The Church

Adoration to God

Beloved Mighty I AM Presence,
Thou Life that beats my heart,
Come now and take dominion,
Make me of they Life a part.
Rule supreme and live forever
In the Flame ablaze within;
Let me from Thee never sever,
Our reunion now begin.

I AM, I AM, I AM adoring Thee!
I AM, I AM, I AM adoring Thee!
I AM, I AM, I AM adoring Thee!

O God, you are so magnificent!
O God, you are so magnificent!
O God, you are so magnificent!

I AM, I AM, I AM adoring Thee!
I AM, I AM, I AM adoring Thee!
I AM, I AM, I AM adoring Thee!

Memories of shaggy purple carpet and paper altars. Brief flashbacks of me kneeling in sweat pants and a purple tee-shirt with a bright, grinning gnome on the front. Dusty roads, and compact trailer parks. Remnants of a hotel occupy the middle of our town. The temporary houses we have created surround the hotel and hug it deep to our breasts. It is abandoned and locked up, the only way to enter is by slipping in through one of the many broken windows. It is symbolic of the Church Universal and Triumphant.
I look back with a heavy hand and repressed memories bursting at the seams of my consciousness. I come here today to remember. To remember what my life used to be like and the innocence and naivety that was impressed on me. No worries, no crime, no conflict. Being a selfish young boy, I want to remember my life but since my memories are so fleeting and thin I need help. I need my peers and elders that I have shrugged off and dismisssed. It is time to rejoin the community that I was once a part of and embraced by.

It all started when a young man by the name of Mark Prophet was contacted by the Ascended Masters during his 18th year. The Ascended Masters are spiritual leaders throughout history who have passed on to another world, yet continue to guide this world's progress out of compassion and empathy. Some of these Masters are recognizable names such as Buddha, Jesus, Zarathustra, and Mother Mary. Other names though are less recognizable: St. Germain, is one of the main primary figures, yet is not heard except in certain circles. El Morya and Kuthumi, Maha Chohan and Lady Master Venus, Lord Maitreya and Lady Master Nada. Each of these Masters have certain qualities that they impart to us and are meant to guide us through our spiritual journey.
The two Masters that 
They passed communication through him and he felt it was his duty to transcript these communications and send out letters to all that were interested.




 A single lane road twisting up the side of the mountain face. Thousands of feet are traveled up, old rusty cars pushing themselves to the brink to make it up the mountainside. Inside this mountain, you would wrap around a curve, carved out of the rock itself and behold a verdant Eden. An untouched land that is ours. A secret sense of pride and ownership of the majesty and peacefulness of this private wilderness. Great tents pushing the boundaries of the sky dominate the matted down field. Unknown children play at the footsteps in tough army tents, wandering around the taped-in area, jumping from the arts and craft section to the play section. A sprawling expanse in the middle of a field. The locals work the stands and check-in areas with open smiles and button up shirts. The food court smelling of lentil beans, rich indian spices and organic foods. Everywhere can be heard the buzzing of a decree in the background. It permeates the air like a bee and infuses everyone in this area with a rush and excitement. Smaller tents surround and support one giant tent in the middle.
 The young "disciples" are not allowed to go into this tent except on special occasions. A sense of mystery surrounds this sacred space and the Ascended Masters hover over it like long-lost gods are ghouls. My mom speaks of these times with a little less reverence than I remember. Inside this tent there are hundreds of chairs set up, all facing a giant altar. The pictures of Jesus, Saint Germain, El Morya, and Lanello hang side by side with a giant picture of Mother in the middle. The adults sit in the chairs and do decrees, prayers given like a chant with momentum and at a rapid speed that discourages the wary from ever joining. For hours the adults will sit, chanting these decrees, repeating the same thing over and over again for hours upon end. They empty out of the pavilion like ants leaving the hive, spilling out at the seams, looking for sustenance and connection with the outside world after this intense vigil. But Mother is still in there, she demands that you come back once you've had your fill.

To the townsfolk of Livingston, the people of the Church were a cult. John Sullivan had this to say when questioned about the church, "If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it is a duck." He then went on to add, "There's been an ongoing problem ever since they got here over whether we can trust what they tell us." When I heard this comment it brought me back to the special moments getting away from the Church with the family and making a big trip to Bozeman or Livingston to do furniture shopping or find some great steals in Costco. I think back to how ridiculous we must have looked in our mishmashed, passed-down clothes, with images of gnomes and angels on the t-shirts. I think back on what Mother warned us about going outside, and how my parents use to protect themselves with decrees before leaving. The world was a scary place according to Mother and we had to protect ourselves at all times from these outside sources. Cheri Walsh, the personal attendant to Mother for a few years, and an important editor for the publications, remembered how people were elected to do something called "tagging". They would have to sit by themselves or sometimes with other people and would bring out a big book/encyclopedia about their "tags". Cheri described the "tags" as anyone that was giving the Church trouble, such as; The IRS, The Immigration and Naturalization Service,and any people that were giving them trouble or had left the Church. Then they would have to do decree sessions, alternating back and forth between each other throughout the whole night and into the dawn. The purpose? To protect the Church and Mother from these evil entities.

Probably the most important event that happened in the Church's history realistically is the creation and fallout from the gigantic bomb shelter built. During the cover of many nights, the earthworkers tore up the ground way up in the mountains of the Heart and began to build an enormous bomb shelter. Mother was told that the end of the world would be coming and my mother tells me to this day that the other Mother had intelligence from very high in the CIA and political factions that a nuclear war would be happening very soon. Church members all around the world were told that on the day of March 15th, 1990, the war would be engulfed in nuclear radiation and damage. Thousands of members flocked to the Church from around the world, looking for protection and to be close to Mother when this event did take place. Turrets were built, elaborate systems of railways and protection were set up. Mother's ex-husband, Randall King, was arrested on charges of stockpiling large amounts of guns illegally. People maxed out their credit cards, preparing for the seven year stay underground in this bunker.

I wish I could remember this time. But sadly I was too young. My mom tells me how the kids loved staying in the bomb shelter and would ride the rail-carts throughout the shelter. Huge swarms of kids playing underground like moles burrowing for food. 700 people packed into an underground shelter. Can you imagine the size and magnitude of this project? I can barely grasp it. Each family had their own private room, each person had a storage spot to keep their 7 years of food. 7 years of toilet paper for 700 people, boxes and boxes of grains, dried vegetables, bags of oatmeal, 20 pound boxes of canned goods, condensed milk, beans, cooking oil, supplies, tools, medical needs, candy, spices, dry cereal. Each stack finding a specific corner to be in and still leaving place for 700 people to freely move about. The scope of this project was incredible and it was fueled by Mother. Cheri Walsh, remembers Mother during this time, and recalls that what made her, Cheri, most scared, was that Mother actually believed that this was going to happen. She was sure of it. The buildup was immense. The people were scared but also excited. They knew the truth. They were to be protected and were actually chosen from billions to be the survivors. What an ego boost! The night came and the people braced themselves and held on to each other in nervous excitement, while others thought about their non-Church family members and how their ignorance had doomed then. If only they could have got them to join the Church.. The seconds counted down, then the hours, and then it was light outside. A few more days passed. Nothing. Their time in the bomb shelter began to seem fake and silly. They had just made the biggest fools of themselves and they all had believed this "truth" so easily. The people looked to Mother with giant question marks tracked across their wrinkles.
Her explanation? They had prayed it away. Through their decrees they had averted the cataclysm and stopped the major political figures from committing evil. They had saved billions of lives.
People started drifting away from the Church in droves, angry that they had trusted Mother on such a major life decision. Many people had sold their houses, people out in Glastonbury, a subdivision of the Church in Paradise Valley, built their own individual shelters for protection. The money was completely gone. Their family's savings had been depleted by this one woman and her visions.

The thing that people don’t understand when they hear these stories of corruption and incredibly misused resources and faith is that the people in the Church didn’t want to believe them because all the lies were about.. Mother. She was the messenger of God. To be close to her was an experience akin to being mind-raped. Extreme paranoia shot through your body as she studied you with her crystal clear eyes and seemed to unwrap your soul piece by piece. The entire foundation of the Church was based off of her dictations which she received from the various Ascended Masters. She was Mother. She was the power, and the root of everything that they held dear. To criticize her was to be eternally damned. Cheri Walsh describes her time being around Mother as always fearful and in rapture.

I remember my few experiences her akin to seeing a being of light bursting from the seams of a mortal body. Even in my mind's eye when I imagine her, I picture her as holy and godlike. She seemed to emanate a divine presence. Or maybe this was just the gigantic build-up she had from everyone around you. Either way I remember the times when she would look down on me and cross me with her dictation sword, casting out the demons from my body. She said that I was one of the reincarnations of El Morya. This made my parents really proud.

What made her so influential and important to the church was for one, her unwavering belief in herself and her dictations, and two her stone cold visage of the truth. She was so impersonal, that you felt like it was a blessing to talk to her. She carried herself like a demi-god and believed that her every word was holy. Her voice carried well across King Arthur's Court, the giant decree hall in the Church Headquarters. She treated everyone like she was their Mother, no matter the age or sex. She believed that she knew what was best and began to make all the decisions for the staff; including social, sexual, psychological, and spiritual aspects of life.

The people were looking for something absolute. Most everyone at the time was in their 20's or early 30's. They were all young searchers spawned by their generation of counterculture and spiritual movements. My mom described the allure of the church being a "universal religion." It opened her eyes to Buddhism, Taoism, Hinduism, Zoroastrianism, greater studies of the Bible, Judaism and showed her the similiarities between all these religions and practices. My mother constantly described the Church as an experiment and that it would have been much better if it only lasted for 4 to 5 years. When she had children, that's when it was no longer working. The responsibilites of raising a family precedented her decrees and faith. She needed to be home and watching over us and yet she would have to be constantly called into work, or for an evening decree session. All of the kids would be put in child-care. No family was exempt from decrees. Mother tried to make the Church larger than family and incorporate the family into the Church and make the Church a part of daily family life. Christmas and Easter were spent decreeing. Thanksgiving dinner was in the cafeteria, where my Dad would usually be cooking the meal. I remember aimlessly wandering around inside this cafeteria, being completely safe, yet totally alone. My family was the community and my parents were absent. Sitting at a round table with 5 other strangers. Seeing my Dad, in the windows of the kitchen, scrubbing pots, with his head bent over his work. Smelling the tofurkey and kale. Served with a side of chutney and rice pudding. The muffled bustle of noise like the low purr of a motor, with me quietly escaping to a secluded table where I can be by myself and my thoughts.

The social life of the Church was an odd thing. Mother passed a Rule of Conduct that stated that opposite members of the sex couldn't talk to each other for more than 10 minutes. If two people wanted to date, they needed permission from Mother. In many ways the people were uknowingly putting themselves into a monastic society.The people were expected to place their cosmic ties over their material. Differences were not tolerated, and homosexuality was considered evil. Cheri Walsh wrote about a lesbian roommate that had a private clearance session with Mother and another lesbian on staff. A clearance is a cleansing, in which Mother slashes across a person's aura with a divine actual sword, while decreeing, purifying their spirit. These lesbian women were told that they had been rebelling against God for many lives and were on something called "the second death column." 

I remember saying Hi to some old guy when I was about six, walking along the sidewalk on a warm day, and this man's head whipping around in total astonishment. Like he was in a different planet and I just teleported him back to Earth while he was having sex with a martian. He mumbled something quickly and looked away, his eyes still slightly crazed. There were definitely a few of these oddballs around the Church, the kind of devout oddballs that you would find in a secluded religious society I guess. But, there were definitely others who were comfortable talking to other members and in fact the bond of community was very strong with these people as many of them had built the Church from the ground up with the other members, and had worked alongside them and seen them every day for the past 15 years. This is natural, there are introverts and extroverts. Socially awkward people and socially comfortable people.

Church Universal and Triumphant

How does my church fit into the new west of the 1900's. An island set against the times. Recluses. Spiritual heretics that defied social conventions to form a community that withstood the test of time for a few years at least. The people are now scattered against the backdrop of Montana and have little outposts in Bozeman and Livingston. Their network is tightly but strongly stretched and the community still exists. It is not heard of anymore and the big stories of the CUT are a thing of the past. The buildings are starting to fall apart and the giant tents that use to house thousands of people are moth eaten from disuse. How can it come back or will it morph into something new and different? The research I plan on using is going to be interviews with the old Church members that I have previously shunned and looked down on. I'll find my parent's old friends and sit in their houses, filled with St. Germains and El Moryas and try to gain a sense of what I missed and the spark of the Church that kept these people alive and vibrant against a hard backdrop for 20+ years. The secondary research I plan on using will be old newspaper articles, books written by Mother, and interviews with Patricia Spadara, the main writer of the Church.

Hell's Hotel

A heavy metal band is raging on the stage and I pass out next to this girl with huge tits....

2 Hours Later:
Hey, buddy. Hey you gotta go man. I groggily look up into the face of an ugly Slavic. He's wearing a fedora and button up orange shirt.
What time is it? I push aside my flannel sleeve and say, Ohhh... You seen my shoes?
You got em on, he mutters and grabs my arms, yanking me to my feet.
You seen my wallet around here?
Hey less talking and more walking. Time to go home buddy. He pushes me up the beer encrusted steps, swings open the door and with a final kick to my pockmarcked ass,gets rid of the last patron.

Alright, well... fuck you too then Mac.

On the walk to my car I look around with quick darting motions and my rational brain turns on for a second.The night is darker than usual and no one is out.
I turn my head upwards where the moon should be and call out, "Hoo!...Hooo!"
I stand there waiting for a reply but nothing comes back, the night swallowing my echoes.

Smiling to myself in derision, I stumble to the car, mumbling sweet nothings. The rusted  door creaks open, and I plop down on the cold seat. Torn leather  hugs my ass like a beanbag. Pffff, the leather lets out a slow fart as I nestle into it, my shoulders drooping and my ass sagging inwards. Jingle, jingle. My keys bounce off each other with a metallic clang and the one with blue lightning decals shoots out to enter the ignition. Brrrmm, brrmm.. The console lights up and the factory speakers begin to roar.
"Yeehaaa!" I open the window and yell. No one living calls back.

The trees float by like bobbing broccolis.
"Reaahh."
I need to wake up, where the fuck are my cigarettes? My eyes squint against the night while I fumble in my jean pocket for a cigarette. Ahhh sweet salvation. The fire burns out the night for a second and I squint my good eye against the tossing ocean.
It burns down to a tiny nub and  I snuff it out on the beach towel, that doubles as my giant napkin, on the seat next to me.
Pfffuupp! The fire catches the grease stains and an inferno begins to rage inside my only means of transportation.
"Fuck!"
I roll down my window and grab the last spot that hasn't ignited.
With a , "Huhhh," I hurl the fireball out the window.
Whew.
My eyes slowly turn back to the road, my heart slamming against my ribcage, and my eyes stagger back up to the road, up, up just in time to look into the face of a 95' Plymouth Voyager screaming at me in barely legible english.
"HELLLOOO!" it yells in it's guttural language.
"Hi there!" I yell back, and proceed to smash into it's face, burying myself in it's lips of crunchy metal.

4 Hours Later:
My eyes gingerly open, one eye first, then the other.
Wow I feel sober.
Way too sober.
"Hello?" I call out into the dark depths.
"Where am I?" I look around and find that I'm in a stairwell with no doors or exits. How the fuck did I get here? I lean over the railing and look down. The stairs go down, down, down. A staircase that stretches down, no entrance or exit, a hot, dry, grating air.  The realization hits me like a punch in the face and I slowly sag to the floor, curling up into a fetal position.

But I was nice to people! The worst thing I ever stole was a pack of Juicy Fruit. Sure I might have lied a little, done too many drugs, and fucked too many times, but really? Shouldn't I get some say in this matter? Can't I try to prove my case or something? I go on like this for a while until I remember something a friend told me a few years back:

I'm at a party, doing lines with my buddy, Billy, on a Home Living magazine. Billy looks up at me strangely, his eyes buried underneath big heavy eyebrows, and says,

          

 "Maybe hell ain't all that bad man. Maybe it's the place where all your dreams can come true. I mean if it's bad to do drugs, have sex, and party, then maybe that's all they do down there. It could be like the best time ever."

My head perks up and slowly my hands leave my head and fall to the floor. I feel the cold bricks and for a moment they heat up. The stairway looks lighter too. "You know... Maybe ol Billy Goat was right!
I rise up to my feet and slide down the rail. Wooo. Damn that feels good. Woooohoooo! I put a smile on my face and jump down the stairs, singing all my favorite songs, sliding down the rails, and kicking off the walls.

Woooo!
Woooo!

Woooooooooo.



wooooo.



woo.


Fuck... it takes a long time to get down there.
I need to hurry up, maybe they're throwing a party for me and I'm late. The girls will be lined up for me like I'm the president of Zimbabwe, in nothing but bras and panties and all holding golden AK-47's. The stairs keep going and going... Jesus Christ. My legs are starting to get tired, and fuck how do you get out of breath from walking down stairs?
 "Slow down and walk at an even pace," I counsel myself like a trainer.

The stairs keep going down and down. No energy left now. My legs are mush and I trip on one of the stairs and fall onto my blue jeans and stained Offspring sweatshirt. With a long moan I start to crawl on my hands and knees. I need someone here. Someone to help me. Mommy.. I keep crawling until I finally collapse with a final heave. My head flops against the cold pavement, and with a painful sigh, I drift off.The darkness jumps from the shadows and the last thing I feel is the strange heaviness of dirt against my back, before drifting asleep.

I wake up six hours later to find myself standing in front of a building. A  bluish light shines with an eerie glow from somewhere, emanating out of the darkness itself. I'm at some sort of entrance and the door looks shiny and new. I walk up, my heart strangely eased of all worries, and with a relaxed motion I ease open the portal.

It opens without a creak, the air inside the building smelling of faint formaldehyde. I remember smelling something like this in my high school lab..I step forward anyways, and my boots stick to the first shiny slab. I look down and there is a red film on the floor. That's strange, someone must have spilled something.

I peer around at this odd room and the walls catch my eye. The floral wallpaper is covered in yellow flowers with purple irises. Small sage leaves fill in the gaps. I touch the wall, and with an, "Eeeekkk," the flowers scatter to the outskirts of the wallpaper, the baby leaves get the cue, and follow in their stead like little ducklings.
"What the fuck.."
 I jump back and stare at the now pasty white wall. The decor is now huddled against the corners, apparently shivering. My Vans slowly ease back, creaking with old, worn-in leather. My legs are slowly tightening and getting stiffer by the second.
"Forward", I hear.
"Forward now, and don't stop till you've reached the front desk."
It's a whisper that comes from behind my shoulder.
"Umm, I don't have any money." I whisper back.
The voice deadpans back to me, "No problem, the only currency here is pain."

The familiarity of the voice startles me. It sounds a lot like my own, on the darkest of nights, when I talk to myself, alone in bed, counting the stars on my ceiling. It's also incredibly corny, like myself. My back hairs straighten up and stick out, standing on end, trying to escape my skin. The sweatshirt housing my body is peeled back for a second and a rush of clammy air shoots down and caresses my skin with oily fingers. I jump forward in shock, my heart beating against it's shell.
"Run, Frank, Run!"
I push my toes against the concrete as hard as I can. Alongside me, the flowers follow on the wall. They bounce over each other and intertwine, beginning to merge together. Blobbing together like an amoeba that eats all. Slowly they form into my shape and the spectacle completes itself with flailing limbs and a big toothy grin. I wrench my eyes away and deflect my pupils to the floor. A white shadow follows me on the mirrored black marble. It looks up at me with weary eyes and moans, "Don't go that way Frankie.. listen to your father." The eyes are red-rimmed and droopy.
"Aaahhh, fuck!" I keep running, not realizing I'm going the wrong way. Deeper and farther down. Another door appears and I tear at the door handle, ripping it open, pinning my body against the nightmare.
Ding.
Ding.
A melodic bell sounds and I open my eyes.
A man appears before me, his massive frame barely hidden behind a worn, wooden stand. His raven black hair is slicked back and on his bulbous chest, a metal tag says Franco. He flashes a gleaming, toothy sneer at me, opening his arms, his sleeves getting pulled back to his elbows in the process.
" Hello Mr. Crispie. You finally made it. Welcome our worthy and esteemed gentleman- to Hell's Hotel."

A Dark Night

The gristly splatter is all that remains. The smear of a man that transformed the world with his earnest pleas of freedom and equal rights. A foreign setting in a desolate town. The people clustered together, discussing the future, looking down with forlorn eyes and furtive glances. His generals try to rally the troops and give morale back to the men. Outside, the hotel owner's brother cleans up the blood, vainly trying to erase the memory. Water, bristles, and human toil are doing nothing to eradicate the defecation on the hotel balcony. The night is as still as death. The hold of the night and the terror of the dark brings men inside and reminds them of their own fragile lives. An immortal has been capsized, given up to the dark sea, and sent to God knows where. The men leave the room, scared of their voices. An end to a dream, and dreary reminder of grim reality. They stand next to the blood and converse more freely. They can still feel the presence of the man. Their voices regain courage and the smell of the blood incites them in their talks of revolution. Through guilt, they go back inside, and jump off the coattails.
The building across the hotel is left with an eery ringing. The smell of sulfur sticks to the decrepit and failing walls. The paint peels off, the concrete cold. Vague shadows bounce across the walls, an occasional light enters the room and then just as quickly leaves. Another memory remains here, tattooed across the shadows. A vague form that has left a stain on the air itself. A ghost that needs not to be remembered. A name that will live on in infamy. A drooping hat, dexterous fingers, and razor keen vision. Trenchcoat open and perverted, nestling a rifle inside, gripped to the heart, and feeling the beat of the inhabitant.
Solitary figures siphon out of the room. The night is dark as a raven’s beak except for a single pinpoint of light as the man pulls on his cigarette. Staring into the abyss across the street with a vacant expression. Minutes later, the cigarette is a nub and the man smokes it to the bone, unaware of what he is smoking. A temporary calmness and closeness with death. They go back inside to the light, warmth, and company of their fellows.
Hours later a man still tries to clean up the mess. His fingers are red and he scoops the blood into his cup, looking around himself in shame. A collector's item for the sick and evil.

 http://life.time.com/history/life-exclusive-the-day-mlk-died/?iid=lf|mostpop#9

A Man and His Horse

 

 The reason I chose this picture was because of the expression on the man's face. At first I wasn't sure if he was jumping on the horse or falling off. He is in definite limbo and from his body movements it's hard to tell. But this is the final thing that I thought about. There were many other steps that led me to this final question.

 The photographer used a direct approach to capture the scene and makes it seem as if the man and horse are about to come out of the photograph itself and become real. They are close to the camera and are the main source of focus and light in the photo. The use of color and shapes become one, guiding our eye, and giving us a sense for the picture. 

What starts our eye is the downward angle of the horse's back. Then, in stark contrast, is a white saddle strap hanging down the neck in a half circle. This leads us to a man whose arms and leg complete the circle. From there we go inside the circle and find another half-circle made by the bridle fabric. This leads us up the horse's face and across, following the color. We then hit the man's face and find our subject. 

Is this a man bracing for impact? Is he giving out a whoop while he jumps on the horse? He looks excited and is looking forward.  A man that is about to fall off a horse might have a similar expression, part grimace, part thrill rush,  but he would be looking down in anticipation or looking at the horse like he was betrayed. But this man is looking forward and has no fear about jumping on. He is expecting a smooth jump and is looking forward to see what comes next. 

 The more I examine this photograph the clearer the photographer's intention seems. First off, was to capture the sense of motion in the photo. To express to the viewer that this is a landscape in motion and the people are like Indians, always moving, part of the horse and shaped by the region. The man and the horse are one. The circles revolve around them and connect them together. The tufts of hair above each make them seem the same species and blends them into one whole.

If you look at the background, you see more shapes in motion. The black shapes look like horses and the white shapes I just assumed were other men, because that symmetry was already provided. Given the easiness of the man's jump we can picture a similar scene with the others. Ten other men jumping on horses right behind this one, all charging at us, stampeding off to a distant plateau.