The Catcher in the Rye Redux

by Jon Roberts, November 19, 2014


by Georgi Stankov

It has been a tradition of this website to refer to various literary works as a source of inspiration for the PAT. After all we are creating a completely new reality, where literature and art, in other words the creative abilities of the new humans, will play a predominant role in the new society we are now creating on all 4D and 5D worlds as Guardians of the new Golden Galaxy. Hence we must begin creating this Brave New World Now.

My recent reference to the iconic novel “Catcher in the Rye” with regard to Travis letter to me (He embodies indeed the best aspects of a young rebel in the best intellectual tradition of this term) was made in the full knowledge that this book has shaped, since its first appearance in 1951, the year of my birth, the world view of several generations Americans and many people around the world, probably more than any other modern novel.

I remember when we first read this book in the early 60s as teenagers what huge impact it made on my friends. I myself was a little bit cautious in my assessment as I already intuitively sensed the not so ripe soul of the writer and its main protagonist. But it was a very powerful and influential book at that time, even to me when I was making my first steps in the dysfunctional world of adults. Hence it is not at all surprising that this novel is one of the most acclaimed and influential works of literature since WW2, as Wikipedia writes:

“It has been translated into almost all of the world’s major languages.  Around 250,000 copies are sold each year with total sales of more than 65 million books.  The novel’s protagonist Holden Caulfield has become an icon for teenage rebellion.[8] The novel also deals with complex issues of identity, belonging, loss, connection, and alienation.

The novel was included on Time ’​s 2005 list of the 100 best English-language novels written since 1923,[9] and it was named by Modern Library and its readers as one of the 100 best English-language novels of the 20th century. In 2003, it was listed at #15 on the BBC‘s survey The Big Read.[13]

Not that this success story matters much, as we all know what success really means in this rotten Orion society, but in this case the popularity of this novel is fully deserved, as it questions the foundations of the Orion matrix and ultimately rejects this society, just as the author resented to be a celebrity and chose an anonymous and reclusive life until his death.

We have been accustomed to all kinds of miraculous serendipities in these last days, when creation seems to occur almost immediately and affects many light warriors around the globe. After all the PAT became Unity Christ Consciousness two years ago and since then operates as a fine-tuned collective from the fulcrum of our HS, which are firmly anchored in the Source. I have had in the past some remarkable synchronicities with Jon, but this latest “hits the cock” (the bird and not the prick), to quote a German saying (“schiesst den Vogel ab”).

I leave it up to you to build your own opinion on what Jon has to say, but I must stress that I immensely enjoyed his story and the few chapters of his book, which I would take the liberty here to title ” The Catcher in the Rye Redux“, thus alluding to another famous American novel “Rabbit Redux“, a 1971 novel by John Updike. It is the second book in his “Rabbit” series, beginning with Rabbit, Run and followed by Rabbit Is Rich, Rabbit At Rest, and the related 2001 novella Rabbit Remembered.  In this context Redux means “brought back, restored” from the Latin “reducere” – bring back.

These novels are a panopticum of the empty, cruel, debased US society which is now in the last pangs, shortly before its complete destruction and annihilation by the Big Events, which the PAT is diligently creating and orchestrating as Logos Gods. Hence it is important to present you this literary dimension of the Ascension process, as everything is linked together and there is no better way to manifest your visions, but to present them in a literary form. This is what Jon has done below and I have great appreciation for his ongoing effort to perceive his truly hard life from a higher, creative perspective, as also Travis and many other crystalline children and light warriors of the PAT regularly do. I am always happy to support such literary efforts, as I know what enormous creationary potential they harbor.

For instance, I outlined a plot for a novel I wanted to write in 1983 (but did not had the time to do so), where I anticipated in a playful, fictional manner the discovery of the Universal Law more than 10 years in advance. I discovered the Law in 1994 and developed it into a General Theory of Physics and Science in the following two years. This example illustrates the prophetic character of any artistic, literary endeavor that comes from the depth of our souls and also shows that any prose or fiction can be easily surpassed by the multidimensional reality we have just entered. In this sense, enjoy Jon’s writings.


Hey Georgi,

I just wanted to write you as to the incredible coincidences that have been occurring lately. After reading Travis Brown’s piece yesterday, I was inspired to write. I fully concur with how Travis, you and no doubt many of the PAT must feel, inhuman. I feel like I am losing my ability to relate with people on a basic worldly level. Forcing myself to talk about sports, weather, food, houses, anything really is just hard for me. I am not excited by any of these worldly things, common get togethers with family have been especially hard for me considering the energetics of where my mind is. 90% of my thoughts are outside their comfortable norm of conversation, like past lives, portals and the like.  On the other hand, I just can’t get excited about much 3d, like gadgets, cars, sports, all the “normal” shit people like to talk about. I feel like I am in limbo, a sort of no man’s zone. It’s incredibly lonely, but I am surrounded by people. I’m sure you and the PAT know the feeling in spades.

Anyhow, back to my original purpose of writing you. I am still chipping away at Volume Two and am loving it. You definitely have a different style in books that you do on the website, so I am enjoying that. I am currently renovating my basement into a math lab, to work on the complete mental comprehension of the Universal Law and also have a platform to promote it to some of my higher minded friends.

Anyway, I share some interesting history with J.D. Salinger which leads me to my first coincidence, which I have been meaning to write you about.

Like Salinger, I attended Valley Forge Military Academy,  I was forced to go there by my mother and grandfather when I was 13 years old, I think it was 1993 and 1994. As it turns out, I was in the same hall “Wheeler Hall” as Salinger was 50-ish years prior when he was inspired to start Catcher In The Rye (CITR) and that Valley Forge Military Academy (VFMA) was in fact Pency Prep that we see in CITR.  So much like CITR, part of my story (especially as it pertains to Ascension) starts in Wheeler Hall. You see, it was here I picked up some demons that would later lead me to a breakdown and to pick up a book called “The Celestine Prophecy” by James Reddield, this would be my first encounter with the concept of Ascension and I never looked back. I surely stumbled along the way, but knew in my heart that Ascension was real and it inspired me to rebel against the dark, and here I am today.

I was put there by my Grandfather that was in the Bohemian Grove cause his buddy, Admiral Hill, was Super Intendant at the time. This was a very dark time for me and I almost lost my way to darkness because of it. I will send you some of the book we have been working on in case you want to read what we (writing it with my long time buddy from VFMA), got so far, but it all gets pretty crazy.

The book is pretty raw at points, my first room-mate got raped, lots of fights, my escape and return to VFMA. My Platoon Sergeant when I arrived was Wes Moore, who is now a celebrity and wrote the book “The Other Wes Moore” he has been on Oprah and all the other MSM channels, talking about drones and such with all the usual suspects like US Senator and probably Orion Shapeshifter, Dianne Feinstein.  I feel like I am looking at a dinosaur or something when I look at this lady.

In my opinion, he is being groomed as the next generation war mongerers in the White House.

But aside from out personal stories from VFMA, there is a very interesting parallel between J.D. Salinger and Wes Moore.

From what I gather, Salinger was basically a blue blood from Park Ave, NYC who despised the “phony” nature of things and latter aspired toward enlightenment in solitude. Moore on the other hand was from the Ghetto and seemingly in honor and such, aspired to 1st Captain at VFMA, Rhode Scholar, White House Gentleman, Best Selling Author etc.  If I were to put their two lives on a graph, they would almost form an X-shaped pattern, starting at opposite ends on the bottom of said graph and ending at opposite ends of the top.

The real irony kicks in when you consider Wes Moore’s book, “The Other Wes Moore” and how it parallels another man from the same area, named Wes Moore who was a “bad apple” and is doing life for murder. How cute he should use this criminal in the “Other” Wes Moore to contrast how great he is. Super ironic as I believe the Wes Moore, I know, will have far much more blood on his hands in the end, if not already.

But the book is more about our personal experiences at VFMA with the parallel as sort of a reference. But the parallel does take on some form in that Wes Moore was there with us when we were Cadets and was ordering us around daily as our Platoon Sergeant, so I have real memories with him. We decided to depict Wes as “Sgt. Other” in the book. At this point the book is but scattered stories and experiences and lacks cohesion, but at least its a start.

To the other coincidences, of which I wanted to touch base, was on the book I had sent you to read “The Mediumistic Experiences of John Brown. The Medium of the Rockies.”  I really enjoyed this book and thought it funny I found it right before you and Carla went to AA Michael’s spot in the Rockies, timing right. But a quick highlight on the book, is that John Brown was a hunter and trapper in the mid 1800’s and has some fascinating stories of spirit guides, deadly encounters, miraculous healings and incredible mediumship, as the book name suggests.

Then, I am working on this book with my friend about VFMA and CITR and Travis BROWN writes you that well put piece yesterday. It feels as though the PAT thoughts are very fluid and connected, even if we don’t consciously realize it in our daily.

Love and Light,

Jon Roberts

P.S.  Here are some bits of what we got so far, let me know what you think.  We are loosely calling the book “The Faller Off The Cliff” as to parody the CITR, but nobody, except me, likes the name. Anyway, here is a peek. Please, forgive this rough draft as it pertains to spelling and punctuation.


“The Catcher in the Rye Redux”

Jon Roberts, 2014, excerpts

It was a routine dentist visit, or so I thought. Tis not the usual dentist whom has kids marching about in ridiculous outfits. I didn’t want to believe what was happening was really happening, I was going to military school.

For what?, would later be my charge. A million thoughts racing through my head, but my feet remained planted, I was stuck, or so I thought. The sun beat down on the black top square, I saw a golden sword stuck in stone & the creep of the Military Industrial Complex brushed at my senses. Something was wrong, terribly wrong here but at the same moment I knew what must be done with the lemons I was dealt. But there was more there than just a facade, there were ironically many truths to be learned. And what can we really take away from our experiences if not some truth, some bit of something to make the next time around just a little bit easier than the first.  Oh, there would be learning, just how much I never dreamed.

My roommate was bright blonde youth, small in stature but with an intense, piercingly inquisitive blue gray eyes. Naturally fidgety with a quick wit and a desire to fly, he dreamed of becoming a pilot.  We had been caged, yet the future felt so wide open.

I would soon meet my Platoon Sergeant, Sgt Other, a nice, polite and well spoken black kid. You would think he grew up on Rodeo Drive had he not had a hardened lookin his eye, which he did his best to hide. Everyone had their roles to play, and Sgt Other seemed to fit his just perfectly.  He was the golden ghetto kid, immediately evoking to those that would have it that whole white guilt thing, which of course, was why he was perfect.

I never even knew what the PTB was, bu there it felt like they were hiding in the corner, what is this?  How can we overcome it? They say if you hate something long enough, then eventually you pick up some of those traits, well I guess I am perhaps guilty myself, however, with out this critical error, I may have never found my way to the Ascension, the higher way of thinking, that was, or at least seemed to be, the polar opposite of where I was at.

Ironic thus, that my escape plan should begin in the basement.  Naked, wet & lonely I set out to defy my captures and break my bonds.  Less of a cool plan and more of a raw emotion, I pulled on the exhaust fan.


It didn’t take much, or maybe it just seemed so due to the heightened sense of things. In a jiffy, I was crouching in the window sill  trying to stand only to find that ply wood had been fastened over the top of the sill. At first trying to just shoulder up through with little effect, I quickly found myself on my back, attempting to kick the ply wood out.  Kicking was much more effective, eventually solving my freedom problem, albeit at price of much racket.

Standing up out of the window sill, 2 cadets were looking right at me, their window was over the sill. But no time to sit and chat, I knew I must move. Three steps and I was in a run. The Chapel raced up in my vision as my feet seemed to float me up the hill and the door just didn’t look right. I better hide, my instincts screamed and into the Chapel bushes I went. To both my luck and surprise, my tail picked up from the window, took the bait and went directly in the Chapel. The juke worked and I was off to the fences by the music hall, on the other side lay a golf course and the ticket to my freedom.

The tall black fence seemed huge back then. Particularly to a young kid in a night storm. Adrenaline seemed to once again be the answer to that problem but not with out a  few snags, literally, on my bath robe as I came down the other side of the fence. It was just a tear but had the feeling it could have been worse. So even though the fence jump may not have been too pretty, I was on the golf course and storming on me as it may be, the grass definitely felt greener, even if a bit more dangerous too.

I heard the sound of dogs, flood lights swayed on the horizon. It was then I became thankful for the rain, really thankful, for surely I would have been a sitting duck for the dogs in my bathrobe clad get away without it. Stillness did not seem to be the thing to be embracing on the golf course so again I ran, coming to a side of the course I found myself approaching a house and, boom, I see a dog coming after me.

Fight or flight can hit us all, and I was lost. Like a lot of my movements that night, the kick just seemed to flow out of nowhere. Not really a hard kick, but placed well on the bottom of the jaw. That or I was to get bitten and wrapped up, and I just couldn’t let that happen. My time in one place had again grown stagnant and I was off. No real thought to the direction, just away from the dog and I found myself running into a thorn bush.  Little did I know, this thorn bush would also hold the rose to getting off the streets and in a new robe!


The blood ran down my face, but I didn’t feel or notice it. Maybe it was because the rain still fell hard, maybe it was due to my adrenaline, but what ever the reason, it didn’t matter and I was back to my original problem, escape.  With no real plan of attack, I set out to keep putting ground between myself and the school.  Soon a road appeared embracing me with a mixed emotion of both escape and capture. Not knowing what cars would be coming next and not wanting to chance the gamble, I decided to get off the road. There were just too many variables with trying to flag a car down I thought it best to keep moving.

All the houses in the development had the lights off for the most part. A few porch lights here and there but nobody really seemed awake, save for one in the distance. With options seemingly on the decline, I felt again torn as on the road.  But feeling a house approach the lesser of two evils as compared hitch hiking, I set out for the house.

The lights on the house weren’t on for the most part, but the garage door was open and a huge square of light was visible in the dark stormy sky. My approach was more measured than probably anything I had previously done, almost having to make myself put foot in front of foot as I walked toward the little square of light. Soon that little square was a big one and I found myself in front of two women feeling like a caged tiger caged from the outside, looking into this little room of light hopeful yet afraid in anticipation of freedom.

Immediately, I got the feeling that these two women were lovers, perhaps because they sat so close on the steps going into the house as they shared a cigarette.  But any intimate moment that may have been being shared evaporated quickly with awareness of my presence.  It was the butch of the two who responded first, quickly getting to her feet and reaching for the mace on her keychain.

Right about when I thought I was going to be maced, the woman spoke, “we don’t want no flashers around here,” she said in a defensive voice.

Then a softer voice from behind her interrupted, “wait, Sally, he is just a boy.”

I had almost forgotten that I was wearing a bath robe because the whole “flasher” comment confused me for a second. As I searched in vain for something effective to say, the lost look in my eyes must have inspired the question,“what happened to you” the gentler of the two asked and before I had time to respond, added, “oh, my, your bleeding.”

I started to tell my story, “they, they…” was all I had at first, but now, realizing I was bleeding took a reach at the only card it felt like was left, the sympathy card. “They, they, they beat me.” I blurted out, blood mixing with rain, the pitch had been made.

After a giving them the big eyes and doing my best to evoke a sympathetic response, I could feel was on my way in.  But I wasn’t just asking them to feel sorry for me either, I needed them too aid and abed this young seeming criminal in a bathrobe. It wasn’t enough for them to just not mace me, or even attempt to just help me, I needed them to not call the authorities, and especially not, Rally Forge and that meant getting them to like me enough that I could implicate them in this crime of mine, or at least that was how it felt in my head.

The ball was out of my hand now, and time slowed down. The butch defender with the mace looked poised to knock it out of the park, but she was too late, “Oh, come in, your poor thing” said a voice on winged words, and I soon found myself in the catcher’s glove safe and sound.

In two shakes, I was inside the house, wearing a new robe and sipping the on the best damn hot chocolate of my life. The game felt mine to lose for the first time.


When I finally made it home, I was greeted by my father. Son, “I got good news and I got bad news, what do you want to hear first?” Well, I guess the good news I was thinking before he even said it, “your the first one in 20 years to escape VFMA, and…, your going back tomorrow.” Well that settles that I thought to myself. I thought about what it would be like to live in the woods or off the land, if I could even manage or not. How could I come all this way just get sent back like that, this can’t be right, this is not how this is supposed to happen. But the cold comes quick in October and gravity can hurt I was finding out quickly.

That’s the thing with being a young guy in such a situation, you feel the whole phony adult system all around you yet oftentimes, doing anything about it is a serious chore.  At least that was my experience, especially at this point in my life.  Not having a car, money or place to go where all serious problems to my young rebellious designs.  And so, the age old dilemma of truth over convenience was again born.


The helmet of pain was what Sgt R used to call it. A weak attempt to infuse some sort of honor and nobility into an instrument of torture.  Ironic it was a helmet in the sense they’re whole design is to protect oneself. But the whole military thing was kinda like that. There to protect you, yet too often applied to the inflicting of injury.My hands shook as he raised the helmet above his head. Soon, the helmet would fall under the weight of a 280 lbs man like a blunt ax.

My forcibly willing and bruised hands await yet another taste of honor. Perhaps they were just training our hands for the horrors they would urge on the world in the making of their new order. Maybe it was just the plain vigor of bulliment where this big old mother fucker wants to get all jaws, claws, and belly on a little kid… Either way, the situation sucked, and I had already escaped. I felt like an alien soul in a common homo sapien body. We were both people, but I was not like them.

As my mind floated away to distant galaxies I was snapped back by the gravity of a big yellow helmet crashing into my outstretched hands.

The Crusades

Chapel and Parade were always a thing I reluctantly engaged in. Not that we had much of a choice in the matter.  I always felt like the Parades were more for the parents than anything else. Having us kids all dressed up and marching to the beat of a most disciplined drummer was a pleasant site for most of them. Especially when you consider the fact that the Forge was on the decline from the times when people like JD Salinger graces it’s halls.  No, now the Forge lay somewhere in between, elite military school and juvenile detention center.  Basically any rich parents with a pain with the ass kid and half an inclination to discipline them, would have been a good fit for the schools recruiting department, which was a far cry from the original blue bloods that made up the majority of the schools populace in its early years.

Not that I cared, I got along more with the “problem” kids as I was probably more of one of them myself than any other genre you could lump me into. I used to wonder, as the parents looked on all proud at us, what kind of bullshit were all these big fancy parade rituals coming from. What on God’s green earth could inspire something so unnatural and idiotic to be so commonly accepted. Perhaps the fear of death or invasion?  I didn’t know what it was, just that it was retarded. I would later learn it had to do with the Crusades over a thousand years ago. So it made sense, the same travesty that claimed more human lives than any other on the planet was our blueprint, war our mantra and we were just children. So with a stern look of being serious, grasping for adulthood, we marched on, on like cogs in the machine, and they loved us for it.

It’s funny because the more we repeat lies to ourselves, the more we tend to have an affection for them.  In the field, we may or may not know is a lie, but one none the less that we are comfortable with. An almost predictable lie that makes us feel good and can empower us to somehow manage. I used to think that most everyone would want to the truth if they had an option, but man was I wrong. Some people will got to all ends of the earth if it means defending their bullshit concept of what reality is. And as if that were not bad enough, they want you to drink the cool aid too and make them feel better for damn near drowning in the shit.

Yup, some people just love their phony bullshit and that was what Chapel and Parade were all about.  Shit, shower, shave and shine, tow the Line. Look the part, fake the manners, believe the lie, drink the cool aid, be accepted.  My problem of solving the universe’s mysteries would have to wait. For now I had bigger fish to fry, like not passing out in this outrageously uncomfortable uniform on the hot black top. Every week at least one kid would pass out, usually from locking their knees and preventing the blood flow to their brain. The Forge was kinda like that, a locked knee, preventing movement, blood flow and evolution, ultimately leading to injury, embarrassment or both. You might not think so, but just try and tell that to the passed out kid with a knot on his head being stretchered off the parade field all the while his loved ones look on in amazement as they stand there slack jawed in their Sunday best.  Sadly, many of these victims would be the lucky ones, for the ones whom persevered in their journey up phony mountain were handsomely rewarded with a fall from much higher. Others, like Sergeant Other, were just getting warmed up, he knew one way or another, he would reach the top where the company is lonely and the far is fall. But of course, that’s not how it looks from the bottom.

Music Hall Brawl

It was a cold day, I remember fatigues were the required uniform for the day. It was not snowing, but there was snow on the ground, more ice really. Snow that had been rained on and then frozen again so that all the snow cover was capped with an inch or better of solid ice and all the trees had frozen ice sickles hanging from their branches or were just encasing the whole branch as though it had been dipped in ice the way one dips ice cream in chocolate.

The music hall was toward the rear of the campus, near the golf course and chapel where I had previously jumped the fence. Any thoughts I had of escape had been crushed by two attempts that ultimately lead me back. Once by force, the other by family. Even if I got out again, I would surely just be brought right back.  Add that to the fact that my grandfather had sweetened the pot but bribing me with a thousand bucks if I could just make it though that year.

A thousand bucks is a decent amount of money to most people, especially a 13 year old kid whom had never before had anywhere near that kind of money. Not that it really mattered to me, I was not a really materialistic kid, those motivations always seemed empty in the end to me. Not that I didn’t like nice stuff, but it just didn’t seem like that was the way to find the kind of satisfaction I was looking for. More of a desire to be rid of bullshit than true understanding, but my, how the two dance an eternal dance, one impeding the other only to be later be blown away after the experience is fulfilled.

Truth and illusion were tricky business, I don’t care how old you were. Fatigues were my favorite, the loose camos offered a freedom that a wool and metal neck clasp just couldn’t provide. They were good in the ice too as the required shoe dress was combat boots that came about halfway up your shin bone. Out of all outfits shoes though, the boots were probably my least favorite part taking much time and effort to both put on and take off, at least compared to the other foot wear we found ourselves being forced into.

Everything about VF seemed forced and unnatural, from the foot wear, to the way we were made to even walk. The combat boots with the big heel did not feel like something one connected with the earth would sport. The march step seem forced and unnatural too. Heel slamming down, one after the other but I don’t think one would ever think about walking that way over rocks.

Yes, even the natural cadence of our steeps had been altered. Now we marched like robots and slammed our heals like the many countless murderers of the past whom chose a life of soldiering. Now I don’t mean to go down a rabbit whole with the way were taught to walk there, its just that, well, it feels so damn relevant to the whole story. You see, these steps were all forced to take had very different effects on our lives. For some, it would ready them for a life of conformity and life that fit in between the lines, neatly folded and in perfect little boxes, all so accepted by the big eye in the sky that was the general consensus of judgement of our parents generation, that fake judgement seemed to permeate and be apart of everyone affiliated with the school.

For others, these forced steps would sound the horn of a rebellion inside. A wild fire that would soon catch and burn away the phoniness that permeates the very bricks of that institution. After all, wars are generally not sold on the truth of unity as they are the pains of division.  And yes Sir, VF was a training ground for kids to later go on and promote these insane ideologies.

When we got to the music hall it was closed. The Professor had not year arrived so the building remained locked and we wait impatiently outside in the cold and ice. With idle time and young men surrounded by snow/ice, it did not take long for a snowball fight to erupt. I say snowball, but it was really more an ice ball fight. Seeing the way they exploded on the brick side of the building, I knew these things would hurt to get hit with. Not really wanting to get hit with an ice ball, I declared I was not going to be involved in this ice war, no I was going to sit this one out a good distance from the action in an unused golf cart.

That was the plan anyway, after a few close calls with missed ice balls I screamed out that I was going to fight the next person who threw an ice ball at me. Thinking this would silence my critics with the ammo, I started to relax just as a huge ice ball the size of grape fruit exploded on the golf cart a few inches from my head. I don’t know have fast Cadet thew it, but it must have been fast as the shatter from it was enough to send a piece flying and cut my ear open.

Looking up, much to my chagrin, I realized it was Cadet Hall, a monster of a 14 year old with a pension for taking pain and not flinching. He was one of those kids that could stick pins in his arms repeatedly and not have it hurt, or not lead on that it was painful at least. Hall had scars on his arms where he would heat up close hangers till they were red hot and then press them on his flesh till it burned and you could smell the skin.  Yes, this kids was a smudge scary to me back then. I say smudge as he was not terribly brilliant, for if he had been, I would have been really afraid of this kid.

But whoever he was, he just tested my gumption for a fight, winging that ice ball right at my head like that.  After the pitch, he thought it funny to sit back, enjoy his handiwork and watch me bleed out of my ear while not making good on my word of coming to blows with the next Cadet hurl an iceball at me.

I remember the laugh even to this day, full of pomp and probably seeming a bit crueler than it actually was, being I was the one in the hot seat now.

So now what, do I try and fight this guy and most likely get beat up in front of everyone, or do I just take it on the chin, literally, and try and preserve some shred of respect for myself. Yup I had made a tough bed and now I had to lay in it.

My walk towards Cadet Hall seemed forever even though it only lasted just a second. I still didn’t know what I was going to do as I approached him. A high five did not seem in order but the chicken in me almost wanted to and bring things to a conclusion but at the last minute, I noticed a wall. Cadet Hall was standing directly in front of an 18 inch high brick wall, the ones that lined the path leading up to the Music Hall.

He laughed deeper as closed the gap between us, maybe that’s why I ditched the high five plan and just hit him with the hardest left I could muster, which wasn’t much. But it was enough to knock him off balance and cause him to trip over the wall, landing me directly a top his chest and in a position to deliver more punches, which I did, in bunches.  I guess I got about 8-10 punches off before Hall swiped me to the side much like a Lion with a plaything would do.

Two seconds later, I found myself searching for my footing and looked up to see Hall on his feet and hands up. “Oh shit,” I thought to myself, no more surprise sneak attacks, no more wall to aid my comparatively weak punches.  Nope, the bull was loose and now looking me in the eye. I couldn’t run, I was even technically winning the fight but I knew in the back of my head that I could not really hurt this guy and it was messing with my confidence.  He just took 10 of my best shots and was not laughing at me as he cracked his knuckles. I knew he could take my punches but I was not so sure how I would fare against his, I was probably giving up around 40lbs, at that is a lot, especially when you only weigh 125lbs.

He started swinging at me with bad intentions, fortunately for me, these bad intentions were also slow, affording me the time to get out of the way.

One near miss, now two, and these were bombs. I was certain I could have died were this kid to land clean on me and I have no where to go, except down. Even though this I felt like I was fighting an armored tank with a BB gun, little did I know, he was about to run out of gas. The pain wouldn’t come from punches, rather from cardio, he took a minute to fight the needles piercing his lungs as he leaned up against a parked car, gasping for air.

I suppose the honorable thing to do would have been to let him catch his breath and meet him back in the center of parking lot, but I had a shot to try and put him away, and I took it.

The unnatural boots we used to slam heels in march step would now be my remedy to the situation.  It was a left round house kick that finally found the mark. As my toe sunk into his solar plexus, I could almost feel the air come our of him. All the pain in the world did not seem to be able to faze this guy, but we all need air, we all have to have it, and no matter how bad you are, you still need to breath.

A breath that he would be denied as my cheap kick to a winded and hunched over brute found its mark. I like to think that I planned it that way, truth is, it was just a lucky kick. Getting lucky is always nice but when luck and survival mix together in you, an emotional paint tray and a unique kind of adrenaline is produced, this feeling now pulsed though my veins and music class hand not even started.

Neck Ties and Soccer Cleats

It was a wonder I had not already been expelled from the academy, I really could not believe it. Between escape, fights, escape again, more fights, insubordination daily, smoking, dipping, not being on time and that was just the shit they caught me for. God knows, morally, it was much worse. But their wasn’t much competition in the shining moral values department, no sir, it was more of a parade and yes, the pun is well intended. All shining cap shields, shoes and brass to boot, polite speech and well groomed, these were some of the dirties mother fuckers I ever met. But don’t tell the cool aid sippers, they don’t want to hear it.

It’s funny ya know, I remember hearing about how corporate settings are well adapted to psychopaths. Well, I’m no damn expert, and I don’t see 99% of the indoctrinated fools with a few letter behind their names as being either, but I would venture a guess that that same line of thought could be applied liberally to the military, or at least military school. At VF, being a psychopath or at bare minimum, a deviant, seemed to be rewarded. Surely this could not be how real life was(?), as my young mind grasped for straws to make sense of it all.

Sergent Edgars was one such nut job, not really a psychopath per se, just more of a hot head with a blood lust.  But who am I kidding, by this time, so was I. But that was the mentality there, it was in the very walls. An aggression that seemed to echo throughout. Perhaps it was that same vibe that inspired that fucking red hat we had to read about all the time but whatever, Edgars was getting in the way.

I am not sure why exactly, but I had come under the protection of our 2nd Lieutenant of the company and his immediate circle, save for the first. I think it had to do with my constant insubordination to Lieutenant Reiff, whom he did not go on with so well. But however it happened, Sgt. Edgars was seeming a little butt hurt about it. He was pushing me, smacking me up side the head like his bitch, and spewing all manner of vile perversions in hopes of rousing me to anger.

Even if I was not all that angry about the abuse (I try and shuck it off usually) I had to keep my foot in this circle, this circle which erased over 100 demerits for me every month, not that it mattered in the end, I was still circling the drain, albeit just a little farther  out.  I forget the last thing he even did to me, I think he gave me a dead arm, but that was it.  I knew I had to come back with my shield or on it at this point. Even if my attempted slugging of this 19 year old boy from my 13 year old frame failed, it would have been a stand.

And fail it did. Even though I landed clean on Edgars chin surprising myself as much as Edgars, it was not enough to put him away. I wanted to follow him down with punches and prevent any more heads from this hydra popping up, and maybe I could have, I’ll never know because no sooner that Sgt Edgars staggered back, I was picked up and thrown by my 2nd Lieutenant, whom was supposed to be my “boy” and by the way also happened to be six foot 3 and taking steroids.

It wasn’t long before I found myself hog tied with neck ties, feet to hands belly down, and a soccer cleat bent back, toe-to-laces, and wedged lovingly underneath my chin. I think it was Sgt Edgars who was stepping on the top of my head, driving my chin into the cleat, or maybe it was Lt Shintell, but it hurt in a way beyond pain, it was humiliating and only the beginning.

Pad locks in in fists was the weapon of choice. Just take an old master dial lock, stick your middle finger though, make a fist, and boom, we gotta set of poor man’s brass knuckles on the menu. The first few hits hurt. Then the combination of anger, fear, numbness and adrenaline set in and the pain subsides, at least for a while.

They must of got bored with hitting me, that or my reaction to the torture was not sufficient. Now I found myself being dragged down a hall way, trying to resist but not even able to lift my arms or really walk after the multitude of shots delivered to both arms and legs.  Smack, I hit the shower wall and am being stripped of my cloths. Now completely naked with only the two ties around my wrists from where I was hog tied. While I cringed in pain and awe of what might happen next, 2nd Lt started a shower, a very hot shower.

Defenseless it seemed, I was being pulled apart by Edgars and 2 Lt., like a piece of meat between two hungry dogs.  For a second I wonder if they may try and pull my arms off but no sooner my attention was fixed ahead of me on the steaming hot shower which I was being dragged toward. In another few seconds I found myself flailing and screaming as I was being crucified with neck ties, knees on a dirty tile floor, it burned like hell seemingly much hotter than normal tap water in a shower, even on just hot, but maybe I was just being dramatic.

After all, the hot shower crucifiction was child’s play for the real concern that was about to begin. Having soundly beaten and now burned me, they must have felt some mind games were in order. The foot locker was not that big, but neither was I back then and when it slammed shut, echoing the locks that were now being done up on the outside, I couldn’t see. Again, my lack of sight for lack of light was just the outset of my new found problem, I was running out of air!  In and out reality seemed to go as I made several trips back and forth between the foot locker and more beatings, at least now they were using their hands like men instead of those wretched locks.

I am sure this could have been reported and they have an “honor council” and all, which the whole name is just bullshit, but anyway, I never did, never said shit. I think they were all just surprised I actually slugged Edgars, but their was no honor council for that either so what the hell. I tried to fight, lost, fuck it, move on but I’ll tell ya what, I barely ever got another demerit again. Demerits were written, demerits were submitted, I was called, shown stacks of my demerits, shown them ripped or burned and dismissed. It’s kinda funny how it all works out.  My hatred and want of expulsion from the institution had made me almost invincible.  Now, even when Sgt Other wrote demerits up on me I knew they would never stick. My, my, what had I done, now I couldn’t escape or get kicked out, and then I felt a dark hand slide onto my left shoulder.



November 17, 2014

Dear Jon,

What an incredible story – you amaze me again and again in a very positive manner. When I finish with the book excerpts I will write again and in the meantime I am thinking how to publish all this and how to present it appropriately.

With love and light



Thanks Georgi!

Speaking of coincidences, I should mention another interesting event that occurred. I have been meaning to ask you opinion/advice on the matter. As you know, a large part of my search for truth involved the digging up of spirits past and subsequent research on Manning (my grand-grand father) and the coincidences involving his life and my own. So it was not a huge surprise to me that one day when I was looking up Manning and his/our family, that found out they had made thier fortune in furnaces and wood stoves.  This was how Manning’s dad, another Jonathan Roberts “War Hawk Roberts” funded his campaign for US Senate and won.  The nick name I believe came from him getting kicked out of the Quaker Church for supporting the war of 1812.

Anyway, one day I was talking to my uncle and he sent me a picture of an old cast iron stove door from the 1800’s that was in his shop and was one made by my ancestors in Collegeville, PA at Roberts Machine Company, as seen as #9 on this map .

No sooner had I started investigating and found this map than my wife, Jen, gets invited to one of her Elephant friend’s house, which happens to be in Collegeville, PA.  Upon getting to this house and meeting this other couple, I get to talking to this guy and find out his good childhood friend is a medium named Lincoln and that I should meet this guy (I was telling him about Antiquity Unveiled) and talk to him.

So I went to his website and listened to some of his stuff, which was pretty good from what I could surmise, which was about an hour of tape or so I listened to but he has way more than that. Normally, this sort of site/his style would not be my cup of tea, but the way it all happened about made me feel there was a higher purpose to it all.

One thing I respect about what Lincoln Gergar and his channeling style, is that he does it all right there on the video. There is a certain honesty in that I like.

So the reason I am reaching out is because my h.s. has been pushing me to approach him about an Antiquity Unveiled II, of sorts. Now, I have yet to even meet this guy, but am on New Year’s Eve if we don’t already ascend by then. So I am asking, before I meet him what your general vibe is and if you think thats a good idea, that is, me approaching him about a circle and start Antiquity Unveiled II. I feel like the spirits are trying to talk and this is part of my purpose here on Earth, bringing back these 159 ancient spirits to talk. If you remember, certain spirits, like Pythagoras, spent 60+  Earth Years in order to make their testimony, thats how much opposition there was, so in my opinion, should not be taken likely. Now, the four spirits that supposedly orchestrated Antiquity Unveiled were, Apollonius of Tyana, Hermes Trismegistus, Guatima Sakiya Buddha and Zarathrustra or a.k.a. Zoroaster as you know so  I feel they would be a good plae to start.

Also,  I was reading some of what Jahn wrote earlier and can confirm dark attacks on 11/11, which was also my anniversary and made me think how I can’t believe its been 3 years already.  In my experience the astral nasties use two main tools to control us, our instinct to survive and our instinct to reproduce.  Both hard wired into our biological organism to find natural expression, it is this they manipulate.  But you know the drill, violet gold flame up, light saber out, infinity knot on, light a candle if I can and try for higher mind. Actually, for those light workers struggling with shadow, Volume II is great, something about getting into that math that lifts the minds from the dregs of the lower vibrating emotions. As a matter of fact, since I have been reading it and thinking on that equation I feel my inner dialogue with h.s. has increased, which is a breath of fresh air.  I think the whole math thing is key to the Weltanschauung being right, its really helping me. Especially in these trying times when people are driving me nuts, it helps me not react as much.

I would love to write more but gotta run.

Best, Jon


Dear Jon,

I think that such contacts are now supported by the HR and one should be open to them but have no great expectations.

You have properly understood the power of the new theory of the Universal Law in a written form. It vibrates with the highest possible frequencies of the Source and aligns the mind of the reader with it. That is why it cannot be comprehended by most scientists who are young souls and have rather low vibrating, compartmentalized minds. The information from volume II disappears in the black holes (recesses) of their deficient memory and they simply do not get it. That is why it is so difficult for me to win the scientists – their brains and minds are not congruent with it.

But if you consciously continue studying this theory even though you may not understand at first all the scientific argumentation, you each time align with the Source and streamline your mind with its energy. That is why you are doing the right thing, keeping working on the theory. By doing so you expand your consciousness tremendously. This is how I developed my holistic, axiomatic approach, with which I can now solve any problem that I encounter, although I may not be expert in this field.



Dear Jon,

 I have prepared the publication with excerpts of your book and with a foreword by myself and will publish it tomorrow. It took quite a bit of time to edit all this, but it was worth every minute.

I think that you have a great gift of a narrator and a vivid language and are able to write a bestseller, notwithstanding these auspicious times, when even the concept of “bestseller” makes no sense.

I have taken the liberty to propose a new title, but you must wait till the publication appears tomorrow to read why this choice. Of course this is only a suggestion, but I think this new title may be the breakthrough, because it amalgamates the titles of two American bestselling and classic novels that are known by all critics and experts in literature and will immediately attract their attention. Continue writing on the book as much as you can because I have an excellent feeling about this endeavour and its success.

With love and light


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