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Sons of Aries; Bastards of David

Sons of Aries; Bastards of David

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Sons of Aries; Bastards of David

837 pagine
14 ore
Oct 12, 2014


The Son’s of Aries is one man’s journey of self discovery, through personal experiences some may consider super-natural. Although the work covers a great deal of the phenomena known as past lives, delving into early time periods and their associated families, while trying in earnest to unbury details by way of available subject matter and inner musings of the author, the work also attempts to unravel the mystery of reincarnation through scientific and philosophical discourse.
The Son’s of Aries may be one of the foremost works on the subjects of past lives, from one who has first-hand experience of the many facets of incarnational bleed-through, while going to great lengths to understand this phenomenon through non-institutional and non-clinical develop-mental research. Many of the time periods within are critical turning points in human evolution, yet many may find its history as a counter narrative to the modern view. The works premise is primarily a tool for healing personal morphogenetic distortions inherited from personal and past life trauma, bathed within a conceptual framework which allows readers to grasp the fundamen-tal process to unravel the mystery of this enigmatic subject. By tapping into ones past collective incarnates opportunities are created to clear past karmic miasma, through navigational tools for self growth and empowerment. Without higher awareness of what holds us back it’s nearly impossible to negotiate beyond the end-less layers of distorted programming.
The material often quotes from a body of work known as the Keylontic Sciences to ground the many theories, while expanding upon the nature of ascension mechanics and the collectives who often return to deliver such information during critical cycles, of which the author has been privy. There’s an abundance of group dynamics within these families giving one an insider’s view of the goals and pitfalls of indigo risings and the heartbreak and struggles which shadows such periods. The work also sheds light on common themes with several high coded incarnates, showing how karma flows from one life to another, the negative effects of Templar seals and frequency fences as well as the vulnerability of earthbound incarnates, relative bloodlines and the associated politics of the period. The use of history as a fulcrum may also show repeated patterns not only for collective incarnates, but for history as a whole, showing the procession of cycles and the hidden patterns within them. One may also glean insight of the larger collectives of the high profile individuals known as Jesus, Mary Magdalene, and John the Baptist; simply because the author’s collective at large has had many past associations with these collectives.
Upon first glance, the Son’s of Aries would appear to be one author’s glorification of self in order to achieve some sort of status by way of ego exploitation at the expense of the reader. Yet I would encourage the reader to allow all the parts to coalesce into the greater meaning of the whole, for only then can one draw a worthy conclusion. To know the true nature of any collec-tive one needs to see the greater metaphor behind the writing and how it pertains to the greater cycle.
Humanity has reached a very special period in conscious and spiritual evolution and I believe that it’s not only time to take the blinders off, but time to overcome our prejudices and learn open-mindedly as much as possible about what this period may have to offer through alternative sources. This can start simply by dropping the ego attachments long enough to consider alternate possibilities, which I realize is easier said than done for most. But if we considers knowledge to be the only hurdle between us and the opportunity to increase oneself beyond the parameters of contemporary conscious perception and a pathway to true peace and understanding, then I encourage all to act fast, for time is of the essence!

Oct 12, 2014

Informazioni sull'autore

Please refer to the beginning sections of the book to answer all queries.Valentinus

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Anteprima del libro

Sons of Aries; Bastards of David - Valentinus



Higher Self/Soul (authors perspective).

Joe P. Wesley (Brother Joe in WWII).

Reincarnation (an essay).

Esah (brother Esah, 18th century Native American).

The Shift (essay).

Tucal (brother Tucal of the Anasazi).

Karma (essay).

Easiah (brother Easiah during the Civil War).

Ego (essay).

Perceval (brother Perceval; the bastard of Coucy and Marie of Anjou).

Co-Creation (essay).

Benjamin (brother Ben the giant and the army of Charlemagne).

Space & Time (essay).

Anselm (brother Anselm/Saint Anselm and William the Conqueror).

Faith vs. Reason (essay).

Aris (brother Aris as Hippocrates the physician).

Healing (essay).

Hector (brother Hector, mother Hecuba and the fall of Troy).

Love (essay).

Senmut (brother Sen, his love of Hatshepsut and the building of the Temple).

Genetics (essay).

Akhen-Aton (the fall of brother Akhenaten and the Templar Seal).

Star Gates (essay).

The Three Bastards (review of brothers Perceval, Sir Richard and Francis Bacon).

Impeccability (essay).

King Arthur and Kay (review of brother Kay Arthur’s foster brother).

At Present (essay).

Ptolemy (review of brother Claudius Ptolemy; Valentinus).

The Future (essay).

Ahkiyannu (reflections of a galactic warrior).

God (essay).

The Sumerian Tablets (authors review).

Oahspe (authors review).

The Keylontic Sciences (authors review).

Summary (reflections on time anomalies).

The Gift (journal entry).

The Key (authors poetry).


The year was 1969. A nine year old boy with long brown hair, tattered clothes and holes in his shoes lived on the backstreets of Chicago in an apartment that should have been condemned twenty years earlier. The apartments were cheap haunts, often traded for cheaper ones. When the money ran out so did this family, like thieves in the night, packing their belongings on their backs until they reached the next crappy neighborhood and the next run-down school, promising more grief for him through the pecking order of the ethnic gangs that had no interest in outsiders, other than to bully them relentlessly. At least the free lunch program at school provided some sustenance for the boy who was no stranger to the pain of hunger.

He was the product of a broken family within a broken system and a broken culture. His days were about survival. He learned from the best in that land of poverty, perversion, alcohol-lism, drug abuse and cruelty. The boy acquired a shoe-shine kit and would hit all the taverns on Clark Street to support his habit of eating. With the little extra money he earned, he was able to put some food on the table, only to be ravaged by the wolf pack of siblings who preferred steal-ing over working for their take. On the weekends the bars were full of staggering drunks who couldn’t tell the difference between a buck and a ten dollar bill, and in his inexperience, the shoe-shine boy painted their white socks with black polish, occasionally escaping through the alleys to lose the perverts who wanted more than their shoes polished.

The boy learned that he could depend on only one thing, his own sovereign spirit, if he wanted to change his way of life. He tried the way of the thief out of necessity, but his heart wasn’t in it, for hunger was replaced with guilt. He tried at first to make money carrying grocer-ies for little old ladies, but found the temptation of eating the food he carried too strong to resist and would find himself running away with their groceries. At an age when children should be playing with toys or in little league baseball, he was being exposed to social injustice and violent prejudice, the side of humanity most who lead sheltered lives fortunately never see, while there on the back-streets that element of the population was rampant as the mental disease called ignorance.

Fear as a companion has no merit, but erodes the psyche through contemplative substitu-tion. He became vigilant about who or what lurked around the corner, and he knew that any sign of fear would only make him a target. This hostile world was all he knew, for lack and contempt barely sustained any prospect of love, a foreign concept beholden to dime store novels. He never knew religion but always felt some presence watching over him. In a strange way, the boy thought life was an illusion, like a dream or perhaps a nightmare.

Between the ages of eleven and twelve, the boy had his first experience. He awoke one morning and felt as if he had been asleep for a thousand years, as if a surreal expansion was occurring at a cellular level yet unbeknownst to his senses. He now stood over an antiquated space heater warming himself while peering beyond the flat toward the light cascading through the front window, oblivious to his surroundings, dumbfounded and numb. He could not compre-hend or find words for what it was that he had experienced. It shook him to the core. He knew something bizarre had happened; something had changed. It was as if during the night he’d lost all track of time, as though he’d come through a time warp of some kind. Was it merely a dream or perhaps a memory wipe after some kind of abduction? He couldn’t recall anything from the days prior; he just couldn’t put the pieces together, but he knew something significant had happened, but what and how . . . ?

As days turned to years, the significance and wonderment of the experience began to fade; only the mystery remained. As adolescence turned to puberty, fear was overshadowed by resentment. The adolescent became an angry teen who learned that a fist could stand against social injustice as well as any government program. Opportunity never came knocking, yet the power of will was never in short supply.

He never made it to his high school graduation. A year earlier he found himself once again on the street, scrounging for enough money to buy an old car which became a temporary shelter for him and his dog. As the teen grew into manhood, anger turned to frustration, for the world seemed to conspire against him. Eventually depression settled in stripping him of his confidence and he began to lose faith, feeling lost and without vision. He felt as if he didn’t belong in this world, as if he was being punished for some unknown crime; this phase eventually gave way to apathy, for to care about anything seemed useless. Perhaps this is a natural stage that the body and mind succumb to when they have run the emotional gamut. In retrospect, those early exper-iences, created a sort of energetic crucible, the platform for indifference.

By age 24 a new man began to emerge, prompted by fate intervening after a couple close calls. Eternal optimism flooded in, allied with fortitude after he’d turned this sharp corner. The victim attitude was replaced by a voracity for life and the likeness of the conquering capitalist, firmly aligned with an ego that resembled a chest-thumping King Kong. However, this too would pass. Within a decade a reconciliation of the past would come to call and all would once again be reduced to their lowest terms, making way for yet another persona that resembled little of his prior selves. That fearful boy once stored away in an enameled box, along with the angry fist wielding teen and the frustrated young man, all came to call and the new persona listened.

Some may find it odd that I would gander at my past in a third person perspective, yet it can illuminate the fact that in many ways we are potentially many personalities within one life, which may be quite similar to our greater collective of personalities from the large realm of incarnations we all share through our soul. The platform that equals the sum of our parts is far greater than ever expected, as a variable conscious continuum, which may be anchored and primed from something as small as our DNA.

Years had passed before I began to understand through spiritual maturity, the gift bestowed upon me during those adolescent years, as well as the responsibility born of that gift. On the night of my mysterious experience, something was returned to me that had been taken many years and many lives ago. Over time I began to regain the fragments of a shattered soul piece by piece, until I was able to assemble enough to shed light on an entire collective of lives as well as a level of awareness of who and what my soul was and the intimate knowledge of my soul’s personal life and that of my extended soul family.

As I look back at that scared boy’s existence within the confines of the rabble, there is a lack of synchronicity, as if my mind had sequestered this period until I was able to understand it from a position of objectivity. In many ways it was a past life needing to be healed, which became the first hurdle of many. How often I had revisited that lost boy I can’t say but the number of traum-as were staggering and the armor had to be removed meticulously. How much I wanted to emb-race the boy, to let him know that he was loved, but he was a little warrior in his own right and not one to be coddled. Even though the boy lived in a bankrupt physical world, his prosperity was never truly denied, for his true family was always there for him. How many times they had intervened is not certain, yet I was no stranger to the invisible ones. They made themselves known on more than one occasion to ensure my ultimate safety as if they were protecting me from a hidden foe that were always plotting against me. Even now I wonder if during one of those periods, often promising certain death, if an alternative reality field had been created for my necessary evolution. It was as if an undeniable destiny seemed eminent, yet always hidden from my senses. The danger whispered as a subliminal undercurrent, undeniable, yet intangible. There, during the most inhospitable moments, was the strange knowing that I was something more, lending a shadow of hope to the circumstance at hand.

I now believe that I am not unique in this regard. Many with similar upbringings have at times swam through turbulent seas and such character-building moments became either stepping stones or stumbling blocks. I also think that some people innately feel that they are something more, yet unfortunately this feeling often becomes aligned with some cultural program or usur-ped by the ego for some distorted vain entitlement. This feeling of being more may have little to do with our external obsessions. Yet it may be as simple as a subtle memory that lies at the fringe of conscious thought, as an outer radiance that’s unbound in a plethora of God source expression, limited only by our perception of reality.

During my early thirties my evolutionary process had pretty much snuffed out the young man I thought I was, hitting my ego like a wrecking ball as I began to align myself with Source. The emotional aspect of self with all of its compartmentalized and buried bones had to be unear-thed; the dogmas and programs of society had to be reconciled. I knew it intuitively and asked for it verbally, but I was naïve to believe that after dealing with all the tear jerk moments of this simple life that I would be dealing with the small army in my collective consciousness, who began aligning themselves in single file, as if to capitalize on my new found talent. These aspects of my greater conscious also had a story to tell and much to heal.

Although I do still get an occasional expansion, and a bit of bleed-through from other time-periods, for the most part, it’s more about consolidation and refinement. What was once consid-ered an effort beholden to the 3D realm, well, let’s just say I feel I passed that threshold long ago. The last expansion surrendered the veils of time and space as I knew them, for a glimpse of what can only be referred to as our cosmic aspect of consciousness. I think it’s best if such experiences remain undisclosed at this time, but I also believe I was exposed to this level to help me better understand how we are all connected far beyond these tiny dramas of manifest reality, as well as to help overcome what I have yet to heal. The experience of cosmic expansion also confirmed something for me that I had been questioning, something that began during that boyhood period that left me dumbfounded; my shackles have been removed. Perhaps we will learn more about what this means as we progress further.


Within the following pages I will be taking a historical and occasionally romantic as well as heartbreaking journey through this mysterious collective for one primary reason; TO HEAL IT!

I have made this work public with the hope to aid others who have also reached that pivotal moment, and for the generally curious folk who are just hoping to answer a few questions regar-ding this enigma we call reincarnation from a wholly un-academic source.Although there are many mainstream concepts regarding the nature or the experiences of what may be considered paranormal, it would be easy to conclude that there is a common denominator found here; the mind doesn’t like unsolved riddles. Phenomena that are not understood are often dismissed or considered irrelevant, yet this work shall answer this query through rational quantifiable discourse, lending credence to the mysterious phenomena of past lives.


Our soul Ahkiyannu may be defined in many ways. Some would call him an extra terrestrial because he is not human in origin, yet is human by association and fragmentation. He may also be classified as a spirit or more befitting, a soul and oversoul, for Ahki was indeed both. This is not to say he is without a body, for he has many aspects of self, imbedded into the space-time constructs we call earth in addition to his own morphogenetic field. He will be discussed more in detail toward the end of this book, but I thought it pertinent now to add a brief description, since I will be mentioning him often before then. I may be considered one incarnate aspect of Ahkiyannu yet there are many, and it is in regard to the many that I wish to elaborate. I like to refer to Ahki as my higher self or my father and I am writing to honor the being who has granted me a sovereign expression and the will and ability to express accordingly.

The many incarnates of Ahkiyannu is one man’s journey of self-realization; although trans-cendence could be considered an important part of this process, the word itself does have its stereotypes that may distort our goal. We must be careful of word choice if we are to avoid invalidation by association and to maintain a crisp sense of objectivity. This of course, must include the fact that many may feel the subject matter of this work has no objectivity, but if you have read this last passage and you feel intrigued, you are one of the minority who doesn’t always follow the herd. You most likely question everything because it is in your nature, and that nature may be more natural than you think and what I like to call the higher calling. Although this work is seemingly about a stranger, and even though you don’t know me, we have many characteristics in common, which makes this work synonymously about you, for we are in a sense— strangers unto ourselves.


This work is a compilation of personal experiences as well as a cross examination of those experiences relative to subsequent lives including the being, known as Ahkiyannu. I shall not only use history for the purpose of identification and collaboration, but will also use a bit of spiritual insight as well as scientific reasoning and scrutiny to help facilitate a higher under-standing of how such phenomena is not only relative but pertinent, as well as transformational.

I will occasionally reference a body of work known as the Keylontic Sciences to better help define some of my essays. The Keylontic Sciences are a body of material that contain in depth explanations on the basic structures of matter (the keylon), defined as the fundamental material of creation. The science of Keylonta, as expressed in Voyagers II; allows humans to become conscious co-creators within the multidimensional reality fields of the cosmos. This body of teachings also explains human species evolution and ascension mechanics. Please visit the Keylontic Science dictionary online for a better understanding of many of the terms I will be using as needed; The material was presented by the author known at the time as Ashayana Dean, who goes presently by E’Asha, or E’Asha Ashayana Aneayhea Kananda Melchizedek.

In the late 1990’s she authored Angelic Realities and the Voyager books I & II published through The Wild Flower Press, which have been complimented by various works that followed through correspondence within a participatory workshop format that included large scale public attendance. Although the material is consolidated and written by E’Asha, and published by the Wild Flower Press, she claims to be only a transcriber of the many volumes; the true authors being "The Guardian Alliance."

This material will not only be used to facilitate the understanding of complex concepts but also to identify Ahkiyannu himself, as well as some of his incarnations who shared life experiences with the collective of the being known as E’Asha. The Egyptian period surrounding the eighteenth dynasty was one such shared experience when Ahkiyannu participated with the incarnate Akhenaton and a member of E’Asha’s collective came as Ankhi, not to be confused with the daughter Ankhesenpaaton, who also was called Ankhi. The elder Ankhi was one of Akhenaton’s minor wives also known as Kiya. We will get to these stories in more detail later in the book, as one cannot build a bridge without the structural elements.


Who am I? Although relative to this body of work, I find it hard to talk about myself intim-ately, which may sound strange considering that most of what is written here, is in a sense about different aspects of what may be considered related selves. However, I do find it a bit pretentious to talk about my own personality without a certain level of discomfort, but I realize that readers like to know who the person is behind the words, or at least I personally like the opportunity to become acquainted with the authors of the book I’m going to read, so I shall give a superficial bio here.

My résumé, upon first glance, may detract from any credible convention, due to my below average list of contemporary accomplishments, for I have no accolades to adorn my walls, no medals of honor that would make me stand out in a crowd and no authoritative testimonials to pump my persona to a level befitting a subject worthy of investment. I am an average Joe, liter-ally and metaphorically. There is only one little thing that I do have that most others do not; a different level of exposure to this type of phenomena. In my 3D world-reality, I am a remodel-ing contractor, which is nothing more than a glorified carpenter. Prior to starting my own busin-ess, I worked as a construction manager for a number of years with large scale corporate building companies, getting burned out by my late 30’s. I am a family man and have a wife and three beautiful daughters. I reside in a home I built in the high country in 1998, which is one part eco friendly and one part energy pig. I moved here to get away from the Chicago area where I was born and raised. My friends call me Joe or Minio, which is a derivative of my first name; Herminio (pronounced air-minio with a roll of the tongue), a name I inherited from my grandfather who lived and died in the mountains of Puerto Rico, but the name is rarely used unless legally required. The name comes from the older version Herminio de la Cruz which basically means soldier of the cross; obviously coined during the crusades. I am referencing the names along with their origins for good reason. We will see later how names hold many keys and clues found to be quite helpful in regards to past life phenomena. The pen name Valentinus is a borrowed pseudonym used long ago by another collective brother, who we will talk more about later.

My mother is mostly of Celtic origin crossed with Native American. So, in a way I am a typical American mutt, claiming no creed or culture. I am a bit of a loner out of choice and perhaps a bit of an introvert as well, and meditate more than the average Joe. I like to read and write and dabble in poetry, and I’m an avid participant in conscious expansion with a heightened sense of my own beingness. One might characterize me as a spiritual mystic who has a tendency to look at the world and all its idiosyncrasies with an open-minded philosophical perspective. I like to think outside of the box and have a tendency to stray from what one may consider establi-shed contemporary paradigms of perception, while catering to what may be labeled as fringe-type concepts. I do however consider service to others a virtue worthy of practice, and I hope that my words are informative, or at the very the least, entertaining. I have in the most literal sense, spilled my heart and soul into these pages, exposing a great deal of highly sensitive mater-ial, of an extremely personal nature. But to become the biological guinea pig that hopes to create unity between science and spirituality, one mustn’t be coy. For Solitaire isn’t about winning, but more about observing and participating with the ever-changing deal, which can’t be accomplish-ed without laying all the cards upon the table.


Unfortunately, this work will not substantiate or invalidate institutional prowess, nor will it alter history or its icons. This is not the central theme here, although it would appear that I am walking a tightrope between disciplines. Let me assure you, all the writings within these pages, aside from the essays on various subjects considered relevant for conceptual understanding are actual experiences from my own perspective. Although I shall recant them in an honorable fashion, keeping facts in order and holding off the ego’s trademark of embellishment, I under-stand the fact that much shall be held with great scrutiny by the reader’s subjective interpretation, and I would expect no less. I could ask one to foster an open mind for the interim and to avoid eschewing information, giving the material the benefit of the doubt until it can be considered in its entirety. All are beholden to our conscious understandings and beliefs, gained through our exposure to both sensual and intellectual information, which may also be summed up as sensual information, leaning much on the emotional characteristics that are larger aspects of our being when it comes to rigid belief structures in general.

This material may require a certain type of mental flexibility on the part of [certain] readers. Human nature loves to judge as a way of validating its own beliefs, and beliefs are as unique as a strand of DNA. I personally understand that in becoming the focal point of what may be conside-red blasphemous, and ostentatious conjecture, which may cause at the least, ridicule, scorn and verbal stoning, that I am, in a direct sense, putting my personal neck and reputation into the prov-erbial literary noose. We all elucidate our faith in subject matter from a position of trust, but trust must be earned, creating a sense of fallibility to any subject that doesn’t agree with institutional constructs and formalities. So let’s just say, it is not our goal to tug on philosophical rugs, although they may appear to get trampled at times.

I don’t wish to come between anyone and their higher principals. I have always considered the beliefs of others as sacred ground, not to be tampered with, coerced or manipulated by conj-ecture or persuasion. Yet I also believe that nothing is set in stone, and there are few words that can change the minds of our contemporaries unless there is already a layer of doubt somewhere beneath our mental ivory towers and within this doubt, a subtle longing for exploitation. The foundations we assume are rock solid may resemble quick sand if we lose our inquisitive nature and accept any and all conceptual renderings unquestionably, through peer pressure as blind abeyance. If one allows the winds of change to fill their sails, the possibilities are endless and never stagnant. The humble observer becomes the witness, for allowance is never blind, whereas discernment is ever present.

Consciousness is wonderfully mysterious, and its mysteries keep us searching and reaching. If one knew all there was to know, what would be the purpose of this reality we know as the human experience? The inquisitive mind is rarely complacent; it is like a child in a candy store contemplating endless sensual flavors and an endless plethora of probabilities.

Let me make something clear; I am not smarter than you, and I don’t wish to compete for your sacred ground. I am sharing my personal experiences with you to not only become a witn-ess of sorts in my journey of healing and self discovery, but to aid you in your own rediscovery of self by questioning everything on a deeper level that would enable one to transcend their basic assumptions and beliefs. The plagues that threaten society go beyond the microscope. The condi-tioning we are subject to is a virus of perpetual programming. I know through your discernment you will read these words, and I encourage this.

The external world owes much of its foundation to fear based programming. Most of our day to days are spent feeding the psychosis born of this disease; you are not smart enough, pretty enough, wealthy enough, or secure enough and someone out there has the anecdote for a tithe. Our insecurities drown our true identity by attrition, so how can one hope to know oneself, let alone one’s true potential when we are awash in a steady tide of programming. Then there’s plenty of personal baggage to contend with, hidden miasma of old dramas of dog-eat-dog philo-sophy and the victim, victimizer blame games, where the ego rules the roost in the patriarchic male ideal of institutionalized society. The status quo is guaranteed through taxes, erroneous frequency modulation, archetypal infusion, and geo-engineering. The era of pacification through patronization shall give us our utopian Pleasantville, where adversity will become as extinct as the genetic variable; where the script shall dictate the weather as well as the population; where the virtual is without virtue.


This analogy may be considered a fear based alternate reality by many, and I would not argue with individual perception for all opinions are validated by the freedoms of one’s subject-tive interpretation and therefore retain a degree of relative truth. We live in a world of probabil-ities; the probability you chose to acknowledge as your perceived reality contains co-creative aspects of conscious projection through higher principles of manifestation. The only criteria required here are your own assumptions, beliefs and attitudes, which can be synonymous with one’s trowel, used in the laying of our brick and mortar ideologies. We are all wonderful build-ers; our medium is consciousness, the motive is love and its many expressions. What we choose to build may be a bridge to higher concepts or a tower that becomes our mental prison; a self pre-scribed circumscription. Our experience is beholden to the human morphogenetic field and its genetic attributes which are beholden to the Earth’s morphogenetic field as well as the solar, galactic, universal and cosmic macro templates that provide our unified field of endeavor. This is to say that in the here and now we have limitations, due to the 3D perspective of our nature. But it is not to say that we have reached the higher echelons of our capability, for that’s up to each individual’s ability to overcome the obstacles which limit our God source potential.

Certain types of external experiences can provide opportunities for the integration of higher awareness indirectly, even when the motives or synchronicities are not obvious. I believe it was Einstein that said; coincidence is god’s way of remaining anonymous. I have always felt that cer-tain subtle phenomena knocks three times to ensure we get the message, however the interpreta-tion of this message may not be literal, so it’s important to look at the greater metaphor as well. Sometimes these are lessons to show us how certain habits are out of alignment with god source, becoming major stumbling blocks to growth. It often helps to ask internal questions, for when we maintain a position of inflexibility it typically owes to a distortion within our belief system.

External experiences that nudge us toward the divine right path can stimulate introspection and help one understand and piece together scattered portions of internal information when alig-ned with our subtle conscious and subconscious longings. When we become avid participants in our spiritual evolution, what was once stagnant and static, opens to a new realm of probabilities where our inner and outer realities are adjusted and reconfigured.

Our external experiences are never really haphazard although they may at times appear as out of the ordinary by their nature. They still hold elements born by mental participation at vari-ous levels, just as dreams may hold metaphoric symbolism not always intelligible to those unfa-miliar with this sort of iconography, often sending one a false and misleading literal interpreta-tion when we fail to read between the lines. Most may find it difficult to accept that humanity is poised for a quantum expansion, for such a concept stands in opposition to the status quo. The powers that be are way ahead of the sheeples in theory and application, and are already imple-menting safeguards against wide-scale awakenings of the general populous who may threaten their hold on the institutional machine. The sheeples, which have yet to acknowledge the multip-le layers of wool over our eyes, have been asleep for a long time. However, for the first time in millennia, the shrouds are raising ever so slightly and the light is poking through the veils. Hence, we have a choice, to invite in more light *knowledge* through its recognition, navigating uncharted territory, or we can simply resign ourselves to what’s deemed comfortable and famil-iar, with its assumed safety, bound by conformity of tradition and placid veneration.

The quintessence of this work is in short, my individual effort for self-healing through coll-ective conscious awareness, which is and shall continue to be a work in progress. I have format-ted the work to allow the public at large the opportunity to not only purvey the concept of associ-ated personalities through my own unique experiences, but as a tool to further one’s own resear-ch and development within this enigmatic, rewarding field of endeavor. This journey is not about ego aggrandizement through character affiliations. The only real benefit gained in transpersonal ventures via personality fragments of the collective consciousness is in regard to finding the pert-inent information within these time periods relative to the greater healing potential. All past memories and bleed-through of emotional trauma are typically a direct reference to collective miasm needing to be healed through us and by us. They are akin to old blood stains on the bed-sheet of the soul that have yet to be bleached out. Unfortunately we are the laundry service present on this plane during this Stellar Activation Cycle (SAC). This is the critical period in the grand cycle during which the laundry mats are open for business. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that there are plenty of others whose laundry list is every bit as long as mine, but I hope for their sake theirs aren’t longer.

Over the next several chapters I will be sharing with you personal experiences I have had over the years in regard to multiple incarnations, their relative time frames, locations and any other relevant information that can be added from my own perspective. This is not an extraord-inary capability that I own a proprietary right to, for we all have this ability to one degree or another, even though we may not realize it. It is a natural aspect of greater consciousness. For instance, when an artist contemplates a blank canvas, the expression does not paint itself from a preordained formal construct unless one is painting from an existing landscape or trying to cap-ture a portrait of someone. When one looks at abstract impressionism, we see that what went on the canvas came from a place that was ill-defined by anything outside the surreal. The artist had, in some way, overcome inhibition, ego and tradition by allowing an inner essence its own voice. Writing is my canvas of exploration, but it’s no different than the custom motorcycle enthusiast who manipulates metal into usable art. Often this process is one of becoming through open-minded allowance grounded in faith, focus and determination. I realize that the subject matter offered in this book may in many ways seem unusual, but it is not abnormal when we look at what we have come to accept as reality.

If you are looking to buy guru exaltation, I am not selling it. If you are looking for two-legged gods, you won’t find any here. What you will find in this book is one man’s journey. It shall be a unique exploration of the mysterious and taboo phenomena, known as past life exper-ience, discovered by way of practical insight and standard assumptive discourse. I will be explor-ing many life times in a semi chronological order that will be rooted out in the order pertinent to the purpose of sharing this with you. We shall begin with the most recent toward what may be considered ancient history, even though my own personal chronology of experiential phenomena came by no means in any order that made sense. Some life periods will demand greater introspe-ction for reasons that will become obvious, where other periods were for the most part nothing out of the ordinary, outside of perhaps an early death during a war or altercation which lead to a trauma (miasm) that is still seeking reconciliation.

The Egyptian period will require a whole new level of commitment that I had previously not been willing to delve into because of its sensitive or tender nature. For even though it may seem a very long time ago, the emotional energy from that period is quite fresh, so I will need to tread with caution, not only for the sake of my collective, but for that of others from that period as well. But let us begin our quest from the time period of WWII. As they say; the dirt is in the details, so pull on your boots and strap them to your kneecaps, as we jump into a fox hole.


September 2003, my wife and I stayed overnight at a B&B in Leadville Colorado to celeb-rate our anniversary. The following day we decided to go for a drive, without having any pre-arranged destination. We took the main road out of town for a short while then decided to turn around after we saw nothing but endless mountains before us. Finding a small turnaround at a roadside clearing I spied a small stone monument and decided to check it out for no particular reason aside from the fact that we had the time and the view was nice. I don’t typically stop at roadside historical markers but this one intrigued me.

My wife was driving and did not seem enthusiastic about the idea. As I opened my door I already could feel the emotions starting; my solar plexus had that familiar, unwelcomed pain that told me I was poised to get a bleed-through. As I walked toward the monument the emotions got stronger and I began to fight back the tears, afraid of making a scene I knew my wife would not under-stand. Through watery eyes I saw the name on the monument among many others and knew . . .

On a cold wet hillside in Italy I heard the report of a machine gun from the top of the hill. We were being ambushed by a German post well hidden; all scurried for cover as the 50 cal. chewed through the small patch of trees and brush. A member of our unit never made it to cover, he was screaming in the opening next to the path we came in on, so I ran to his aid, because that’s what medics do. I never fully made it; a bullet ripped through my right side with such force it knocked me from my feet within a couple yards of the injured man. My lower body was no longer functioning. The bullet severed my spine, yet I could feel an intense pain in my right elbow where it went through. Fade.

The vision came crashing in taking over my mind and body swiftly and completely, leaving just enough of me to maintain my bodily functions. Then just as fast as it came it was gone and I was regaining my composure, yet not quite stable enough to explain the experience to my wife who was now staring at me and this megalith with the inscription of the boys who gave their lives During the last year of WWII.

The marker was a tribute to Camp Hale, a forgotten place, where the 10th mountain division trained high in the Colorado Rockies. It was a place one would learn to ski, shoot, climb and survive the rugged terrain during severe weather. The equipment was primitive, like putting barrel staves underfoot and trying to shoot while careening down a hillside with heavy gear on your back to add to the gravity and speed. Better in theory than application, I can only assume that those boys ate a lot of snow; such James Bond tactics fair better with lots of editing. I hear that some of the boys made it out of that war and went on to open up ski resorts in Colorado. Hell, Joe probably had the same idea.

I can’t say a lot about Joe P. Wesley, in fact I’m not even sure about the middle name, probably Pritchard or Prescott. But I know he died that day on the hillside at the age of 24. I know he had a bad rash around his groin from long marches and improper support because of the scarring around my own groin that cannot be explained, along with the coin sized birthmark on my back and shrapnel sized birthmark on my right elbow that aligns perfectly with the other. I was able to piece together a fair amount of Joe’s life after the revelation through personal exper-iences and iconic habits.

There was a dream long before that I’d never forgotten, like most bleed-through it stays with you. The dream was about Joe’s mother, but I didn’t know that until after this experience. The setting was rural, a dirt road with an old run down cabin. At the rear of the cabin was a large fen-ced in area that looked as if it was mostly sheltered by old rusty corrugated roofing, it was home to one milk cow and chickens. Mom lived alone, appearing as an old grey haired woman who was stout in stature and blue eyed like her son. I believe her husband left her long before Joe enl-isted. Joe may have been her only child, but on a newer monument near ski Cooper I had found another Wesley, that may have been a brother, within the list of fallen infantry men, most of which died in the Po valley while trying to take mount Belvidere which was then occupied by German forces during the winter of 44/ 45 and although we prevailed there were plenty of casualties.

I don’t know if the dreamy visit was at the time of Joe’s death. I think she gave birth later in her years, perhaps in her late thirties. There was an old dilapidated model T Ford across the road in the grass. It looked to have been there for quite some time, most likely, a remnant of the fath-er who pressed on years before to find work during the height of The Great Depression. There were no other homes visible so Joe’s mother was alone after he left, which no doubt weighed on his psyche the day he died, and his death may have caused her much pain amidst financial hard-ship that went along with no longer receiving money sent home during the war. From what I can tell Joe was a good man who did right by others. I can’t say for sure if he became a medic to ensure his timely return but it would seem logical, for he had already proved his bravery on the battle-field. But medics in the 10th Mountain would have had a great deal more training to add to what was already an endless chore, for lowering wounded from steep mountain terrain alone would have been a daunting task. I know he left behind a girlfriend, but he also seemed to have had one in Italy as well. I get a strong impression that his home was in Pennsylvania so I dowsed the state for the location giving me the town of Somerset.

There are other factors that have been mixed in over the years; my infatuation with GI Joe soldiers as a kid, playing war, and the old T.V. show known as Combat was also a favorite, not to mention my love of music from the forties. I became emotionally wrought one 4th of July, when I heard a certain song originally recorded by Tommy Dorsey and his orchestra. My name is not Joe although I chose to use this name thirty years ago for reasons unknown at the time. I never had any male children but my wife and I agreed that our first boy was to be named Wesley, although the boy never materialized. When I was twenty-four years old I became emotionally distraught and tried to end my life by gassing myself with carbon monoxide in my garage, but awoke an hour later to find the vehicle had somehow stalled. I can only surmise that the depression I entered was somehow related to Joe’s death, due to some strange age parallel, for it was at that time I took his name, which was shortly after moving to Colorado. After that event my life took a positive turn, for I decided if I wasn’t allowed to off myself, I might as well make the best of it.

Another strange occurrence happened within a few months of this incident. I have always had an ability to remember dreams, which became more developed in my thirties when I was able to remember all dreams during a sleep span, even the ones where there was no scripting or bodily forms of any kind, just colorful light waves or cloudy impressions which were dream stages where thought was at its bare minimum, or in the twilight periods. Most dreaming seems to occur between two and five AM but dreams are more lucid during full or new moons. Anyone can practice the art of dream recall through intent. Saying affirmations before bed helps and by practicing the habit of recall immediately when one becomes conscious, before any movement or mental focus. It may take a few weeks before breakthroughs occur, but as soon as they do it’s important to write down every detail of the dream, so keeping a pen and pad handy is a good idea. This can get intensely laborious when you begin remembering more than one but it’s par for the course, if you want to enjoy the fruits of astral awareness. Such a practice can tell one many things not only about themselves but of others as well; and yes, prophecy is an aspect of dream interpretation if one becomes fluent. As you become more lucid in dreams, you can con-trol them to a certain degree, but from my own experience it takes many years of practice before one can walk through walls and fly at will. Keeping the body clean can help as well, I heard that by rubbing the essential oil of Sandalwood and Lavender over the third eye before bed can help. I tried it to see, and it does seem to aid with not only recall but may increase the graphics a bit.

Sometimes our dream recall is delayed, and in this particular instance it was a blessing, for I was on my way to work while driving the company van when I began recalling this wild dream that centered around the death of a popular male actor named James Dean. I was a passenger in his car as he was racing down a desert road. Just when our car was approaching top speed anoth-er car turned onto the highway blocking our path; upon impact I went flying through the air and awoke in my bed startled at the incident, then realized I had overslept and scurried off to work.

Yet after this dream replayed in my mind, I thought to myself how curious it was for me to have witnessed first-hand, the crash that killed James Dean. At that point I was heading up a hill about to go through an intersection when I got the feeling something was amiss. I was traveling about forty-five m.p.h. and saw a delivery truck on my left in the left turn lane blocking the view of oncoming traffic. I immediately began to step on the brake as a station wagon in the opposite turning lane turned directly in front of me. I skidded for about ten feet before hitting it broadside pushing the wagon unto a field on the opposite corner. The passenger of that vehicle was the daughter of the woman driving and she was holding her baby in her arms without a seat belt when I hit them. We all ended up in the hospital but there were no serious injuries. My left ear needed to be stitched back on and both vehicles were totaled but we all walked away from the incident with minor injuries.

I have little doubt that that dream not only saved my life, but saved the lives of all involved including that little baby and her young mother. Ten feet of breaking made the critical difference because I was able to read the signs and act accordingly. I don’t know the name of that child but it wouldn’t surprise me to find out that he/she went on to make a difference in the lives of others. The James Dean connection was another interesting aspect about the incident. My soul self was trying to warn me and used imagery he knew I would remember, because I had read all about the tragic accident years before and it was there in my memories awaiting exploitation. And even though this happened over twenty-five years ago, I can still recall the dream with the same vivid texture I remembered that day on my way to work.

There are things we can explain in a rational scientific manner, where all the logic finds neat little places that remind us how ordered the world we live in is. But when you are bathed in un-explained phenomena, logic is not your friend. On the contrary, it’s at odds with you. One can say that such events are coincidental, that raw instinct caused me to break without warning. I told that story a few times to family and friends but stopped doing so when it was plain to see that such an experience is a bit too fantastic for others to buy into. Yet this was just one of many such stories that lie tucked away in the corner of my mind because the world is not ready for them. Trying to recant them openly only makes me look silly, as if I’m trying to draw attention to my-self for ego worship. So yes, I learned early on that what is considered apart from our perception of 3D reality should remain apart, because 3D is the place where status quo lives. This is Pleasa-ntville, where Sunday socials are about being well dressed and polite, where men discuss football and women trade recipes, and if you rock the boat your Sundays will be spent alienated. The masses will whisper your name and shake their heads, then eventually stop inviting you because you talk a strange language that has nothing to do with football and recipes.


Joe P. Wesley will not show up on football Sunday, or any other Sunday for that matter. His body lies under a cross with many others not far from where he fell in Italy. People come and go and not long after they’re gone they’re forgotten for eternity until someone like me digs them up, albeit not intentionally but they become remembered all over again for better or worse. Joe, like many others, lost his life in the Great War before he had a chance to know anything more than a superficial existence. Whatever hopes and dreams he may have entertained never made it to the drawing board. Like all the young men of his day, he enlisted, doing what he felt was right, then dying in a strange land many miles from home through the violent acts of war. Can death in such a manner be anything less that atrocious; what death in war does not bear the scars of humilia-tion, anger and resentment, not to mention the loss one feels of not being able to see loved ones again? Another interesting parallel is the Wesley name which was also part of my mother’s ancestry going back to the Civil War, and although her family was from Kentucky, I was told that this family line originally migrated there from Pennsylvania. A couple of years ago I had a strange dream that referenced Joe. I shall share it with you now, although its significance is still elusive.

Dream log 5/9/11,

While on the road I got separated and lost, but found my way to a small local bar that seemed somehow familiar. A woman came in with a boy and claimed that he was mine, which I quickly denied. (For some reason this bar was up in a tree, possibly representing a higher plane). I found my way to a lower level room where a bunch of WWII Vets were telling old war stories. A couple then started bashing Joe P, which caused me to stand up for him. One man got up and came over claiming to have known him. We took a drive out to his house that he claimed was built in honor of Joe P. I was a bit confused and thought that perhaps he was a relative of Joe’s. The location was rather barren but across a river there was a house under construction along a steep bluff. The man told me his name was E-Tu and that they had belonged to the tribe of HeyYaWay. He seemed to be of Native American heritage, or at least partly. I was eager to learn more but awoke.

I know there was a good possibility that Joe had some Native American ancestry, but for some reason I think there may be another reference here that I have yet to discover (YaWay?). I never learned why this person was honoring Joe P. Perhaps he saved his life in the war. The issue with getting lost on a road is also iconic of falling off one’s life path. The boy that the woman claimed was mine tells me that Joe P. may have had an unknown child, and I can only assume from the boy’s hair and skin tone that he was most likely born of the Italian girlfriend. The boy probably lives today, never having the benefit of knowing his true father. I have heard of places referred to as hibernation zones, which are alternate planes of existence where the dead often end up. These places would seem normal in the minds of those who passed on, or at least they would stay preoccupied there, and I believe the place that I had visited in this dream was one such hibe-rnation zone. I have visited others as well and seen nothing unusual. They all carry on their lives as if nothing has changed, not knowing that they have passed on. Some of these zones are far less hospitable, dim in light and character. Those that inhabit these dark places are attracted to the energy we carry, so it’s best to pass through quickly. These places exist in between worlds as we know them and are considered platforms for healing what has yet to be expunged from our con-sciousness. Some of these platforms are manufactured by the fallen, for the purpose of ensnaring beings for reasons that I won’t discuss at this time.

The experience gleaned from this re-acquaintance may seem futile to some, for there was no glory, nor real advantage obvious, just another sinister war that added to the long list stored in a personal collective cache. We can all agree that Hitler had it coming, and that he was most likely a mind controlled drone of some ET faction, but Germany suffered as well, and looking back at old films during that period, it’s easy to see that these people were in a hypnotic trance, usurped by an unseen evil force that sought not only world domination, but to enlist genocide on high coded Hebrews and any other competing institution; population reduction, of course, being a large part of the plan. In retrospect, Joe’s sacrifice was worthy if for nothing more than to silence this oppressive regime. I also find it ironic that he wore the red cross on his helmet and armband, making him the true soldier of the cross (Herminio de la Cruz). He was a healer of sorts, and in this life we find the culmination of the healer and the soldier, who died in a land not far from where another member of our collective had died on a prior occasion within the valleys of Italy. Perhaps there was karma to bear, born of that prior period, for seldom does one life not owe something, in some manner, to another. Our bodies are muddied with the stains of bad choices awaiting atonement.

Such happenstance phenomena are void of rationale for the average Joe and often invalidat-ed by their rarity for lack of authoritative recognition. If everyone had such experiences we could compare notes and create clubs or healing circles, but unfortunately past life experiences are either shunned or ignored because they don’t fit into contemporary paradigms of perception. I’m not going to obsess over an old dead soldier, by hunting for skeletons, nor go hunting for relati-ves to scare with ghost stories. I could spend hours going inward to gather synchronistic subtlet-ies to form some grand drama that lead up to Joe’s death but this is not healthy or relative.

I don’t believe the higher aspects of my consciousness would have brought forth this mess-age to my awareness, knowing that I would sacrifice one life by the commiseration with another, but rather, such gifts can be recognized for what they truly are.


The blood spilled that tragic day in Italy no longer runs through the grass, the stain is no longer elemental, yet the spiritual stain can hold the energy of the incarnate bound to a plane of indignity. I would rather search myself for ways to heal these types of scars rather than to reopen the wound. I would rather better understand the fragile nature of humanity, which succumbs to life and death cycles and considers it normal. My archeology seeks not the mortal bones trapped in a web of time, nor to judge them for what was. What was, was, and what is, is.

The eulogy of Joe becomes the promise of Joe, that in the passing of my person the forgot-ten shall become the exhumed, save the elemental remnant borrowed, for I am the night janitor, sanitizing the halls of time in preparation for the new day. My pledge is to sweep all the rooms and empty each waste basket therein, no matter how foul I shall humble myself to the chore.


"The more sand has escaped from the hour-glass of our life,

the clearer we should see through it." Richter

It would be a good idea to familiarize you with what this term actually implies before we go much further; afterward we can examine how one may go about obtaining data to support such claims. But, one thing needs to be stated before we get to definitions, and that is that having such experiences does not make or insinuate that either this author or anyone else who has such exper-iences are in anyway special. In fact, by the time this sermon is over, you may come to the realization as I have, that recall of multiple incarnations is nothing to be proud about, and can be considered far more of a curse than a blessing. For such phenomena would be more of an aberra-tion to the norm, but as we shall discover, the organic concept of reincarnation can become abus-ed through distortions coming from a number of sources.

The popular concept of reincarnation is far from new. In fact, its origins go as far back as history itself, and the concept is found in many religious and historical records. It’s a philosophy that owes itself to the idea that physical life is not a onetime occurrence, or Webster’s definition; a rebirth of a soul into a new human body. This statement in itself brings up many questions, and although I may be able to help with a few, most require a small leap of faith, but nothing beyond what contemporary religions require. But before we get into what may be considered debatable, let’s review some beliefs in common.

1. I think what is a given is that if you put 12 total strangers in a study group and asked them what they thought happens to one after they pass, you would could easily get 12 different answers that may or may not be similar in nature.

2. It would also be reasonable to assume that there is an overall lack of physical evidence to substantiate any claim regarding paranormal events.

3. Although neurology, science and parapsychology have come a long way they still don’t explain the true nature of human consciousness.

4. Human belief in the western world in general is one that requires proof through the aid of the senses, to obtain what is considered factual data.

5. Science and spirituality are typically at odds philosophically.

6. We live in a world where unexplained phenomena happen all the time.

7. Humans are generally suspicious of anything that can’t be easily explained.

8. Each person retains his or her own unique view point that is a product of his or her experiences, education, exposure level (age) and mental capacity to understand.

9. Most religions are familiar with the concept of reincarnation, and some select their future leaders through a traditional process using this philosophy.

10. Seemingly taboo subjects generally carry misconceptions due to the overall lack of education regarding each subject.


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