Something is going on in the spirit world that few people understand, but most people also don't understand their purpose in life. For dramatic example, once upon a time a little boy was born and his name was Jesus. What was his purpose in life and why was he born?
My point is, once we discover our purpose then we are charged with the heavy burden of achieving it. Whatever our purpose, surely it is achievable or we would not have it for a purpose. And at least we can be assured that most likely our purpose will not be to get up on a cross and became a universal symbol of human suffering, death, and resurrection. That's a tough act to follow but, as it happens, some people are charged with following it.
These people are living examples of human suffering and they show us by their response to it how they transcend it. Or how they succumb to it. The idea is that if we have that experience we will also have in hand the lesson on how to handle it. And it doesn't always follow that the person who shows us the way is the good guy. Sometimes it's the bad guy, so it also becomes as a spiritual trial for us. Will we accept the truth that rides in on the dark horse? But let's not worry about that right now. Let's just live our lives the best we can, plan our trips to Disneyworld, and hope for something good to happen.
On this day when Laurel and I are drinking coffee and having breakfast the morning after our ghost tour, when we are living our lives as best we can, I am enjoying the Open Boat Cafe and looking out onto Matanzas Bay. There, floating sublimely on the Bay's dark green water and securely moored where porpoises play -- oh to be porpoise and to know your purpose -- are beautiful yachts, sailboats, dingys, houseboats, and fishing boats of all types and sizes. One of my favorites looks like a pirate ship. At night it sails around the bay on ghost pirate tours. We're thinking about sailing on it.
"People live on those boats," I tell Laurel. "I don't know how they do it but they do. I've met some of them." Laurel glances up from reading the paper, the St. Augustine Herald. She is trying to find some interesting local news.
"Claustrophobia," she diagnoses me. "That's why you don't understand it."
"You think? I was wondering how they get online. I like the computer and electricity. I wasn't thinking about tight spaces."
"Why do they feature national events on the front page of a local newspaper?" she asks, just as the server arrives at the table with more coffee.
"Because," I answer, "nothing ever happens here."
"Not true," says the server, whose name tag says 'Linda.' "Something is happening here but no one is talking about it."
"What?" Laurel and I both ask.
"Look on page six of section A," says Linda. "I'll be back with your breakfast."
Laurel turns to section A. "Oooooh, I love a mystery..." She peruses the page but says, "I don't see it."
"Let me see." I try to grab the paper from her.
"Wait a minute!" She laughs. "Oh, here it is." A pregnant pause punctuates the moment.
"Oh my god. Someone's been murdered. It says, 'Murder in the Moonlight. A young woman was found dead on St. George Street, her face carved with the words, 'St. Aug.' She had been strangled.' How gruesome. It goes on to say that four other young women have been found in the same circumstances in different parts of downtown, also with those words carved on their foreheads. They were all younger than thirty and all rail thin, apparently prostitutes using crack. Here in this little peaceful town? I can't believe it."
"Let me see!" I insist she hand me that section of the paper.
"'It is not known who the killer or killers may be. Police are refusing to share information or evidence they might have that could lead to the capture of the killer. Assistant Chief of Police Tommy Lassiter said yesterday that little or nothing was known about the murderer but that he and Chief of Police Warner Thompson are investigating it."
"Can you believe that article is buried on page six but the whale story is on the front page?" says Laurel.
"Well, it is understandable. If I were the mayor of this town or one of the city council members, I wouldn't want the words 'serial killer' in large type on the front page of the local paper, would you? Here comes Linda. Let's see what she says."
Linda arrives at our table, her arms covered in plates of food. "Linda, what about these murdered women?" I ask.
"Nobody knows." She unloads our breakfast onto the table. "The police aren't talking. Everyone is beginning to suspect they're suppressing evidence because they think the killer is someone on the city council, or maybe it's the son or relative of someone on the city council."
"And they would hush that up just because the killer is related to a city commissioner?" Laurel is surprised but I am not.
"You know, it's a old town and people go way back," explains Linda. "They don't want St. Augustine to become known as the home of a serial killer, for one thing, and for another, no one wants to believe that anyone here related to a city council member could actually do something like that. It's an old place with reasons to cover up the dirt that goes on."
Laurel and I sit in contemplative silence. "You know what? They will cover up a lot less." I decide to tell her what happened to me recently. "Not too long ago I was riding my bike down King Street when some kids in a car came by and shot me with a BB gun. In the state of Florida, that's the same as being shot at with a real gun. It's a criminal offense. I got the license plate and went to the police station and reported it, but nothing was ever done about it. When I pressed the issue, I was told that the kid that did it was the son of a city commissioner and that the case had been dropped."
"Why didn't you push a little harder?" asks Laurel.
"Why? I wasn't hurt; I was just ticked off. I said to the policeman, 'I understand. I come from a corrupt little town myself.' He gave me a stern look, which told me my BB hit his bull's eye. At least it made me feel better."
Linda comes back just in time to overhear my story. "It's not really a corrupt little town. It's a peaceful little town that doesn't want any problems. But it's crazy to try to sweep under the rug a local serial killer. I don't know why they do that except that the women were all hookers addicted to crack and so therefore not representative of the general population. They probably just prefer someone kill them anyway, sad to say. More coffee?"
"It's crazy," I tell Laurel between bites of my excellent breakfast. "It's not like murder hasn't happened here. What about that city council member, that woman who got her head whacked off in her own front yard in broad daylight. The guy who did that, another city council member, got off scot-free. Ok, maybe he didn't do it, but a friend of mine who was born here says everyone knows he did it.
Going further back than modern times, villains have been coming ashore here for centuries and killing people. I mean, come on! Matanzas, the name of the bay right there with all those pretty sailboats and yachts, means massacre in Spanish. That ought to tell you something. A statue of Pedro Menendez is right out there in the center of town just like he wasn't a mass murderer. He killed a bunch of religious people called Huguenots and no telling how many Indians.
Sir Francis Drake, who we were all taught to admire in history class, was little more than a pirate. He came ashore here and practically burned the place down in the 1500's and killed a bunch of people. Then, about a hundred years later, another English pirate, Searles, came ashore and left sixty people dead in the streets. So anything that happened here under the umbrella of history is not called murder. In fact, in this town mass murder masquerading as history is mass marketed, even celebrated. My point is, the town has a history of murder and a history of sweeping murder under the rug. But the lingering energy it creates, you can't sweep that under the rub. Eventually, it will come out to haunt you."
"Yep," says Linda, taking away our plates.
"You know what I think I'll do?" I tell Laurel.
"Oh God, what?" she laughs.
"I'll write a book about it."
"About what, the history of St. Augustine?"
"No, about the serial killer and the women." I take a long sip of coffee. "I'll write a book about it and a screenplay about it and then I won't have to find a roommate to help keep the bills paid. If I can solve a four thousand year old artifact mystery, I can solve a murder mystery."
"If you would just publish your findings on the Phaistos Disk you wouldn't have to find a roommate, anyway. Why don't you do that? You spent eleven years trying to solve that thing and finally did, and now you're not going to publish?" Laurel leans over the table in my direction for emphasis and says, "What's that about?"
"Maybe I just can't keep the faith because I don't think it would work, anyway. Few people know about it or care about it. Besides, I'm done with it. I solved it and that makes me happy. I never did it to make money. No, I'm talking about writing a book that sells, that makes a little money so I can publish if I want to and so I don't have to always have a roommate. It's a great idea!" I'm trying to sell both of us on the project.
"It's certainly better than having to find a good roommate. Didn't you see that Hitchcock movie, 'The Lodger'? They thought he was Jack the Ripper and he was living in their house. That's the position you put yourself in when you're looking for a roommate. You don't know who the person is, not really."
"I use my best judgment and I have a strong sense of survival."
"Ok, but how good is that? Everyone tries to give a good impression when they want something from you, so of course they're going to be on their best behavior just to get in your house. And then what? What if they decide to strangle you in your sleep? It scares me, Grace, and it ought to scare you. You say you have a strong sense of survival, but the definition of survival is the instinct to avoid death. I think that's what's at the back of your mind. You're connecting with that and it's the real reason you want to stop getting roommates and not just because you don't want to share your space."
"No, I'm not worried at all. First, I trust my judgment about people, and second, I have my guardian angels. I can call on my guardian angels and they'll come help me."
"And they'll do what? Jump on some guy that's jumping on you? You're kidding, right? They're angels, they're spirits. They can't do anything if something happens. What are they going to do, rap on the wall real hard, blow some cold air through the place, what? It's not the same as a human man getting physical. You know it isn't."
"I know some of their names. I call them when I get really desperate and they come and help me. They've done that before. I called on them twice when a roommate got drunk and was harassing me."
"And what happened?"
"They showed up all around me and they also sent two friends of mine, Josh and Aaron, two big guys only twenty and twenty-one, to help me."
"Yes, they did. First, the angels got in a circle around me and on both occasions Josh and Aaron knocked on my front door."
"And then what happened?"
"Nothing happened. Josh and Aaron showed up and the roommate left. That happened twice. A couple of days later, the roommate moved out. So you see, I have nothing to worry about."
"Yeah, ok," Laurel says, a little reluctantly. "What are the names of your guardian angels. You said you know their names."
"Some of them. One of them is named George."
"What, no last name?"
"Oh, I don't know. I'm not sure about his last name. But he's there a lot. I can hear him telling me, 'George.'"
"And who else?"
"Well, Jack Tolvey and Larry Welch."
"Jack Tolvey and Larry Welch? These are the names of your guardian angels? Whoever heard of angels with names like that? These are people names not angel names. Someone's pulling your leg."
"No, they're not. They just have these names. Maybe they were human once and now they're angels. We can become angels when we die. This is one of the lessons they teach me. I mean, this is the lesson. According to how we live our lives, we can become angels after death."
"Ok, so if something goes wrong you're going to call on Jack Tolvey and Larry Welch to come help you."
"No, I don't call that way. I call on the Praetorian Guards. That's what they're called."
"You're talking about the Roman guards to the Emperors." She starts laughing.
"It's like play acting. I'm the Emperor, I mean the Empress, and they're my guards. When I call they have to come because I am the Empress. They came one time as Zulu warriors with shields, which made me the Tribal Chief, but I couldn't relate to that although they were powerful and they formed a circle of shields around me. But now they always come as Roman guards."
"I give up. You go ahead and write your book so you won't have to roommate with a murderer, and if you happen to do that, then you call on George and Jack and Larry to come help you," she laughs.
"And then there's Gary." I laugh along with her.
"Who's Gary?" She grins at me and plays along.
"He's a friend of mine who lives in his grave at Le Leche Cemetery."
Laurel laughs and I laugh with her. "And what's Gary's last name?"
I know she'll love this. "It's Gravestone, Gary Gravestone. He's a ghost realtor." We both crack up.
Linda appears, looking a little ashamed that she overlistened the entire conversation. "I don't know about living in a grave but I do believe in guardian angels. I think they can have people names. Maybe that's what makes them personal to us, the people names. Who knows, maybe they don't really have those names, they just claim to have them so we'll feel comfortable with them. Well, here's your check. I hope you enjoyed your meal."
"Leave her a big tip," says a little voice in my head, so I do.
THE CUT UPS
George takes Louise by the hand and leads her away from the ghost tour to a cottage right downtown in the Slave Market, where there used to be held slave auctions during the time of the Civil War and long before. Now, the sidewalks meander under the big spreading trees, and vendors and wooden benches grace the carefully landscaped flower gardens and freshly mowed grass. A gazebo stands in the center of the park where musicians play on special occasions. The cottage is in the same location as the gazebo.
Mavis is talking gently in rhyme to Louise, asking her about her family and where she came from and what she did in life that she really loved to do. Louise is crying and incoherent but she begins to feel comfort from the care and concern shown her by George and Mavis. She wants to know how she came to be with them and what is happening to her.
George answers her questions with, "Let's talk about that later, shall we? Right now, we just want to get you home so you can get yourself cleaned up and get ready to go have some fun."
Mavis says, "It's better she doesn't see...you know... remember to be..."
George interrupts her. "I will." He passes his hand across Louise's forehead and, magically, the words 'St. Aug' disappear. As Louise arrives at the cottage in the square, she begins to feel better. George is hoping that Mavis can make her look a little better. Louise is all washed out and extremely pale, as any ghost might be, but there is no reason she can't be brighter. Mavis can fix that. She is excellent at that and she did a wonderful job with the other four girls, who are now players in their own performance art group called, the 'Cut Ups.' Hopefully, they will accept Louise into their group.
Just as George and Mavis arrive at their cottage, they are greeted by StumbleBlock, the leader of the Bored Players, who pops up and comments sarcastically, "Oh, look. It's Louisa May AllCutUp."
"StumbleBlock," says George. "Can't you feel any compassion anymore? Did you ever feel any compassion? When was the last time you prayed, tell me?"
"Prayer is for humans, not ghosts," replies StumbleBlock, knowingly. "If I was to pray, I would ask for more applause when I perform my act and that's about it. What else is there to pray for?"
"What do you want?" asks George, suspiciously.
"I just came to see if little Louisa May AllCutUp wants to join the Bored Players. It's a nice offer I'm making and very thoughtful, I might add."
Mavis says, "Louise is busy right now, be gone. She has a few things to do and she needs time on her own. She doesn't know if she wants to become one of the Bored Players like you."
"Oh, I see," says StumbleBlock. "You don't want her to join us. You want her to join the Cut Ups. You don't fool me. The Passion Plays are always your favorite."
"The Bored Players must be getting some serious competition from the Cut Ups," says George to StumbleBlock. "What's the problem, their act a little more realistic than yours? You know, Block, performance art, to be really good, has to have some level of reality. You take a group like the Cut Ups. They're getting attention because their act believes in them and they believe in it. They reproduce the manner of their deaths and everyone is enlightened by the story of their lives. It creates a gestalt that involves the audience and it also forgives the killer, which makes it an act about divine forgiveness. It's working at a bright level of light and it elevates the audience to higher levels of knowledge of the Creator. It lights up the whole realm when they perform it. The Passion Plays are like that. Everyone can relate to feeling strong emotions.
But what do the Bored Players do?" George continues. "Conflict plays, that's all. Now who wants to see continuous conflict?" George thinks he may have made a point with StumbleBlock but he doubts it. It is difficult for anyone or anything to make a point with StumbleBlock.
Then Mavis says, "And, really, how many times do you think you can kill that dragon and people will not get tired of watching it die? With that play you offend the Saint, and I know that happy he ain't."
Mavis is also unhappy with Ralph Dragon for playing the part in his own death at the hands of MetaphorMan, who plays the part of Saint George. MetaphorMan rides in dramatically on a horse played by GoryGuy that is led by John Simpleton. He impales Ralph Dragon with a spear played by GermyGirl. Ralph roars and flips over backward onto his spiny back and flails his four flat feet in the air. It's almost comical but not quite. Mavis gives StumbleBlock a disapproving look.
"What about the Shadow Breakers?" sneers StumbleBlock. "They don't seem to be getting many stage calls lately. Are the Shadow Breakers breaking up?"
"You wish," says George, who understands StumbleBlock's dislike of the Shadow Breakers. He's continuously rejected as a player so of course he's resentful. But the problem with StumbleBlock is that he refuses to remember why he's always rejected.
As Mavis takes Louise by the hand and leads her into the cottage, StumbleBlock gets the last word when he produces onto his body a costume of tuxedo and tails, shiny black top hat, and spiffy walking stick. He sings after Mavis in a tune resembling 'Puttin' on the Ritz', "Mavis Davis, young and crude, left her home without her snood. Went back to get it and to her surprise, her husband was killed before her eyes. She died next a bit perplexed, then she and George were laid to rest. But not inside the city gates, for they were Protestants not Catholics. Did you forgive your killer, Mavis?" taunts StumbleBlock as Mavis enters her little cottage.
"Ignore him," says George, closing the door behind them. "He's still confused about what happened."
Page 1 - A Ghost Tour | Light of Recognition
Page 2 - Deus Madre | Authentic Metaphor | Bury the Evidence
Dagon-Jah the Potter
Page 3 - Reality Bytes | The Cut Ups
Page 4 - The Time is Coming | Non Deus Non Madre
Gary Gravestone | Dagon-Jah's Creation
Page 5 - The Roommate | LoverGirl | The Two-Way Door
Grace Courage | Gladys Kurtz | Jimmy Dobbs
The Al Capone Syndrome
Page 6 - Outside Forces | Good and Evil - God 'N Devil
The FoundDeads | The Stalker
Page 7 - The Dinner Date | Concealed Personas | Some New Girls
Ghost Real Estate | Dagon-Jah at Knossos
Page 8 - The Bucket | Stage Call | A Trip to St. Aug
Elevated Consciousness | The Black Madonna
Page 9 - Planes of Reality
Page 10 - The Masterpiece of Dagon-Jah
Page 11 - The Praetorian Guards | MetaphorMan
The Lurid Appeal | The Indian in the old Fort
Deus Madre Redux | Something About Her
Something About Him | The Bored Players
Page 12 - The Arc in the Covenant | The Man
Page 13 - The Artists Round | The Good, the Bad, and the Curious
Part 14 - Death and Remembrance | Ur Nammu, the Created God
Part 15 - Worlds Apart | You Don't Know What It's Like
Spinning the Sword | A Destiny Foretold
Invoking the Archangel
Part 16 - Some Go Forward and Some Go Back | Going Home
Back Travel | The Miracle of Birth
The Fire that does not Consume
DISK OF THE WORLD
A Spiritual Revelation about the Enlightenment and its Social Oppression
This is a Shield Guide portal. We are a vast organization of beings from all parts of the universe and an interdimensional organization of life systems that represent a winged body of planetary systems. We assist in developing light-network domains and appear when requested to shield and guide civilizations on ascension paths. We form portals bridging this evolutionary domain to others in the universe on similar ascension paths.
BOOKS, ARTICLES, ART, AND WEB DESIGN BY CLAIRE GRACE WATSON
THIS IS A PHAISTOS DISK INSPIRED ALLOGENEOUS AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Copyright Notice - Disk of the World - Text and images copyrighted March 21, 1993-2017, Claire Grace Watson, B.A., M.S.T., U.S. Copyright and under the Digital Millennium Copyright Act of 1998, All rights reserved. No part of this web page may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Copyright Notice - "The Shadow Breakers" Text and images copyrighted March 21, 1993-2017, Claire Grace Watson, B.A., M.S.T., U.S. Copyright and under the Digital Millennium Copyright Act of 1998, All rights reserved. Additional to these copyrights is TXu 692-656, Isis and Osiris, The Phaistos Disk Deciphered, June 26, 1995, above images included, and The Shadow Breakers, including twenty-two of these images, copyright 2005. All solution images, pictograph tracings, disk tracings, photos of Phaistos and Heraklion harbor, Crete by Claire Grace Watson. No part of this web page may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.