My Poetic Experience of Multi-dimensional Lifetimes, Deaths and Re-births

By Jodie Cowan, February 1, 2015

Hello Dr. Stankov,

I finished reading one of your older posts about mushrooms, LSD etc. When I was much younger I used to experiments with these but had long ago lost the urge. Well a few years back I ate some Christmas candy that was in the fridge. Was working on the computer and felt I was possibly getting a cold, my shoulders were aching. I look up to find the walls alive. Ran down stairs to ask if there was something in that candy, “Oh he didn’t tell you?”

Now I’m in the bathroom with my fingers down my throat trying to throw up. Anyway, what I ended up doing is writing. I always said I wished I could write some of the things we’d come up with as kids doing these mushrooms.

I didn’t read it for some time and when I did, I was amazed. It’s like that depth-poetry when I read it aloud, the way it flows. I can send you the un-edited cut if you like.  It is multidimensional lifetimes, deaths and re-births. Nothing I’ve ever done would bring this information to light, in this life anyhow.

I did slight editing, because I wrote ‘whatever’ came to mind, and submitted it to a writing group on-line. I was top 10 that day.  Allow me to present the mushroom manifesto. 2005.


(a Manifesto)

Things from in between, on the edges, on the side spreading out and jumping in. Sounds, colors, feelings, touch is all the same blurring in and out. Amber light hues with red, like some days in the summer when I notice a different light, breathing blue then amber reds.

I have no distractions from before, so this must be my little wish come true. Something to do before I die. To be able to lay a few words down and read them in the past, future, present. I had put this away now it presents itself once again. I planned in the past for this to happen now. So here we are where everything breathes. I stop to breathe and see everything again, then I come back here to the planned thing. Blue then amber reds.

Everything wants to be looked at I don’t want to see, don’t want to give it my attention. Not now, here in this place planned from the past. I create a dreamscape from inside my mind, a current one I suppose, but they all connect.  I have been feeling this need to somehow direct or sort out things, package them, don’t know why it doesn’t matter really, because it all comes to an end, here. The fantastic reality of it all is anything at all, just a bunch of feelings to get in the way of trying to live. The whole plan designed to corrupt us all.

I can see them trying to hide as I write. They fly off the page I’m placing my words onto. I watch them scurry off to the right, yes it is right, had to pause for a moment to be sure. More of them jump at me recognizing them, scheming little pranksters, all around me now, annoying, jumping, wanting my attention, wanting me to stop and pay them all my attention.  Away with you, go whence you need to be, go where you are wanted. Not here.

Okay so which dreamscape, the one with the shiny water reflecting like mercury, what’s under the water? The beautiful sparking water, sinister, sinking buckled in. Then following people who don’t know where they are going and its alleys and behind old brick homes and skinny pathways with chain link fences scraping me, binding me in, with horizons of bleak white sky, parched. Once out of the hindered spot, on top of brick, piles of rubbish, land fills, over hills in the dump to the stark buildings. I can see my stuff on the seat like I left it. The little girl, wake up. Dreams, sometimes they aren’t my dreams they’re just in my head.  The blue, amber reds.

The smells, feelings, the light energy of days I lived in the past. Feeling as if I were there right now. I love it, it’s all real right now. Always our memories are what we live for, cherish and take with us on our entire journey. We can expand each picture and go inside to feel and experience as deeply as we wish, or not. Sometimes other lifetimes, millions of lifetimes, they seem unreal. I can feel them, just as I feel it here and now.

The catacombs, the passages, the secrets, the being lost and the mud. The songs, crying, sorrow, the life of people. Blood into sand into mud. The bones buried in the mud, the writing on the walls, I scribe. I go until I don’t anymore. I can see this lifetime in the catacombs. Jesus is a common face, someone I know, I touch. I write his word messages because they move me. I want them to exist after I am gone. I scribe them into stone, I put them in passages, hidden meanings in songs, poems, they must bring about new life, understanding, they grow in the fiber of human Christ, human being, human god and life is the energy of that word, having to hide it to keep it alive.

I was killed, tortured, slayed, died so many deaths, hideous death. Scavenged by rats, birds, crabs in the sea. Tied to the pillars, the sea comes in and out. I rot slowly ebbing decay, but I scrape my truth into the sand, my mark into the rock to find it again in another life. I don’t know what draws me to the things with no meaning, what I listen to, that no one hears is me calling me so I remember where I was, who I was, who I am, in order to know where I am and where I am going. It’s all a game I play to amuse myself because it’s so un-amusing at times but when I can find myself, then the horrible deaths mean something because it worked, here I am and I remember.

The old wooden buildings no insulation, stilts. It’s a wonder we lived in passages like these. Holes in all the walls, cracks to feed our imagination, to gather messages of truth and lies to use somehow to further our progress in the miserable life we live. Dust, mildew, hungry, fighting dogs for food, and sleeping with them for warmth, being bitten by them and fleas, and being sick, smelling burning bodies, piles of them, burning. Scared, hiding, starving, lost I’m a child, alone and hungry but I hide or they kill me. I live with the dogs and the rats. I eat dead rats, the stench and smoke, but I live through this only to die, hung in the gallows. I was hungry is all, but this was a better ending to be born out of that, and I remember.

The beach again, the waves, being tied, crabs, scratching, sandy sounds, scratching trying to move to scare them away, but at night they move in, so many the sound is deafening. The moon, cold, the water warmer, covering me safe. Now its stark, I’m open, bleak, crabs, mites, fleas, wind, sand, air cold. The water comes and the sound, the deafening sound is quieter. The water is cool but safe. After currents and bubbles, the sand sucks me under, the sound becomes ebbing, like in the womb of another life, I die into the sand.

I remember the killing, beheading, wet sticky rock, head in a basket, scratchy, rolling, eyes open. Feeling it, my body flops twitches, my head rolls in the basket. Or my head is held by my hair, scalp pulling back, skin pulls from the chin and bone underneath, planted onto spikes, thrown into piles, smashed by children with wooden bats. Smashing the skulls in, this is mindless for them, they are gone. I remember.

Then there is the Nazis. I died and I killed. I suffered, was shaven, starved with my child. I see them suffer, my daughter, shaven, skinny, I watch her die. I am killed in the showers with pellets not water, gas, smells, throwing up, guts and shitting, everyone shitting, lying in it, rolling in it, on my face, then pushed by machines into piles, into holes, buried, some buried alive. In the dirt it was clean, no gas smell, dirt was clean. The sound of marching, guns, boots and dogs, gone with the dirt in my ears, in my eyes yellow and sticky. Hiding with Jews in homes with hidden spots in the walls, can’t move or breathe, the boots right there, I can’t breathe or I die. I don’t die, I live.

I remember again in the mud, in the jungle starving again because I’m held captive. Rice rotting, molding rice and piss to live on for years. My bones are bamboo. I grow out of the pit and into the trees and air with my mind, until I am a bird and I fly away free into the sky, away from the pit of slime. They forgot I was there. I was shit on, pissed on, then even the moldy rice was gone. I had to become the bamboo and grow out. It took time but it was real, I lived it, it became my reality and I died into that reality.

My bones nourish the bamboo I watched grow from a sprout and my union with that plant goes on even to this day. I still rot, bones left un found. There are clues to who I was and it’s close, not Vietnam this was Japans. The clues are still touching the living of now. The bamboo flourishes. The mud and the cage are gone, the passages gone, this is a wasteland except for the bamboo that holds me, my memories and dreams grow there still today, now.

Power grows constant food for the soul, simple, egoless magnificence. I remember in the North, by the sea, Vikings, old, huge buildings, beer, killing, animals, fur, smoke. I’m small, picked on, cast out, cold I die.  Again cast out, this time I live because of the dogs, again with the dogs, but this isn’t such depravity because I know no other way. There is no proof of other ways of living like in the plague ridden lifetimes.

This is older, more powerful, animals are gods with power and knowledge to be given. I become a messenger, feared, but I don’t know this. I just move and with me my story unfolds. People I meet tell of me after I’m gone and build who I am in this life. I have no idea the icon I was. I am just me, living amongst the animals free. Others seek me not to kill, but to know me. I don’t know this though I’m oblivious.

They look for me for years even after I die, I am alive still in their mind. Yet I lie deep in the ice, happy, asleep still. I’m by my fire, with my dogs and a hawk and I have tools and fur and smoke and I have bundles with medicine and foraged things from afar that amuse me, all kept neat in a cache. I have several caches along my way that I gather into four before I sleep. I wander to each of them still and look at my treasures of bark and seeds from places the seed grow into plants but will freeze and die where I too die.

Old sand again, back to Egypt. So much wonder and chaos, playing, I am a mischievous boy running and causing trouble. Everyone is high, everyone sleeps their life away in dreams. The river slow life, everything goes into it and down. Up away from the depths are great creatures delving into things better left alone, but they can’t help themselves. So much fun to make them wonder, so much fun to amuse themselves and practice here where everything is new.  They can’t come back and things pass on, before they know it time takes its course and the majestic-ness is left for others to wonder and figure out.

The ones who played were taken from their game and never again would return. So then it plays out, the pyramids they live in them, stumbling into holes trapped, and passages that mean nothing, everything is a circle and a game. There must be a reason, no, no reason, just a big question mark. Well, guess what, here we are again and everything must come back. They know not of their past, but I do. I remember.

I wrote it, scribed it along with the words of Jesus. I scribed so I would be able to prove the wonders I’ve seen, I scribed to believe it myself, I scribed so I wasn’t crazy, so I could later ponder, so I could reason and find ways to believe the un-believable, the magic we create. The whole thing is a big joke, amusing joke. The worry, the fear, the money kills us. The life is all because of the fear, the money or is it the killing because of the knowledge. They tried to silence the truth, the words of Jesus, the words of truth and the fear killed it, over and over warping the truth into lies and it becomes something else.

Did I create this scribing, make it possible by scribing? Without the words, there would be nothing to hide, nothing to fear, nothing to warp into something to control. Was it a good idea to do this, so I could remember, see myself again after I die? The evidence left to the hands of others who play and make it what they want, not what it is and what I want to remember. Warped reality into something entirely different, something not real.

Scribe in the catacombs, living in the mud starving with a purpose full of love because my life was scribed on the walls of mud forever, this death for what. This time unplanned but planned all the same. Running from today’s worries too horrible to allow the weakness of my mind to have, so I go into the dreams only to come up with the lives and deaths of just a few of me[s].

The need to sort and circle and see defining edges is such as it seems a way for me to touch what I love, touch what holds my energy, my power. Touch it and burn it and let it go so I can hold my power truly for the first time in this eternity. Since the lifetime with Jesus I have wandered and suffered and now I am coming back again, sealing up the wounds, patching up the past time space and gaps in the dimensions I cannot see from here, but they exist all the same. Some of them hollow and haunting others new and curious, dangerous, but here and now, I am coming back to me finally.

This is beautiful to be able to know this and witness it myself, something else. All this really doesn’t matter anymore. Soon I’ll be where I come from, the bird created from the life in the bottom of a pit. A spark lighting up a moment in this dimension harbored by time. I walk no more, suffer no more, breathe for the first time in eternity and resonate once again with my being, with out agenda calling, more work to be done, keeping me from having this, the wholeness and the peace and completeness of a job done to perfection, everything in it’s place, everything perfect, this is the lifetime for that, this is the death of that, this time I die I am truly dead and alive again truly alive. I am complete.

This death will be a glorious death. How ever it may be, it will be. Those who still toil, though I leave no energy I give them a memory. This they might build upon with their own power to give them self permission to have a good death also, and mayhap they will be silenced from calling agendas too, and join me where I am.

Pacific Northwest

Note: Dear Jodie, your email does not work. I tried eight times to send you my response to no avail and the delivery of my email was denied each time. I managed to sent you an email on an old email address. Check it. – George


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