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2012-01-01. Varieties of Planetary Experience.
“Confessions of a Rebel Angel; The Wisdom of the Watchers and the Destiny of Planet Earth.”. – Book 1B. Chapter 18. ~ by Timothy Wyllie
“Caligastia’s Malevolence, Van’s Eastern Territories, Occult Challenges, a Prophecy Fulfilled and Traveling to Lemuria”
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Confessions of a Rebel Angel. Book 1B. Chapter 18. Varieties of Planetary Experience.
Prince Caligastia, I realized, had given away the family jewels—the atomic secrets that are so carefully protected. His Western Kingdoms were bound to have surged ahead of Van’s Eastern territories—at least militarily. Yet, as Aesop points out in his fable of the Tortoise and the Hare, the race doesn’t necessarily go to the swiftest. As I’ve previously mentioned, maturing planetary cultures can be divided into those that pursue technology and those that do not. I have offered Earth’s whales and dolphins as an example of the latter. These cultures, however, are in the minority on third-density worlds and are almost always aquatic in nature. Yet neither does an aquatic species necessarily preclude developing a technology capable of space flight as the beings who visited Earth from the planet Iarga. It may well turn out to be significant that at least two of the extraterrestrial groups known to have visited this planet—the Nommo from the Sirius Star System and the more recent visit from Iarga—were both aquatic and technological.
Most likely, there are more aquatic species currently on Earth, because unidentified craft are reliably reported coming and going from the oceans of the world. It is a galactic axiom, according to a group of extraterrestrials from Planet Itibi-Ra, that any technological society will at some point “have to make friends with its sun.” At the core of this observation is the recognition that in order to become a true galactic civilization, a society will need to progress through a stage of understanding and mastering the energies of their star. In a very practical sense, this involves a number of necessary incremental steps, the development of each stage building on the previous one. It requires, at the very least, an understanding of astronomy, chemistry and metallurgy, gravitation, electromagnetism, the quantum states of matter, and the intricacies of the nuclear fusion processes happening on their sun. The list also would have to include all the hardware of scientific exploration, from telescopes to electron microscopes.
This historical process of intellectual and scientific advancement can take hundreds or thousands of years to come to fruition. At the point in a culture’s development when its scientists understand the energies locked into matter, it faces a very pointed series of choices. These decisions will be governed, in their turn, by the level of emotional and spiritual maturity of that civilization. A belligerent, emotionally immature society is likely to use nuclear energy to create weapons.
A wiser technological culture will move through this stage and, barring other misfortunes, will develop space flight and be welcomed into the galactic fraternity. For this reason, this moment in a technological culture’s evolution is considered such a watershed in M A’s eyes. It is seen as a portal. Either a planet passes through it unscathed or, if still warlike, that culture becomes confined to its own world. An aggressive civilization that possesses space flight is fortunately a rarity, because contentious cultures either tend to learn from the errors of their ways, or they destroy themselves before they have a chance to get out of their solar systems. The development of atomic and hydrogen bombs also poses a far more serious problem than is generally understood by the society that develops them. Bombs of this sort not only cause the devastation you have observed within your frequency domain, but the immense conflagrations also create an unfortunate impact on neighboring frequency domains.
A culture in which science has developed an awareness of other inhabited frequency domains will be far more considerate of the possible ramifications of their weapons (if they have them) and the impact they might have on their neighboring frequency domains. Under normal circumstances—to which life on Earth due to the Lucifer Rebellion is an obvious exception—the evolution of a technological society is an orderly affair. Technology progresses—sometimes through tens of thousands of years of experiments and discoveries, advances and setbacks—and parallels a steady development in the social and moral welfare of the planet. As technology contributes to a rising standard of living and greater social egalitarianism, the causes of the unrest that nurtures aggression tend to diminish. In such a society, with greater social equity comes more of a focus on education; when there is a more equable distribution of basic resources, there are fewer causes for social disruption; when an individual or a society has fewer reasons to be fearful and defensive, the attention can turn to caring for self and others. It may be surprising to know that mortal beings on all planets, as Sons of God, are fundamentally good.
This is a more philosophically complex issue than I have space for here, as there are many ways of expressing goodness, as there are even more ways of straying from the path of goodness. But merely to say that when a planetary population is well educated, when they have what they need to live free of stress, and when the general level of intellectual and emotional intelligence rises to a point at which the individuals’ wellbeing is knowingly interdependent with the wellbeing of others, then the nature of this essential goodness becomes more apparent. Whether a species chooses to remain on their planet of origin, or whether their physiology supports the manipulation of physical matter, making it more likely that they’ll put those hands to work, both types of species face different challenges. A planet-bound species, like Earth’s cetaceans, tends to focus on developing their mental and spiritual resources instead of developing their environment through the application of technology. Over time, such a species may well figure out how to leave their bodies at will, to travel the highways and byways of the vast Multiverse.
They become respected citizens of the inner worlds and take on specific teaching functions within the Dreamtime, and then, like the noble cetaceans, they become the guardians of their fellow sentient creatures. Yet, should the time come when they need to leave their planet in their physical bodies, these species will be reliant on other spacefaring species for transportation. The challenges facing a purely technological society should be all too evident from the current geopolitical situation on Earth. And yet the roots of this dissension do not lie in any particular blackness of the human soul or in the odious concept of “original sin.” In Earth’s case, much of the contention finds its genesis in the decisions and actions taken by a number of officials in the Local Universe bureaucracy, which has then been further compounded by the actions of the Planetary Prince and his cadre of rebel midwayers and the corruption, greed, and fear with which they have polluted the World Mind.
This era of human history has long been hidden from humanity. Granted, in contemporary terms, those difficult times have been lost in the mists of prehistory, but it won’t come as any surprise that Caligastia and his henchmen did their utmost to cover their tracks. Caligastia’s use of the Roman Church, for example, to distort any true understanding of the past is regarded as such a classic act of malevolence that I’ve heard from other Watchers that it’s now being taught in the Melchizedek universities as a cautionary tale for future Planetary Princes in training. Yet it’s the deep imprints in the World Mind that remain: Caligastia’s pride, his ambition and cruelty, and the terrible psychic and emotional destruction he left in his wake continue to reverberate down through the ages. These ancient negative thought-forms, floating freely in the World Mind, are drawn to those people manifesting similar qualities. Such thought-forms can be thought of as mental parasites looking for a fertile mind to feed off.
If you observe your own life and that of those around you from this point of view, you will doubtless grasp how deeply embedded these negative imprints have become, how they appear to shape so many aspects of social and political life. It is true to say that both the tragically low opinion many humans have of themselves (the original sin syndrome) and the exaggeratedly self-important view others have (hubris) can be traced directly back to all those millennia of Caligastia’s malevolent actions. This perversion of the essential nature of a mortal species is regarded as one of Caligastia’s most malicious influences. I trust that this small diversion will serve to convey just how seriously Caligastia’s offenses were perceived by M A and their agents. The war in the West allowed Van and his people in the Asian territories a long period during which they could be confident that Caligastia would remain effectively powerless. Van knew Caligastia too well to think he wouldn’t make another effort, but at least the Prince would have to start over and build up his weapons development program from scratch.
This would be certain to take him many thousands of years to accomplish, and it wouldn’t be so easy to persuade humans with an ancient memory of a cataclysm to develop such destructive weapons once again. More importantly, from Van’s immediate point of view, this would allow sufficient time for him to fulfill his plan to move some of his people onto the Pacific Islands. Because Van’s intentions aligned as closely as possible with M A’s original objectives, human affairs in his sphere of influence tended to develop more in harmony with the natural world.
In contrast to Caligastia’s constant manipulation of humans for his own purposes, Van’s approach was basically laissez-faire with a minimum of guidance. Van had a deep faith in the natural developmental path of a mortal species, as laid out and anticipated by M A, and reiterated a million times, in as many worlds throughout the Multiverse. Van knew that if he stood back and allowed humans to make their own decisions, their tendency would be to make the correct ones. While this approach might be thought naive or foolish to contemporary ears, that is another distortion I attribute to Caligastia’s nefarious influence. After observing Van over the millennia, I’ve come to think that he believed his main role, given the corrupting conditions of the uprising, was to ensure a continuance of the worship of the Unseen God that was originally introduced in Dalamatia. As long as that spiritual center could be maintained, he believed everything else would unfold naturally. In this, he was partially correct.
Had he allowed, for example, the lead poisoning to continue—as natural an event as any—he might well have lost his entire human population. And, as I previously mentioned, he felt he needed to compromise by allowing the worship of both Sun and Earth as a direct and tangible representation of the First Source and Center. The concept of the Unseen God, as well as that of the Indwelling Father Spirit, proved to be too abstract and advanced for a world at that early stage of development, especially one ravaged by the consequences of a celestial uprising. Now Van had to plan for the population’s migration to the islands. He hoped to make it appear as much as possible the result of natural human curiosity and your species’ adventurous spirit. Over the four millennia that Van expanded his territory onto the large island of Borneo, more and more people were traveling down the chain of islands, bringing the expertise of the northern territories with them.
The outrigger canoes, used for island-hopping over the centuries, had become larger over the years, until they were able to carry up to thirty people. Using these larger craft, they rowed from island to island, crossing the Sulu Sea to find themselves among the myriad islands of the Philippines. Within five hundred years, one of the groups had made its way up to the northern end of Luzon Island, and, being a thoroughly seagoing people by this time, they settled along the bays and gulfs of the mountainous eastern coast. This is where the next breakthrough occurred in boatbuilding. The crossing to the Philippine Islands was by far the longest and most challenging they’d yet encountered. A number of small craft had disappeared in the sudden storms. Some had been buffeted against reefs that could tear a canoe apart.
In addition, vicious currents could whip up unexpectedly in the Sulu Sea and barrel in from the South China Sea, threatening to put an end to their easterly migration. Van realized that the migrants would need much larger and more stable craft if they were going to challenge the Pacific successfully. This slowed them up for a couple of centuries. Everything changed, however, when a group of Van’s scouts located a large region of balsa wood trees (Ochroma pyramidale) growing in the valleys along the coast. The species was hitherto unknown to them, which was barely surprising since the balsa tree wasn’t indigenous to the Philippines and the seeds had to have been carried all the way across the Pacific from South America. From the start they realized that the wood had exactly the quality they needed for their new concept—large seagoing rafts. Once the tree was cut down and into logs and laid out in the tropical sun for a season, the water, trapped in the remarkably large cells of the wood, would evaporate. This resulted in an extremely strong yet light material. But, of even more interest to boat builders, it was completely unsinkable when they tested it, even in cyclone-size waves.
They found that smaller rafts were apt to capsize in the worst conditions. This compelled them to tie the logs into larger and larger rigid, floating platforms, until each one could comfortably carry more than a hundred men and women. Four, and sometimes as many as eight or ten, huts on the larger craft were constructed of bamboo with roofs of palm leaves and tied to the deck in positions judged to increase the raft’s stability. It was assumed those traveling on the rafts would sleep outside on the deck, and the huts would be used for those falling ill as well as offering some minimal protection from sun and storms. Island hopping in outrigger canoes relied on the use of paddles and manpower. There had been some limited attempts to sail with the wind, but on the short inter-island trips that hadn’t been necessary. The experience turned out to be valuable when it came to equipping the large rafts with rudimentary sails. Yet, here again, they were fortunate to come across the ideal substance from which to make their sails. The wild buffalo skins that had been sewn together for the sails on the outriggers had always proved too weighty and unwieldy to use, especially in stormy weather. So when the first of the forest monitor lizards was killed and its skin scraped, dried, and oiled, the result was a large and remarkably strong sheet of flexible material.
This confrontation is easier to write about than to participate in, because it must have taken great courage for the first man to bring down a forest monitor. I didn’t personally see this happen, but I had witnessed the many tragic occasions when the enormous, carnivorous Komodo dragons, living on some of the southern islands, caught and dined on one of the settlers. The Komodo dragons were fast and numerous and horribly aggressive. They were the only carnivorous creatures on their islands and appeared all too enthusiastic to broaden their diet when the settlers arrived. Glad to move on up north, the migrants had settled into their new camp on the Luzon coastline before they encountered the first of the forest monitors. Mature lizards grew up to ten feet in length, and this one happened to be even larger and similar to the Komodos, the creatures of their nightmares, the ones they’d run away from in terror. Some time passed before they were sure the lizards were fruit eaters and appeared to show little interest in attacking the new arrivals.
But there was always a chance that they would revert to a more ancient diet. That is why I say that it must have taken great courage to slaughter that first monitor. The hunter in question had dropped on the lizard’s back from the low-hanging bough of a tree and had apparently hung on, stabbing the creature in the neck while it thrashed its powerful body to rid itself of the killer on its back. I was told the fight lasted for more than twenty minutes before the lizard finally died. What an admirable species, these humans, I recall thinking at the time. As it turned out, not only did forest monitors’ skins provide ideal material for sails, but the lizards’ meat turned out to be palatable and nutritious. Streams carrying the rainwater off the mountains were plentiful, and the waters off the coast provided for rich fishing. More and more people were arriving, following the trail blazed by the first group.
As the human settlement grew in size along Luzon’s northeastern coastline, Van made a modest start on what was to become one of the most massive agricultural and building projects of the antediluvian world. He organized the cutting of a few simple platforms into the volcanic slopes of the mountains along the Luzon coastline to take advantage of the rich soil, as well as catching and holding the rainwater. Much later these slopes would be sculpted by skilled Lemurian builders into the magnificent stepped fields that follow the contours of the mountains for miles— and which you can still see in a much-degraded form to this day. Yet the great Pacific voyage still awaited them.
If one of the sure signs of human madness is doing the same action again and again, failing each time, and repeating the action without essentially changing it, by those standards the once-noble Prince Caligastia could by this time be thought of as “barking mad” (a phrase Mein Host’s friend, John Michell, used to scathingly describe myopic true believers in any ideology). There was something of a Greek tragedy in this. Prince Caligastia was a Descending Son of what M A’s celestial hierarchy calls the Lanonandek Order of Sonship. As such, he was not indwelt by the Divine Spark, the Atman, that aspect of God that shares each human’s journey. This doesn’t mean that Caligastia was not a high being—he certainly was, by human standards. But it does point out a fundamental difference between mortals and Planetary Princes. Under normal circumstances, on normal planets, the Prince works closely with the multitude of celestial workers, including a mortal’s companion angels when necessary.
In Caligastia’s case, although many observers—such as myself—did align ourselves with him after the rebellion, there seemed to be a mutual agreement among all the companion angels present at that time to intervene whenever possible to prevent Caligastia from influencing their wards. In this they have a tradition among themselves that has continued to this day. And you, dear reader, and your distant ancestors, can be grateful for this. One of the great hazards facing a Planetary Prince if he steps off the path is that he is a great deal less creatively ingenious than the mortals he presides over—a lesson Caligastia failed to learn again and again as he blindly repeated the same errors of judgment. As we know, one of the main back-stories to the terrible war, a war for which Caligastia was still unwilling to admit any responsibility, was his decision to move some of his scientists to the island in the Atlantic. He clearly hoped to have saved a few of those who remained working in his subterranean labs and factories on the mainland, but this turned out not to be the case.
Although the bombs were relatively clean, the radiation was persistent enough to sooner or later poison everyone who emerged too soon. And those who waited underground fared no better—they slowly starved to death. His decision to transfer some of his scientists out of the war zone turned out to be a prescient one, although whether it was as fortunate for the scientists and their families was debatable. Being able to observe Caligastia, I could see that he was profoundly rattled by losing control of the situation, although it wasn’t easy to tell.
He was just as swaggering as ever, asserting that the cataclysm was his intention all along. “Just how we planned it!” and “Thinning out the human stock” became stock phrases between the Prince and his midwayers. He showed absolutely no remorse for the many millions of dead and dying humans he was leaving in his wake. “They will fertilize the desert!” I heard him say more than once. What a devil he was becoming! Van was making steady progress with his plans. He’d already sent some of his midwayers ahead to plot out the route. He knew that if the rafts could stay on the southern equatorial current, they would eventually reach the islands. A couple of midwayers were going to be attending to each raft and they had some limited ability to intervene in an emergency, although the way they do it remains a charming puzzle to my kind.
I gather only that it requires a great deal of energy and a large number of midwayers operating in synchrony to manifest one of them in your human frequency domain. Van didn’t reveal it to anyone except his faithful Amadon, but he had been using his telepathic abilities to spur the subconscious interest of certain chosen men and women in migrating to the islands. Just as back in the days of the city, when the Prince’s staff would telepathically call in those they wished to teach, so Van was exercising this ancient power. He selected only the finest specimens of humanity, the most emotionally mature and spiritually advanced, from all the tribes and races in his vast territories. Those chosen would not have heard Van’s telepathic message as words, or as an instruction on which they should consciously act, but simply as an impulse, an inner prompting that they could neither explain nor deny.
As birds migrate instinctively, so did these men and women pick up from their villages and settlements and follow their inner urge to travel south along the island chain, not quite sure of what they’d find until they arrived at their destination. The route south was now well established, and Van arranged for a whole series of canoes at each stage of the journey to ferry the migrants so that by the time they reached Luzon they’d become thoroughly familiar with the ocean. On arriving at the rapidly expanding settlement, they joined in the sail-making and the rough-and-tumble labor of cutting and hauling the balsa logs. When they are cut down, balsa trees are extremely heavy; first they have to be rolled out of the forest, and then they’re tipped in to one of the rivers flowing down to the coast. There, they have to be dragged out of the river and left to dry out in the heat of the tropical sun.
Luzon lies somewhat south of the Tropic of Cancer, close to the equator. The sun blazed daily from a clear sky. In the rainy seasons the sails were used to cover the drying balsa logs, as it took at least three years for all the water to fully evaporate out of the wood. Then the difference was magical. A single log could be easily lifted by a couple of strong women. The construction of the rafts was ingenious. Van had recommended a modular design based on the seventy-by-three-foot average size of the individual six-inch-deep balsa logs. By arranging the logs on two levels, the top at right angles to the bottom layer, they constructed nine seventy by seventy foot platforms. Every platform was equipped with two centerboards, each plank painstakingly cut and chiseled from fallen hardwood trees. These boards were then securely jammed between the logs when the rafts were first floated in the protected bays where they were constructed. The balsa logs were lashed together using vines made pliant by the constant application of oils and animal grease.
Those bindings were then secured by ropes made of strips of tanned deerskin, braided for strength, and used where their capacity to shrink would tighten the joints. Split bamboo, woven by the women into matting, was tied to the logs to form the decking. The edge of the deck was built of wide diameter bamboo pipes in which each vessel was able to store and carry up to two thousand gallons of fresh water. The weight of these also added greatly to the stability of the rafts. After being used, the bamboo pipes were refilled with seawater to maintain the raft’s overall equilibrium. Bamboo was also used extensively for constructing the deck shelters. The walls and roof were made of woven dried reeds and split bamboo, tied to a secure pole frame that then was lashed down to the balsa logs. The masts presented an immediate problem, because the lizard-skin sails turned out to be weighty affairs. After a number of failed experiments, one of the women who’d been working with split bamboo realized how much stronger a beam could be made by laminating a number of split bamboo strips together.
A glue made from boiling down animal bones had long been known in the northern provinces, and it proved to have by far the strongest adhesive grip on bamboo. The resultant masts were short and stubby, but strong enough to support the heavy sails in a strong wind. The original plan was to link these individual elements loosely together to create a single large platform that was flexible enough to withstand heavy seas.
However, when they built and floated a small-scale model in choppy waters, they found the pieces were grinding against one another, the friction eating away at the integrity of the bindings on each of the rafts. They then decided merely to provide each craft with enough available lashings to loosely tie it together with the others, while also making it possible to cast off the lines, should that be necessary. They wanted to keep the rafts as closely connected for as long as possible. These were unknown waters, and they’d seen enough violent storms on their journey south to know what the ocean was capable of. Of course, the journey posed a tremendous risk. I wondered to myself whether Van was going the same way as Caligastia in his careless use of human beings to carry out his whims. It seemed like an impossible task.
The islands were more than a thousand miles away, specks in the middle of an endless ocean. No human had ever intentionally gone that far before. Yes, there’d be a current that would propel them in the general direction, but what with the winds and the constant possibility of being thrown off course, I didn’t believe it was going to be possible. The decision to launch all nine rafts at the same time also seemed rash to me. But when I thought it through, I understood Van’s dilemma and his gamble. If he were to launch only one raft, wouldn’t that have betrayed his lack of faith in the project? And wouldn’t it have undermined the conviction among the humans making the journey that the islands did exist? Besides, I thought rather foolishly, how would they be able to get a message back if they had succeeded? I should have known better than to second-guess Van. In my defense, it happens to be an aspect of life on Earth to which I’d given very little attention.
The cetaceans! Of course! I simply hadn’t realized that Van was able to link telepathically with the whales and dolphins! As it turned out, he was able to do it with a great deal more ease than with humans. Pods of dolphins, who’d swum the Pacific Ocean for more than thirty five million years and knew every coastline, each island and current, and all the varying tastes of the seawater in the long journey to the Islands of Mu— they were going to be the guides. Of course! That was why Van was prepared to risk the lives of hundreds of men, women and children on a single trip. He was confident the dolphins would get them there. And they did!
I am a Watcher Angel and my name is Georgia.
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The following is an excerpt from the Timothy Wyllie’s book series on rebel angels, specifically an account as described by the angel referred to as ,’Georgia”.
To view this and other books by Timothy Wyllie, Click on book to view more at Amazon.com.
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