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o    Así que hicimos un pacto: Nos preocuparemos del canto, la modulación de la voz y LECTURA MUSICAL; no para aprender a leer, sino para aprender a hacer armonías, hay como secretos dentro de la teoría musical que un alienígena nos mostró. Tanto así, que podía modificar la materia, la composición de los átomos; el espacio-tiempo y la densidad de las particulas 

Visité a todos en Chile. Todo sigue cambiando.
Se mueven las placas, re ubican los chakras de la tierra.

Está bien, todo está bien. Todo marcha de acuerdo al plan.

Nada es coincidencia.

Existe.

TODO lo que siempre hemos "pensado" EXISTE.

Las dimensiones comienzan a vibrar en otros tonos.
Se está volviendo OBVIO.

Todo lo que estás sintiendo.

Todo lo que te "duele", "anda mal", "o no calza" en tu cuerpo "material", está siendo modificado a causa de frecuencias.

Hay una guerra, la guerra de Las frecuencias ©

Esta guerra es la ultima guerra mundial y tiene el carácter de ser invisible para el oHo humano.
Quizás debiése decir: para la mayoría.

No los culpo, pues uno de mis yos, cayó en el suegno sabiendo que era lo que era. Está muy bien programado, los creadores no son humanos por lo tanto pueden ser considerados genios.

Existe una, ahora gran, minoría que sí ve las frecuencias.
Las sienten, usan sus otros sentidos, el 6to? Tal vez el octavo o noveno.

Otros alienígenas participan en la guerra con otras frecuencias desde OTras naves y otros seres en la tierra lanzan SUS frecuencias, creando un mega-campo electromagnético que forma el campo de lo astral, o la matrix, la maya; o loque conocemos hoy como la "nube". Dónde se puede acceder con ciertas llaves.

Las drogas psicotrópicas son una.
Complicadas de dosificar en cada individuo con diferentes sistemas y programas.


Existen guerreros en todos los clanes primitivos.

Luchan con sus cuerpos y mentes.

También existen otro tipo de guerreros que participan activamente en la guerra de las frecuencias© estos guerreros son llamados de la "luz" o las "tinieblas".
Muchos de ellos son enemigos y muchas veces, amigos.

La guerra está llegando a su fin, liberación o exterminio.

En cuanto se revele la presencia ET en el planeta se montará una guerra, esta vez será una guerra de los "permanentes" o gobierno de las sombras con sus facciones de clones y alienígenos de laboratorio contra otros ETs y los civiles se consumirán entre ellos, como los animales carrogneros que luchan por el último pedazo de bilis, luego que los reyes tuvieron su festín.

Pero hay un plan.
Este plan no tiene fecha. Ha estado siempre en marcha.
Ni siquiera los seres de séptima dimensión saben con exactitud quién o qué trazó el plan con tal maestría.

El creador.

Es la única etiqueta con la cual se puede entender, en ésta dimensión, ese rol universal.

Entonces debemos hacer una cosa y sólo una cosa para poder sobrevivir los últimos días de la hecatombe humana y restaurar el sistema como humanos 2.0, novo-sapiens:

Despertar, observar con legítimo desapego nuestro alreadedor y la nube, darnos cuenta que hay frecuencias que nos alteran, nos alegran, nos cambian, nos estancan, nos liberan, nos cautivan y que existen otros guerreros, con los cuales podemos aprender más.
Entrenar el Alma y el corazón (el cuerpo y la mente también pueden entrenarse)
Actuar








Aún no es tiempo.
Estoy actuando.

Alien

Alien

There are several things that I fear when I go out.

The one that scares me the most is to speak in my native tongue.

This brings me lots of pain. One shouldn’t be afraid of one’s own language.  I fear that whenever I use my code I wear a billboard that yells: “hey! Look at me! I was not born on your land”

Even though my skin is pale and my eyes are blue, I always think I attract undesired looks from judging minds and bitter hearts. I know is just me who feels unwelcomed at times, just because I can’t put my hand on my heart while they all sing their anthem, or celebrate your victories and mourn your losses; I have to check different boxes on applications and paperwork and always, always remember my place in your society.

I want to fit in, I want to be a part of this great nation, just one more in the vast diversity and colorful stereotypes that often haunt me.

People say that I should go out more; not to pay attention to the racist comments that hurt me so, because even if they are not directed at me personally, I take offense. One immigrant shares another immigrant’s pain. If not, they have forgotten what it is to be considered an Alien.

I can’t blame the ones that feel I should go back to my home, but then I ask: Where is that? Six thousand miles down in what direction? Four thousand miles up from where I stand? All soil is connected; all the boundaries and limits are imaginary. The fish that swims from the pacific to the Atlantic changes nationality when it crosses the human line that always divides and never unites?

I wish one day we woke up and consider everyone on this planet siblings, sons and daughters of the same father, all individuals, all different but equally worthy of being called citizens of the planet Earth.

Then again, someone might look up to the stars and find another soul, perhaps not human, to keep judging on and we might make them feel Aliens instead of extraterrestrials.

Father and Son

Father and Son

He is a simple man. He, who is at the final stage of his life, putting all the pieces back together, trying to tell a story, re-arranged every time he tells it to fit the perfection of the energetic, dynamic relationship of any and all interlocutors.

Someone as wise as him who put so much in the line after the dictatorship, giving the best possible tools to the black sheep; needs to know verbally, materialized feelings into paper or bits, that I’m proud to be his son and I know he poured his life into mine.

I am the black sheep.

The drop out, the strange, the rebel and the nuisance.

Once upon a time he stood before my grave and wept.

No father should bare the pain of burying one of his own.

No father can withstand the shock of transformation of his offspring. The mutation, the difference, the improvement disguised as flakiness, disregard for one’s own and failure.

No son should be left wondering in the woods by himself while the father, idle, walks away.

Often sons will feel embarrassment and emotions even stronger than that one towards his father. But in the world of fathers it would be considered sheer cruelty to feel these very same emotions towards the son.

Son, I love you.

Father I love you and forgive you as you have forgiven me, even before birth and death.

Wherever I go I take you with me, just like you once did back when I was a child and further back into your life.

Héroe

-'Lo complicado de ser un héroe, es simplemente serlo.

 Ahí está el reto.'

Es una tarde invernal, de esas que solo el campesino del sur conoce.

 El vino es rico, la comida abundante, las mujeres cariñosas. Me siento un rato, cansado de tanto pretender bailar, saco la pipa y fogueo fulgurante, esperando que pase.

-          ¿Que pase qué?

Justamente, ahí está el truco. Nadie sabe. Pero espero.

Don Julio entiende y comienza a recitar dichos, como queriendo ser  un viejo sabio pero que se quedó a medio camino en la escuela de la vida.

Sonrío amable para congraciar al viejo y me doy vuelta sin entender mucho de nada, queriendo tomar el próximo bus a Santiago y desaparecer del campo, en un instante. 

Desvanecerme en la comodidad del recuerdo cómodo.

Bonjangles

Mr. Bojangles

Today we shared some of my neighbor’s famous Argentinean recipes.

It was an ancient mate recipe, which it is said to awaken your inner, most frightening demons.

Mr. Bojangles came rushing in from the back of my pineal gland, exciting the nerves, itching from inside the brain down to the core of my spine, shooting blood and salts. I got up to restrain the beast’s impending attack but the demon awoke its maximum force and threw me down to my knees to swear an oath with its allegiance.

I couldn’t open my eyes to face such unspeakable terror. The dominant mask I was wearing enabled Mr. Bojangles to take absolute control and laughed at its heart’s content.

Once again I had lost to him without even starting; the battle as I perceived it, changed. I was defeated.

The symbol appeared quite suddenly, as if called upon. The heart was radiating pulses of both sound and light, red as vivid blood with golden suns exploding in its contour.

The tea had abandoned the illusion in a seemingly moment of calm and tranquility.

I had lost, but Mr. Bojangles was simply an idea, a thought embodied in feelings rather than an actual manifestation of the real power behind iwhat I alone have experienced and suffered.

Upon my return my friend pointed out that I said only one thing, that curiously had been forgotten by both of us over tea…

And he asked me rather nervous,  who or what is “Mr. Bojangles”?. 

A sudden chill made it impossible for me to utter anything.

I kept on moving and pretended not to remember.

I wonder how many have done the same.

   

Poema 33

POEM 33

There are 33 lines that divide the ritualistic center of Nazca and draws power from an invisible force

There are 33 degrees in the Russian ‘Akin’ magical triangle

Jesus died at age 33

There are 33 known roads to the center of the earth

33 is the highest degree of freemasonry membership

With 33 steps we create a bridge between this world and the next

The number 33 is the same even if you change the order of its individual digits

After 33 days without dreaming you die

33 times 3 is 99, the most dangerous poem ever designed

Metal

Metal.

-Some ignorant dude in Michel’s party after the Therion concert said that Swedish Death Metal was a direct copy of American new Metal brought to Sweden by Peter Tägtgren.

-But listen! Hey! To which I said, ok, to which I said: “no, dude…that’s a fallacy, Swedish Gothenburg’s Death metal was a direct result of the experimentation in both, style and technique in the natural development of the black metal influence of the Norwegian and early Swedish power Metal.”

They all nodded and stood self-righteously in silence.