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The Archive of Stanley MessengerThe IntraterrestrialsA Foretaste of the New World |
Contentsof the whole book |
I would like to tell you how it came about that this book consists entirely of people talking to each other, with only the absolute minimum of opening and closing words to set the scene and complete the picture. The book is neither a play nor a film script. It isn’t really fiction and it has no plot. In retrospect it had to take this form for two principal reasons.
The more important of these is that we have to find a way to get beyond channelling. Channelling is fine as a stage of development on the way to trans-dimensional awareness. So a century ago there were the big spiritual movements, like Theosophy, the Gurdjieff-Ouspensky stream, Anthroposophy, Subud, etc. (It would be invidious to single these out and compare them since membership of them is a karmic matter.) So is attachment to a guru. So are the various religious affiliations. We have all needed some of them , and some of us have needed most of them. Channelling (writing in 1995) is probably the latest to surface and, for many people now, it dominates the field. But we have to get beyond it.
The second reason for a book in which people sort out reality between themselves is because of Extraterrestrials. Don’t misunderstand me. I have nothing against ETs. But I do see the need for people to sort out what inside and outside of us really signifies. The title of this book already indicates the directions such an inquiry could take.
These two realities, channelling and ETs, are closely connected. They both fix our attention on something in consciousness which is other, and divert our attention from the emergence in us of an ever more active and reality-filled inner space which turns out to be inhabited by a great deal more than we can become aware of by simply talking to ourselves.
Jane Roberts’ Seth never tired of saying that we create our own reality. When a number of people take this fact on board, and then look for ways for the realities they create to find a common space, it is at this point that channelling is transcended, and a dialogue with the entities, including perhaps some ETs who were hitherto only in one-way communication with us, can begin.
That is the shift we need.
So, if this isn’t fiction and it isn’t channelled, what is it? Using Seth’s language again, I think it is the perception of a ‘probable reality’. The emergence of other articulate voices into ordinary conversation than those of the apparent human participants is happening more and more frequently nowadays. I have tried to describe a course of events in which this can come about, and in a fashion not far removed from my own experience. The extension of natural phenomena in the crop circle scenes also takes a path which is implicit in what has already happened in the last year or two. I ask the indulgence of my friends in the croppie world for imagining their reactions in face of these ‘probable agroglyphic events’! Apart from these imaginative sallies, the events in the book are mainly things that have happened to me, and my friends are more likely to recognise me in the characters than themselves. In that sense, the book is a kind of distributive autobiography. I knew it needed writing and I didn’t know how else to write it.
After all, to quote Arthur Guirdham, "We are one another".
A number of quiet residential streets lie behind the busy highways leading into the commercial and shopping centre of Golders Green in north-west London. They used to be known as Hampstead Garden Suburb, and were originally set up experimentally as a quiet middle-class enclave a little bit removed from the hurly-burly of rough traffic audible a few streets away to the south. You won’t find it now marked on the A-Z Street Map, but a few of the avenues still carry the atmosphere of a quieter age.
A young woman in her thirties was walking down the tree-lined pavement of one of the smaller crescents on a sunny spring afternoon. She had a leaflet in her hand, and kept stopping by the garden gates and looking at the numbers. She seemed to be in no great hurry, and occasionally stopped and gazed round at the well kept gardens with a quietly curious look. A little smile played round the corners of her sweet mouth. She was a very pretty woman, casually but carefully dressed, femininely assured, but looking today a bit out of her usual element... the street-wise miss in an unfamiliar street.
She found the number she was looking for and fumbled with the latch of the garden gate. This garden was not so meticulously kept as some of the others she had passed on her way; not exactly neglected, in fact some of the flowers looked more appreciated than others, but as if the occupant chiefly had her mind on other things. This was a woman’s garden, she thought, the sort of garden she would have liked herself in a different life.
She rang the bell and waited, looking round at curtains and colours and smelling the trees. Unformulated wishes, even longings, played round the edges of her mind. Someone unhurried was coming down the stairs inside.
The door opened...
The Archive of Stanley MessengerThe IntraterrestrialsA Foretaste of the New World |
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