MY NOVELS. SUCH AS THEY ARE

 I first met Otis Burlingame under annoying circumstances.

Fragments of glass bounced off his head, ruining my drink, and making the bar unfit for human occupancy.  A large man had removed the glass framed business license from the wall and busted it over Burlingame's head.  The historical business license had been traditional reading material in my solitary drinking.  Concern was shown in conversation by other customers at the bar.

"Black Velvet Seven."
"Beer and a shot of Seagrams."
"Need a refill here."  

From memory, that's how I began my first novel.  The protagonist who is me drove the injured man in his Lincoln Mark IV for some stitches at the hospital.  The injured man was a blindsided martial arts instructor.  He had the unusual style of training his students to fight Bandido bikers in bars. I joined his unorthodox dojo and trained accordingly with some proper fueling in courage.  20 years later, I purchased a Lincoln Mark IV.  Seems like everything I focused on to write that novel transpired later in real life.  

1974 was a time when all authors had to use the strict typing format of the latest "Writer's Market" hardback.  The manuscript languished with rejection slips but I could still put it together if I find it.  

My second novel starts with an attack by The Sea Monster in Flathead Lake.  Think Jules Verne.  Abandoned it because it was explained to me that my views on feminism were immoral.  Turns out feminism is immoral and my views were just fine.  

My third unpublished novel disappeared forever in a computer crash.  My work predicted a time of draconian enslavement and controlled lockdown by government.  

My fourth novel is what I recall from the ozoned third novel.  But it starts today with a flashback to what I lost.  Last night I dreamed about what I lost. It seems that what we write about manifests with a time delay.  Now I realize that focused writing creates a reality so I'm consciously building a world.  

Cosmic mystery is my thing. Kudos to Neovictorian for capturing the adventure and mystery of cosmic times.  Kudos to Susan for capturing the ineffable yet living ancestral presence of a people in their cosmic corner. 

Adventure intrigue from Neovictorian https://www.amazon.com/Sanity-Novel-Neovictorian-X-ebook/dp/B07C5GHK2H/ref=as_li_ss_tl?keywords=sanity+novel&qid=1578530255&sr=8-1&linkCode=sl1&tag=neointhediaag-20&linkId=7da7149a549e544256c0d0dfc57d7ab3&language=en_US

Metaphysics of ancestral culture from S.G. Smith https://sgsmith.gumroad.com/l/tekereru3 

Our lives and times are as scary, challenging and hopeful as anything [ rising theater-organ background soundtrack] imagined about the the 'dreaded' Bavarian Illuminati.    

                                             Christian Georg Schütz the Elder  (1718-1791)

If you have read far enough to see this image of rebuilding upon our former glories, you are at the point where I begin to blog a draft for editing my new novel,   Survive and thrive.  Prosper with what you have and create a grander lodge. 

This is the place where I will enter copy for my new manuscript.  Be back later.  

 Background on the cosmic/action adventure of  my first novel :  Martial arts in real life has a selling appeal.  At least that's what I had hoped.  I also had a passion to expose a social issue in my own dramatic and sardonic and crackpot mystic way.  In 1974, recognition of PTSD did not exist and was not included in DSM until 1980.  My unconventional sensei was also my best friend.  He served as a Ranger in Viet Nam until his third tour when an RPG took out his left thumb and one lung.  That sent him home in spite of his dedication to keep real fighters alive in Nam rather than be killed by missions assigned by non-combatant officers.  The combat war was over for him.  How would he cope with the mundaneness and lack of purpose in civilian life? 

As a friend beyond the dojo, he coaxed me into a knight errant career in patrolling bars controlled by Bandido biker gangs.  I was not tough - - Bob was.  His long  familiarity with death in the jungle made him search for meaning and he found some in the books about Edgar Cayce.  So unlike most men we had ongoing conversations about eternal life, karma, dreams, and reincarnation.  

Long after his death, Robert met me in a dream and showed me a flying technique that he had not shown at the dojo.  

A note on my dream contact with my unconventional sensei :  Beyond the dojo, he was also my best friend.  I was crushed by his OD death.  He taught Tae Kwon Do.  In one of my dream contacts he showed me a technique to extend the distance of one of the dramatic (if impractical) flying techniques.  Projections from two chakras were imagined to meet at a forward point which would guide the kick to a greater distance than the impact target.  This is CERTAINLY NOT Tae Kwon Do.  It seemed to work in practice.  Practice in solitude is all I did - - and not much of that after Robert was no longer around.  

A couple months later I picked up a Qi Qong or Wushu magazine that could still be found at newstands.  I read an interview by a Chinese style master who described the technique exactly as Robert had shown me in the dream.  I knew nothing about Chinese styles.  I now recognize it as athletically similar to Taijiquan. In patrolling Bandido biker controlled bars, Bob had found his own Knight Errant way of coping with loss of limb and lung in this third tour as a Ranger in Viet Nam. PTSD was not identified or entered into DSM until 1980. In 1974 my friends difficulty with mundane civilian life and his later troubles were evident.  

It seems we continue to live and learn and teach when translated to another dimension.       

Dedication to martial arts were a therapy for him.  A technique in 'chuto' meant he could strike with what required men to curl their thumb under their fingers before strike.    He also became more fit than most men with two lungs.   

      
The novel anticipated by my supporters is a true story.  True in the sense of advocating for the Truth of a winning endeavor on the side of our Source and our better selves. There has been enough 'sophisticated' sophistry by those in league with the big lie for the sake of destructive nihilism. Not denigrating word artists who are way beyond my skill level.  I just know that what we concentrate on with enough creative focus arrives in real life.  You see here traces of Zoroastrian influence called Mazdan faith by the West.  Ahura Mazda as the great true Source and us as Fravashi who are those who volunteered in ancient of days to embark upon the planet and fight for Good Thoughts, Good Words, and Good Deeds.  

There is action aplenty.  The preferred action in personal experience is one of winning the challenges.  We find good income, good relations and much love.  We are also built for the fight in the field of action.  So let's look at the fight.  

The smoking wreckage in the tilled grain field had been loaded on the Sheriff's flatbed and hauled away for inspection and evidence.  They would find that an RPG had intersected with the car when it had stopped to shoot at me.  I could tell them that much.  What I didn't tell the Deputy Sheriff was that I knew who had launched the grenade or that he had been in waiting.  Why would a man many yards away know they would pin you down in the trenched mud of that field?  The County Sheriff would ask more searching questions when he interviewed me.  He already knew more than the FBI about who was gunning for me and why. 

I knew who had discerned when the more well trained anit-fa would pin me down for gunfire.  The reason he was there would be hard to explain.      

It was because he is a Mage who I'm fortunate enough to know.  He says I'm in cahoots with him.  His adept skill exceeds mine but I might know as much of esoteric living science as the does.  But we don't much discuss any ego competitive factors.  Anyway, that's what I was thinking about when my computer crashed and erased my report.  

I could still see the bits of smoking rubber and engine parts in the field when I passed out.  I came to in the cemetery where my parents are buried.  I had often awakened in the morning and joyfully thanked fate that they were still alive through the night and starting their busy days. Ambitious and engaged in what interested them in the artifacts of their Montana youth, they would open the antique and second hand store for the daily social fame as colorful citizens.  Of course such energy and focus could not last forever.  I had gladly spent the next 15 years in their home care so they would avoid the rest home scenario.  Some people could not take that.

--- - - - --- --- ------ -- 

Walking from the final resting place of my parents, I pondered where my work would go from here.  400 yards to my new home was a long way from where I was or what I'd intended.  Still, we bring aspects of what we had started and who we had been with us when we meet life with evolved conditions. 

This was supposed to be a work of psychic fiction about a hard-boiled agent of a New Republic who built a cosmic basis for fighting the old Woke paradigm.  It still is but the narrative has changed to more recent and less ideally imagined drama.   

The walk beyond the cemetery through the rough grass of a neglected grain field was accompanied by sounds of crickets and meadowlarks.  A high plateau in a valley among towering mountains.  A home I would never really leave and a land apart from the violent war that now blasted across the world.  We have time here to be a fortress against the woke and warring.  To study illumination and war is another story.  The Spiritual war that broke into physical war on the other side of the world was our business here as we were to build a fighting fortress.   

Fortune and destiny made us a place apart.  A vanguard of highly evolved minds live among what are heavily armed 'rednecks' and we appear to be among them.  We don't mind.  In fact we feel honored to be with real people in such an artificially programmed world.    

The hard-boiled psychic detective of the intended sequel novel was adept at forming a book store business with a Hof (Nordic Lodge) in the back.  In real life I didn't have the resources for a book store or the chops for leadership.  

The capability I'd hoped to add to my character was working in my alternative world.  Real life imitates focused fiction.  My computer crash and destruction of a manuscript placed me in another time frame of starting over.  So I now wander through the cricket and and meadowlark field toward my home in the outer old suburbs beyond the city.  My woman waits for me there.  I had also met her in the 1970s as one of my two lost loves.  She is skeptical of my interests.  Actually, both my lost loves still have doubts about me.  One is no longer in my world.  The other is more skeptical and belongs to another world I must understand.  Not joining that world.  Just getting information to understand the structure and data of Wokism.  

Now there is a war in a region where I had companions in academic revolution.  Some are dismissed from their posts (prior to the Russian war) and some are hopefully still alive as fighters for the formerly very effective AZOV regiment.  I trust their ancient warrior ethos and ability to help them win what's possible while surviving  

I walk up the driveway where there sits a Subaru rather than the H2 Hummer or Dodge Ram.  The preferred imagination of male power and a spiritual ferocity was now transformed into a more reasonable averageness.  Call it 'mediocrity' if you will but I'm not done yet.  I was too old for the year I wanted to join AZOV and hopefully meet with some leaders in the Konservative Revolution and Intermarium power base.  

I maintain interests in history as it could have been in pre-1945 Europe, Ukrainian Traditionalist power, and its potential to revive a weakened United States.  Those were heady years.  Now there is a war that must be used to advantage toward Triumph rather than silly and meaningless 'I support Ukraine' slogans.  

Still the hard-bitten psychic detective, I choose the fedora hat and dangling cigarette of a man who knows enough not to care too much but who also has a job to do.

Dames figure into this and we wouldn't have it any other way.  

 

Creating a compelling narrative means my mentors in my new life should be heeded for clues.  I'm supposed to be reading Lee Child.  A heavy-hitter man of mystery in literature has probably given up on me but I will still follow his lead.   

Grass meets across small acreage fences where my neighbors turned a barnwood horse run into a an equipment shed for his concrete business. The troubles across the world aren't evident here.  That doesn't mean we can't be touched by the tragic.  In fact, they say literature and culture is shallow and meaningless without the tragic.  Smart and cultured people, I'll take their word for it.  My detective work is in the field of a region beyond the tragic, that offers a winning settlement, that is a mystery of a light region that includes adventure and reunion.   

Right now I must sleuth out the forces of negativity and cruelty that have directed the puppets that do the bidding of evil forces yet think they are in control. I would rather deal with the puppets - - and I have for a number of years.  But the fighting the forces behind tehm is dangerous work.  

The smart fight is to align with forces of Light for a little adventure and alliance first.  I don't have the fool chutzpa that gets people destroyed or killed.  My more refined and allied fight begins tonight.  

First, there is the matter of the dame.  A stunning green-eyed blonde when I met her forty years ago, she is still athletic and sleek.  We had some good times again recently.  Slowed down on all that because - - well, because of the nature of life.   She knows about my alternate life on the ranch and the Vivien Lee brunette beauty who I met when I lost J. the first time.  The alternate life had more financial and social success but the fight with that segment of anti-fa and government powers was more intense.  Probably because I had more social gravitas and the means to make a stand.  

Anyway, J. is the dame and she would scowl at me for using that word.  Often does for any slight I make against Feminist doctrine.  She is cosmic in a subdued and Quaker way so she also scoffs at my metaphysical interests.  Since those interest are my expertise and not a hobby, I know enough to let it slide.  Besides, she's seen more ghosts than I have.  

So she has her own interests and will allow me the time to do my Cosmic investigation.  After the initial meeting with Light and beings on that wavelength, I flew away - - 'faring forth' as it is known in Old Norse - - to a land in the city of man where we could gain more influence to confront the menace.  

An alley downtown which I was shown as a place of power for my personal resonance.  Standing in the street light shadows I could not make out why I was there at first. The more powerful and greater wisdom of Odin had led me to that section of town.    

  

Draft :  About an alley.  Not my first choice of a place for a meaningful fight.  In going forth, Odin strided with me to a region in the lower end of astral landscape.  Of course I had met with him in the upper region of Ljossalfheim to validate a higher contact.  Then we 'walked' together to the region of astral over Missoula where I would find the most gain.  The Fox theater had been torn down years ago but it was in the region.  There was nothing in the slabs of broken concrete.  The imaginal area of  relevence was not too clear but I chose an area near a bar that's name had changed since my heyday.  The alley and surrounding buildings were the same potholed and old brick patched and faded.  There are less overhead wires and transformers now.  Broadband technology.  The gloomy and threatening emptiness was the same area that I slightly shivere on the way to the crazy bar.

Before I describe the confrontation and fight in the alley, I want to mention a principle.  This might take some of the suspense and drama from the alley fight but it does give good rede on how to enter such a danger.  All systems are dialed to WIN through training and cosmic assistance.  It is not a battle, it is a victory.    

Before I describe the confronation and fight in the alley, I want to mention a principle.  This might take some of the suspence and drama from the alley fight but it does give good rede on how to enter such a danger.  All systems are dialed to WIN through training and cosmic assistance.  It is not a battle, it is a victory.  

The alley is not used much by car, delivery truck or casual walker.  Bar fights had sometimes been 'taken outside' to the potholed asphalt but after the punches were finished people quickly left.  This night my first encounter staggered slightly and seemed to pause to ask for a handout, but changed his mind.  I knew the Abomination that Lurches By Night would be entering the alley from the same direction.  So I leaned against the brick wall where I would be in the shadows.  A moth fluttered into the dim street light.  Something rustled and shuffled at the end of the alley.  In an instant, a hulk with ragged clothing blocked the entire alley exit.  He pointed at me so I came out of the shadows to walk toward it. The sound of my boot heels on the old brick and asphalt seemed amplified to a rhythm of determined persistence.  The forward movement of the Abomination that Lurches by Night stopped and waited.  A threatening arm gesture seemed to magnify its size.  

Floating unseen by the threatening figure, a greater stalker across the landscape looked on the scene with interest.  I'm known to have courage in spooky encounters if it's going to give me a tale to tell.  

But the monster in the alley backed away a few steps.  I'm not one who ever won those alley fights at the old bar.  This is a different kind of fight.  The monster finally turned and ran away from the bolts of colored light that I cast his way.  He did not like the visions of pastoral peace that I engulfed him with either.  He seemed to pause in his flight when I gave and indicator that the peaceful life need not be boring and lonely.  "Think about it," I told him.  He seemed to gain a nearly normal gait and slow his retreat.  He was gone.

Above me and to my right a gibbous quarter moon with some bright planet in proximity spoke of the cycles of time and events changing in our encounters.  Odin nodded that he liked the thought.  With the Allfather, communication seems somewhat silent but that is because he transmits without words in an attitude of essence.  Words are known to have power and are sometimes used.  We get the message anyway.  

I said, "I was hoping you indicated this area for another reason."   

 The beneficient strider said, "In time.  For now how do you like the battle scene?"

"I guess its what I do."

"In time," Odin said, "There will be time for frith and weal."

He is known to be grimly serious, but he does smile and nod something that translates to our fondest aspirations.  

 

Country Noir means that the winking lights of distant structures and vehicles cross a great distance of field and road.  City Noir will always be there for a return, but in what condition is debatable.  Country Noir is insistent that there is an ancient land that supports ancient settlement and life will go on.

The tough guy with a heart to do what's right is the hallmark of the Noir detective.  He is vital but reserved and non-commital with words but brave in actions.  Some of this mysterious silence is born of an advanced perception of reality and the spirit that shapes what is.  There is hope that action will influence the trajectory of that reality to find the clues and win with them.  

I mentioned Country Noir and I'm thinking of the Clint Eastwood character in The Good Bad and Ugly movie and others in 'the man with no name' series.  A man of few words is still the man needed for winning action.  

Let's look at the dames.  She might actually be a damsel in distress but her spirit of fiesty nature is unbroken.  Or she can be sullen and disinterested.   She still has more personal power than women who degrade themselves today with a kind of 'anti-fa' uniform of expressing ugly.  There is nothing wrong with these dames of Noir who use their God-given beauty and charms to get what they want.  They have the right.  The hard-bitten Noir detective has the ability to see through her yet the virility to appreciate her.  

The general political climate is seen in the past, present, and future by the Cosmic Noir detective.  Let's get on with our story to show with the ancient art of saga.  

Rains are greening up the pasture and leafing out the trees.  Something about real rain from clouds beats aritificially scattered watering systems every time.  With the rising sun and the shining spectrum surronding the greenery is the Mage of and ancient science of knowing and directing Vril upon the lands.  The celestial consciousness that is part and parcel of this Vril shows him what must be done because he is receptive and respectful to this ultimate Source. 

A few motions with his body and an intention of mind separates our Mage from the common distracted interests of mankind.  He proffers an oak wand from the folds of his clothing and raises it skyward for recognition and sanctification of directed intent.              

Finding a higher ground for prime of life casting was on the next day's itinerary.  Started the day with high energy and no social distraction.  Clouds cling to the mountain shape of pine and fir in the distance.  Frequent journies into these air-flowing slow currents of mist reveals what is within and around.

Did I arrive with a mission to preserve and advance the clannic kindred of the ways of my people?  If I did, it was only perceived with a sense of general good will and respect and not with an aquiescence to adopt their beliefs and interests as an entirety.  I had my own interests that would show me success and failure and reveal some abiding precepts that my people should know.   

 

 Clouds above shifted to a timberline mist as I entered the high forest.  Wet undergrowth and old logfall filled the trail ahead.  A deer trail, we called it, because man had not cleared it but generations of wildlife, including an occasional bear, had trod the narrow rocky soil route that was sometimes nearly invisible under pine needles.  I was making a test of my endurance to climb up into the timberline rain flow.  From below there was mystery above.  Once above, there was mystery all around.   .  I was in it. 

The elm staff went with me on this trip.  It had been made for costume effect for my attendance at a Society for Creative Anachronism wedding.  Or 'hand fasting' as it was called among that genre of that group.  I had made it with a defiant authenticity, inscribed with Elder Futhark runes.  The hand-grip had been fashioned from the same material used for my green Godhi regalia.  Simple but fashioned from what an Icelander or member of another Norse tribe would have worn for the ceremonial moment.  It served well for a walking staff on the mountain.  

The magic served well for a time back in that civilized event.  The marriage had brought forth two children, although the union did not last.  Most often, I forget that I saw her first and had loved her as a destiny of my Wicca Craft years.  I easily turned her over to a strong young man who was okay but not my equal in Magic.  Easily and energetically, because Magic is about doing what's right.  There was a destiny for them.  Anyway,  I found other and more ancient paramours for my libido.  Some good women returned.  

On the mountaintop glacier above the treeline, there was enough time to cast a blessing upon the five valleys that were vital to my ancestors.  There was much to do for Hof and those clients who would prove enriching beyond pecuniary measure.  Somehow, I'd found my given calling in entrepreneurship and not the aloof and proper Mage that I'd had for an identity.  More life equals more magical and cosmic qualities.  It is in the living that we embark on who we are.  

The walk back to the car parked at the upper reach of the old abandoned logging road was navigated before dark.  The North American sunset had a tone of energetic and vital discovery that I sensed on the drive back down the mountain.  Nature in my back yard would serve to integrate what I had felt on the more lofty summit.  There was work to do.  

Hyperborea is a state of mind.  This is past and future memory where the machinations of currently centralized and transmitted agendas are not relevant.  The slavery and fear of the controllers can not impede what we have to do.  I'd made some gains with re-engaging Hyperborea.  There was no sound of a TV when I entered my home.  

 NOIR MORNING
Pale light glows first from the northern mountain peaks and settles on the flowing green of my garden now dotted with yellow squash blossoms and sunflowers.  The window sill before that view holds an artfully carved oak wand.  To the right of my computer a particularly strong galdrstafr draws intentional energy and emanates it outward to manifestation in events of northern conquest.    

The mountain village view awakens.   

Some risks will be ventured this day.  If everything is a gamble where is the distinctive definitional line for someone who says they hate gambling.  Casinos are everwhere.  I think the definitional line should be where the 'house' has the numerical advantage and the contest has a setting in certain 'house rules' terms.  After all - - "economics" is defined by 'house rules.'  

So it's another hot day for living among the risks.  Opportunities are risks.  Like falling in love again or dreaming of a lost love.  Openess to living is a gamble. 

 COSMIC NOIR
A cool book arrives by mail in a hot summer.  How to take the heat that has withered you as you once stood strong among the Mages in the fields of an astral war.  A breeze of memory wisps by and you are young again.  Nothing is impossible, so that is what you shall do.  The impossible.   

In a phase of Cosmic Noir the odds must be stacked against you in the purpose of solving the crime and bringing resolution.  Training, fitness, and innate abilities in your divinely conferred power are the prerequisite.  Else don't go into danger.   But that would be a life without challenge. Without the quest you are called for.  In my observation, the aethers are perfectly fine, purified toward original purpose.  Harmony within challenge is the adventure of well-being for those who choose it.  To detect the crimes against your people you must look to the institution of an attacker and enslaver in the worlds of men.   

Those who 'go along with' the crushing institutional programs have been conditioned to think they are the good guys.  The hardened gumshoe must remember that these followers are his client.  Be hard-bitten in saying your piece and getting back into the field.