden. The protective fence was never put up and the deer and wild hogs annihilated everything. They even ate the roses, thorns and all. Only the onions were left untouched. And some hot peppers too. The leaves on the tomato plants that got the ocean water treatment were all shriveled up but had some exuberant yellow fruits bursting forth from the branches. Sighing, I cracked the hose open and watered the things and sampled the flavorful wonders of Grant's erratic labor. I even watered the eggplants, still in two gallon pots, most likely root bound like everything else he planted.  A neighbor suggested I put fertilizer on them but so far I haven't, Grant's talk of an imminent eco-utopia which still echoed in my head managed put a damper on that. Apparently his visionary abilities would be enough to sustain such a thing but my garden patience had been used up long ago.

That night I dreamed about the septic tanks. The p.o.v. of the dream ego was that of a camera pan from left to right. A dis-embodied voice informed me succinctly that "They are full." Of what? No one lived up there and there was no running water. Perhaps they were full of money. I grabbed some hex wrenches out of my tool box and went up there the next morning to open the lid of on one of them but alas, the size of wrench required to do so was missing from my kit. Some dream irony, I suppose, that had come forth in my waking state reality and which I had no choice but to eat.
How would we survive a societal collapse under such conditions? I wondered and went back down to base camp.

When I got there, Grant was gone. He left a note saying he'd be in L.A. for a couple of weeks for some 'treatments' he chose to remain vague about. So far, he still has not returned.

To each his OM is the mantra du jour here in California, but I still manage to get around to watering what's left of the victory garden, often wondering if the septic tanks up top really are empty. Perhaps I'll find the wrench I need to open them after all, someday soon.

(C)2014-Jaye Beldo

Sunday, May 25, 2014

A Major 7th Eulogy


Jaye Beldo

I never attended the funeral of my brother Jim as I found out second hand that he had passed on in 2010. An unknown woman, apparently a friend, spread his ashes somewhere on a lake in Northern Minnesota.

All I have are sparse memories to go on to complete the picture.  One photo I recall revealed a time in his life when he played in Doo Wop bands back in the 50's, wearing the requisite shiny suit and tie. He didn't look to happy posing for the pics.

He once told me that he handed a fellow named Robert Zimmerman an electric guitar in Dinkytown in Minneapolis and that the soon to be famous bard told him that it was the first time he ever played one.
A net search of my brother's name has turned up You Tube videos posted by a fellow musician. He never told me about any of these recording gigs:

The most vivid recollections of my brother are his coming home from time to time after touring with various bands-mostly in the Chicago land area back in the 70's. I'd beg him to show me lounge licks and he would pull his guitar out of a battered case and demonstrate them with great reluctance.  "Cocktail chords." He'd call them with a tinge of bitterness, mostly Major 7ths and the like.  His guitar playing was brilliant in that he could listen to a song and then perform  it instantly in nearly any style. He'd always mock what he was playing too, especially Country Western which he hated. He would perform 'I Walk the Line' in such a manner and would alienate quite a few listeners this way. Truly an inspiration for my own satirical songs.

Lady Luck wasn't on Jimmy's side very often.  I recall the two of us on the Balmoral golf course  in west central Minnesota over thirty years ago one summer day. He attempted an approach shot on one hole, but the golf ball sailed through a tree. A bird then fell from a branch and near the pin, D.O.A. The ball somehow rolled onto the green afterward, adding even more irony to the situation. My brother dropped his golf club on the fairway and covered his face. I felt so helpless as it pretty much summed up his hard life. I can't remember if he made a birdie or not on that hole.

The closest I ever felt to Jim was when the two of us were in a rowboat fishing and a pair of Loons approached us, both diving under the boat and coming up on the other side, then circling us several times before paddling off. They were so close we could see their brilliant ruby eyes. 

 Such is my tragically sparse and very belated eulogy on this Memorial day weekend. I love you so much dear brother and hope you're playing in a bandstand in heaven where Major 7ths are forever banned. Johnny Cash too.

(C)2014-Jaye Beldo

Monday, May 5, 2014

California Portraitures: Woodstock


Jaye Beldo

Exiting the Dollar Store, I tried to pass by a man sitting on the ground with some jewelry for sale. A cane lay by his side.

"A donation will get you one of these." He said, gesturing towards his display. "Trying to raise money for a motel tonight. Otherwise me and my wife will have to sleep outside."

Sitting on the sidewalk  with him, I listened to his story:

"I've had four strokes. I don't even exist. They took my Social Security number away from me when I was in Ohio. They send my checks back to me when I try to pay my taxes. The strokes were a good thing though. They have wiped out nearly all of my memory. The beatings mostly."

I told him about this blog and how I've been writing about the en masse loss of compassion and empathy. He had tears in his eyes.

"I know. I have the light of truth in me and they don't like it."

The light really was in his eyes. I dug a meager ten spot out of my pocket and gave it to him. I just couldn't fork out more. People walked by us and wouldn't even respond when he asked them to look at his handicraft. Some of the pieces were pretty intricate and involved.

 "I lost over a million dollars. Produced a girl  punk band and they were going to appear on T.V. When it fell through, I was charged for the advertising slots that were supposed to air. Mafia guy threatened to break my bones. I walked into his office with a check and he already had the contract drafted to cut me loose. I could have split to the Bahamas instead."

I told him how I lost everything back in Minnesota and how a wealthy woman told me to get my hair cut and work at a McDonald's after I drove 1600 miles out to Idaho to write a book about her hot springs resort.

Another man approached and we got into a discussion about who is on the lowest rung of the ladder. He said musicians were, but I disagreed and said that writers have been occupying that coveted nadir the longest. Woodstock said that artists were the lowest and looked at his unsold jewelry.

About an hour later, still no sales although someone gave my new friend some scissor hash. It was getting a bit cold and I had to leave. When driving away, I went over many of his spiritual observations he shared and thought he was quite right on. Such as his admonition not to climb up into the mountains in Big Sur as many whites have never returned from there. He said only native peoples could sufficiently navigate the terrain, spiritually and otherwise.

Then it hit me. The dream I had in 2010 when I was about to head out to the coast to meet with a would be writer who hired me to edit his book. He invited me to his 380 acre spread on the ocean in Big Sur and was going to let me stay there to work on his manuscript. In the dream I was riding up a chairlift from the ocean to his place and when I got there it was filled with mentally retarded, elderly and very ill people requiring much care. A native American man looked at me as I was about to get off the chairlift and said, "You take care of yourself." With such urgency and import that I woke up crying, something that has never happened in all of my dream life.

With dollar signs in my eyes, I ignored the warning and headed across the plains and down into Moab, Utah where I stayed for awhile, proofing the guy's mediocre writing. The day before leaving for Big Sur, I had another premonitory dream: The 'author' and I were wading across a stream filled with beer cans. He slipped and fell down this concrete embankment and smashed his head clear open on some rocks. Waking up, I signed on only to find an e-mail from him which stated that he had to cancel because his 'partner' was going to be there and I couldn't come out to the coast. Nothing like telling me that before leaving from Minnesota.

I was out about 20K with that one and refused to refund the money he had already sent me. But Woodstock confirmed something and it has given me some peace of mind, that if I had gone out there, I very well may have gotten lost myself, in the mountains of the author's own delusions or perhaps my own. With no sufficient bearings, it could have been an inevitable terminus indeed without some indigenous help. Re-reading my dream, I vowed never to ignore such warnings again.

Unable to sleep, wondering if my new friend and his wife were left out in the cold, images of other down and out, broken hearted people I've met in California paraded through my mind: The elderly man in Crescent City that had to take care of his four grandchildren, an artist I met in Trinidad who was left out on the street in a wheelchair by his girlfriend, the woman outside a Wal Mart near Joshua Tree asking for money for her 24 year old daughter who had non-Hodgkin lymphoma , the meth addict breast feeding her baby outside a post office in Willits, their only commonality being that they were both toothless.

Waking up the next morning in my motel room, an image from the dream, lingered. I was on the chairlift at the summit of the Big Sur retreat. The Native American man was silent and looked at me expectantly, along with all of the downtrodden denizens of that particular lift station.

Unable to disembark, all of my friends waited for me to decide. The piece of polished quartz Woodstock gave me lay on the bedside table. Putting it in my palm, I tried using it to scry  my own heart and somehow prepare for what lay ahead.

(C)2014-Jaye Beldo

Jaye Beldo is the author of A Stab in the Light,
 a New Age Murder Mystery available @:

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Tide Pool Labyrinths


Jaye Beldo

A rather haggard looking woman, much too thin, stood at the edge of my campsite and  asked me for some quarters. Her clothes were clean and ironed nicely. She gave me a handful of dimes in return.

"I heard your music this morning."

I had been playing scales in the Layover tuning that seemed to match those of the mountains when I heard them sing one day.

Not knowing what to say, I shared my early morning experience with her and how I tried working my way to a pod of Sea Lions hauled up on some rocks further out. Entranced by the Chitons, Sculpin, Turban Snails and Hermit Crabs, I couldn't help get sucked into a world quite alien to someone landlocked  in the mountains for far too long. Sea Anemones, tentacled mandalas fluorescent green in hue, waved as I passed by. My brethren, the crabs, retreated from me upon site.  But I couldn't retreat from the woman before me.  She did a circle and looked towards her site, then back at me. Nothing I said seemed to register a response.

"I need to take a shower. It's a dollar for five minutes." She said with a hint of sadness and looked at the coins I gave her in her palm.

"Are you on vacation?" I asked, plunking the scales again.

I looked up from my guitar but she was gone, having receded back into the pelagic flora bordering the  trails.

After packing up my gear, I took a shower myself. When I came out and she was in the parking lot wearing white rimmed sunglasses, sun hat and a sharp looking vest. She turned toward the bathrooms, walked over and opened one of the doors, paused, then turned back towards me. I got into the car, backed out and waved good bye. She backed into the bathroom. I put the dimes she gave me in the drink coaster and drove through the shaded tangle of ocean gnarled conifers. Unfamiliar birdsong pierced the din of  uncertainty, confusion and I kept my window down in hopes it would all dissipate. In the rear view mirror, I could see her looking at me from the door. She didn't wave.

How could I help someone trapped in a Tide Pool labyrinth like me? I wondered, unable to hear the radiative death knell in the roar of the Pacific undertow, a ghost echo answer that lingered in my ears for quite some time, as I drove down Highway One looking for higher shores.

(C)2014-Jaye Beldo

Jaye Beldo is the author of A Stab in the Light,
 a New Age Murder Mystery available @:


Sunday, April 27, 2014

A Huckster's Enlightenment


Jaye Beldo

The other day I attempted to confide my sorrow to Grant  in regards to a person close to me who faces a life threatening illness and the doctors's grim prognosis of her condition. My work associate paused as he drove and searched his brain a bit:

"Well, I'm sure the transition team is already around her. Great White Brotherhood. Energy vortexes abound. There'll be a bit of sorrow for the few that are around her."

The homeless waif in the back seat that he scored (see :  ), looked at him like one of those Big Eye paintings by Margaret Keane. No doubt he conned her into shacking up with him with such metaphysical tripe. I didn't respond and got out of the truck. He came around and walked by my side, not realizing that I was trying to get away from him. He set me up with a sideways glance:

"Enjoy your zen." He said, with a smarmy, flim flam grin only an oily, Texas reprobate could muster with such convincement. I was no doubt to interpret the expression as something resembling sincere compassion. Such was his enlightened dismissal of my woe. I felt like urinating on his A Course in Miracles and Your Immortal Reality books laying on the dirty couch next to his wine glasses and spliff roaches, but refrained from doing so, as it is impossible to insult a buffoon, especially one attempting to operate on a cosmic scale.

I pray daily against people like this. Psalm 109 to be exact.

(C)2014-Jaye Beldo

Jaye Beldo is the author of A Stab in the Light,
 a New Age Murder Mystery available @: