The Guru Without All The Bullshit

The Eternal Life Series

In October 2004 Hampton Roads, a small but often effective house situated in Charlottesville Virginia, published my first afterlife book, "Eternal Life And How To Enjoy It" and contracted for my second, then called "More Adventures In Eternity", which I worked on steadily throughout 2005, completing it in late November as I recall. A change in ownership resulted, amongst other things, in my contract being allowed to lapse. Time did its thing, tumbling me about from one mood to another, until John Hunt of o-books in England decided he'd take it on. And so " More Adventures In Eternity", as it's still known, is due out in February 2008.

Both books chronicle my out-of-body experiences in the various non-physical planes, some of which contain the many communities of the dead, that is the French dead, the Chinese dead, the materialist rationalist dead, the ultra feminist dead, the Buddhist dead, the war dead, and so on and so on. I found out there's every kind of dead you can imagine, including the very religious dead who figured they'd be the only ones there and are sometimes quite put out when you saunter up and say hello, how's it goin' there dude?

There's hellrealms, purgatories, and paradises of all kinds. And, as you'll find out if you read them, huge swaths of blissful radiant light that are a kind of heaven beyond all heavens, where bodies, buildings, landscapes and cultures just melt away into a light that's actually composed of knowledge/wisdom/understanding, all wrapped in a couldn't- care-less kind of ecstasy that feels like a multi-dimensional smile. In my braver moods I call it "the god consciousness".

Now both "" and "" will allow you to read chunks of at least the first Eternal Life book, so maybe I'll throw in some confetti from the second. The first book is a kind of guided tour of the afterlife conducted by my then guide Henry, who, now that he was a way cool kind of cosmic clown, like to joke about how he used to be a "boring no-account accountant" while alive. In the second book, I really get my act together and become quite the spirit guide/cosmic explorer type myself Retrieve lost souls, whip backwards through time, split into four and become my own little team? No problem.

Some of the channelings you've seen are included in the second book so let me venture elsewhere in the text. Maybe we'll go to one of the Higher Self sequences. Higher Self is a kind of extension of your soul. It's your source really, where you come from and go back to, once you've finished with all your ambitions, desires, fears, cultures and religions. It's your source in the god consciousness really, and if you're really keen, like I was and am, you can contact it and hear the good news.


Prologue: Freedom is Fun and Fun is Eternal

It is not with any sense of gravity or piety that I stand before you expounding on the joys of eternal life. There is no great system of religious or philosophical thought which determines my attitude. No personal gods or prophets govern my sense of grace. I have graduated from all those binding systems, as you yourselves will do in one or other of your lives. I am now free to explore the ever expanding limits of my freedom. That freedom is fun and that fun is eternal. I shall show you how to enjoy both the freedom and the fun.

Much of what I shall tell you will seem impossible to enact in a physical body, except when out of it at night, but it will give you a sense of what can be accomplished when one is free from the cares of incarnation, which for most of you will not be long. In about forty years many of you reading this text will already be permanent astral residents, not because of any particular disaster scenario, although those dramatic fluctuations in the flexing of nature’s muscles will always provide exit visas for those who feel they need them, but because you will have covered as much of your life plan arrangements as your frail form will allow and will have the great good sense to die without a fuss. And as I am sure many of you will agree, that forty years will fly by in a twinkle.

I am Gordon’s Higher Self, and I am sending this attitudinal information to his writer’s ego in accordance with his life plan desires. He is, like all my consciousness projections, a limited form with unlimited potential. Although he moves through his physical plane relationships within the parameters set by his society, both legal and psychological, and feels the resulting rigors as keenly as any, he knows that one day, as the saying goes on earth, he will curate a planet and people it with life forms of energy projected and perfected.

In this he is no different than any of you there: you are all, in essence, energy projections from Higher Selves, those spheres of light energy which kick around the known universe creating the kind of havoc civilizations are built on. All of you have rejoined your Higher Selves at the end of any of your physical and astral incarnations and experienced that bliss of our life together, but carrying that bliss back into your next incarnation usually proves to be well nigh impossible, and you are left with vague notions of that better life somewhere, that myth which religions are all too anxious to exploit.

At the turn of this second millenium, according to those calculating by the most recent descent of the Christ, such information is no longer a zealously guarded secret, and can be gleaned from any number of “new-age” books, but as it is a message well worth repeating, in any form possible, Gordon has decided to once again give his heart to its propagation, and has only needed the slightest of nudges from me to ensure the task’s completion. He knows that one day many of you will be out here, looking back at who you are now and laughing. He wants you to get a sneak preview at that laughter.

That I am the possessor of an eternal life is in no way a matter of doubt. That you are the inheritors of such a condition is perhaps a topic of some consideration amongst you. I shall not enter the debate, for Gordon has convinced me that chipping away at skepticism with airy-fairy theories and anecdotal evidence accomplishes little, if anything, for the effort expended, and that educating the already converted in the almost infinite subtleties of spiritual evolution within this solar system is the only way to go. I shall take him at his word, for while I represent an accumulated wisdom of many life experiences throughout the eons, he is my sharpest and most reliable contact in this current epoch on earth.


Henry introduces a few of the guides he's personally trained in his 'time' over there, and then lets them tell their story. The first is Gene:

Yes I’ll be taking over for a bit, and I’d like to point out that the whole idea was Henry’s and he cajoled me into it since I was doing this kinda work much more than he was. For no particularly good reason I’d started working with earthside psychics doing retrievals some time back. About ten years, your time, after I’d passed. Henry told me to tell you all the gory details, that you’d lap it up.

Well, I got shot while trying to rob a bank for a radical political group in the early seventies. I wasn’t born a violent or greedy man, but we all felt our government was terminally corrupt and that our righteous contempt justified what we thought of as a determined extension of civil disobedience. So I died, as they say, with my boots. Most of comrades went to hospital and then jail. They’re now dentists, social workers and political science professors. And me, I’m an astral helper.

Trained by Henry, of course. He found me floating above the robbery scene, not knowing I was dead. He stood beside me, stroking a beard that I thought was his, and said “That’s some shoot out down there, huh? Just like the old West.”

Not knowing what else to do I agreed with him. I was really too busy trying to cope with the impression that I was floating about one hundred feet above the ground to be bothered arguing with him. And that was strange in itself, as I was never one to back down from a disagreement. Instead I asked him why the old West. Oh, same fierce individualists battling against corrupt authority, he said , absent minded professor like, sure that the very fabric of their lives depended on it. I considered his comparison and found it wanting, but could not be bothered to debate with him. The action below was much too interesting. It engaged my passions much more than any historical comparisons.

Henry told me later that this was because I was vibrating at the astral level, which is all about experiencing and transmuting the emotions, whereas he liked to vibrate at the mental level, which is all about thinking, conceptualizing and considering at one’s leisure. He was wise not to try and tell me this at the time, as I was far from being able to accept or understand it. I was too obsessed with the forces of oppression winning out once again. Fascist Amerika followed me around like a pack of bloodthirsty dogs. It had followed me into death and I didn’t even realize it, so caught up in the heat of the moment was I.

Henry tried to get me to leave several times, but I was much too fascinated with the action down below to budge. This trait of mine was to be used to great advantage later on, but for the moment Henry seized my hand and dragged me down to ground level. He made me look at the fear and anger of the police as they crouched behind their vehicles, poised for orders. I squirmed and tried to bolt, sure we would be spied. But of course we were ghosts, nevermore to be seen or felt by the living. Henry tried to get me to feel the inner thoughts of one of the cops. Later he told me it was a telepathic trick he had learned from his own guide, but at that point all I knew was that his hand was on my forehead and I could hear the man praying that he would survive and be able to look after his two kids. He prayed to Jesus, he prayed to the Blessed Virgin Mary, and he prayed to his wife, who seemed to have died.

Henry removed his hand and we’re suddenly inside the bank looking at my comrades. Sonya was bent over something crying. I was shocked: normally she was tougher than the men in action. When someone lost their nerve it was always Sonya who did the shouting. I looked closer, but still could not make out who she was mourning. I looked up to see Henry, sitting on the floor with his back to a wall, with the kind of look you usually see on a kid watching cartoons. He looked up at me and waved, as if to say “Hey! Pretty neat huh?”

I looked down again and realized the leather jacket on the body below Sonja was mine. Sonja was crying over me! I couldn’t believe it. We’d fucked a few times, but it was all part of the revolutionary ethic: women were equal in every way to men and could choose as many lovers as they wished. I never for a moment thought of her as mine or of her loving me as anything more than a respected comrade in the struggle. But she was obviously broken by my death. And that shocked me more than the fact of my death, because, of course, I felt very much alive, more alive than ever in fact, whereas Sonja’s pain flooded me like some kind of all over toothache. I tried to comfort her but my arms passed right through her. I tried it two or three times. Still no luck.

Henry was no help: he just sat there grinning, goofy and stoned, just like the helpless hippies we hated for their dopey conformity. I couldn’t see through his clown act to his calm in the center of the storm pose. I walked over and asked what the hell was so funny. His smug reply was something about how seriously people took their agendas. I wanted to smack him for making fun of my friends, but just kind of growled instead. He reached out his hand and pulled me down beside him. He did not look like a strong man, but he sure knew how to move me into position. I’ll never forget what he said next.

“Don’t you get it Gene? You’re dead! There’s nothing more you can do here.”
I must’ve sounded desperate when I said, “I must help my friends. I must!”
“Well you go down with the ship if you want to, but I’ve got better things to do.” And with that he was off, and I mean gone. Gone in a flash


Another guide-in-training is Serene. Hear her story:


The next guide up is Serene. This is not her earth name, but a representation of how she feels now, in spirit. Henry found her in a hippie commune, right after she passed during what appeared to be a difficult childbirth. She was not the first to feel that delivery under the influence of the psychedelic LSD would be a transcendent experience, but we think she was the first to feel, while out of body in an profound depersonalised ecstasy, to decide that her husband’s new but barren lover was the rightful mother to the child, and that she was merely the vehicle bring these souls together, and that her selfless gift was actually the return of a two hundred year old favor.

Having had some experience with the expanded state of psychedelics, Henry had no problem fitting himself into Serene’s sparkly universe. Or at least that’s what he’s telling me now. Don’t take my word for it, let Serene tell the story. Which I shall do.

Yeah, Henry made a great clown alright. Juggling those little blue teddy bears just got me right off. I’d long past the stage of caring whether he, or anything else, was a hallucination. I’d settled into that all-knowing hyper-reality phase, where the thoughts and emotions of others were just waves of energy passing through me. And that includes a number of commune women who were totally freaked that I’d taken the
acid without their approval. But the stuff we had was the purest Owsley and I knew it wouldn’t do me or the baby no harm. I’d taken some the year before and had the most ego blowing trip imaginable. Couldn’t even talk about it when it was over. Out in the hills, almost a full moon, I seemed to merge first with the earth and then with the sky.

And then I just kinda disappeared. I’d heard about the void from some zen buddhist
types, but to be there, no-where, feeling nothing about to become everything, well that was just the best. So where else to be but there, no-where, when the child was about to become? Seemed obvious to me, and that was when I got all the past life stuff, the favours the debts and all, and just knew I had to go on.Jim, Ellen and the baby would be fine, I knew it. So I withdrew the spirit from the body. How? I just didn’t go back.

And with Henry the clown juggling those blue teddy bears, I lost my chance to reconsider. Would I have used it? Hard to say now. Henry knew my guide who knew the karmic details and the pre-birth plan. (you all know about pre-birth plans doncha?). As it turned out my drug fueled enlightenment was an attachment free passport into what Henry called the upper reaches of spirit but what looked to me a lot like northern California minus all the eyesores. And it was there that I fulfilled one of my lifelong ambitions: living in a giant redwood. That’s right, way up there. I’d dreamt of it since I was a little girl in Sacramento. Used to drive my parents crazy with tree talk. Honey you can’t live in a tree and that’s that, was my mother’s final word when I was eight or so, and after that I just talked to myself about it.

But I’m getting off my story, which is show you the kind of guide work I do here. Yeah, my transition was way outta line with what most folk experience, but let’s not get hung up on that. As Henry will no doubt let you know sometime during this project, my passing was kinda like someone deep in meditation or prayer being slaughtered by a surprize invader.

So let me tell how I enjoy eternal life. I work a lot with sudden death, heart attacks, crib deaths, aneurysms and the like. Since I’d made that snap decision without regret, Henry reasoned that I could help others do the same. Turned out he was right, ...most of the time.


Her case is kinda interesting so let's look at that. btw, that gordon mentioned is me, back when I was just getting into using hemi-sync tapes for daytime meditation. Little did I know...


I am standing with Adrian, a dead young Jamaican-American athlete of some promise, in a typical den somewhere in middle class north America. We were watching his parents watching videos of their darling boy breaking county track and field records at eleven and twelve years old. We’d already seen the wedding and baby shows and joined in the teary celebration of his tiny angelic beauty. I’m still a sucker
for that. No matter how long I work with the recent and suddenly departed, genuine family emotions still get me going. Hey, it’s the astral plane we’re on now, and that’s the plane of emotions: crying comes with the territory. But fortunately so does laughter.

Adrian suffered a heart attack during a very important sprint last week, and he and everyone else were completely baffled. No medical explanation was found.. It was just one of those things. God always takes the ones he loves, they said. Adrian was pissed: in almost perfect physical shape, with absolutely no steroids or other stimulants in his system, he stood there, hands on hips, staring at his crumpled body on the track while people freaked and fussed about him. I stood there with him, vainly trying to get his
attention. Not an unusual experience for us, I might add. The dead do tend to be somewhat preoccupied with their own corpses. Much effort can be expended before they realize eternity is much more interesting than the breeding ground for maggots their former residence has become.

The earthly drama unfolded, as earthly dramas do, with much consternation and carrying on, all of which sucked poor Adrian into its stewpot of steamy energies. He followed himself on a stretcher to a first aid station, and then, via ambulance, to a hospital. Needless to say I went along for the ride, on the slim chance that he might take a second to turn around and look at me, instead of through me, as his panic vibration dictated. As with most cases I was left to calmly observe as he tried, ever more frantically, to get someone, anyone, to take some notice of him. Ironically, of course, the only one who would was the one he was oblivious to.

By the time we’d made it to the morgue and stood facing that dark cold drawer, I knew I’d never be able to grab his attention without some earthly help, so I left him there while I took a turn through my physical plane meditators and retrievers. The continuing surge of the new age movement has provided us guides with a pretty reliable and ever expanding stable of eager service providers, who somehow understand that their physical level of vibration can be directed by us to those earthbound spirits, `like
Adrian, who cannot tune into our frequency, no matter how far we lower it for their benefit.

Two of my contacts were busy at work and were much too preoccupied to even notice me, never mind take time out for a retrieval. A third was working in her garden, with a determination so fierce it shut out my prompt that she could use a nap after such a long morning’s effort. Those short naps can be so useful to us here. An experienced retriever can often work magic in those eight or ten minutes, handing over a difficult client and returning to their couch refreshed by the physical rest and yet energized by the astral adventure. They all know that little psychic tingle means something, even if they’re not quite sure what. A fourth I found at her dentist, shivering in anticipation. The fifth was Gordon, who, fortunately, was between shifts and just finishing his lunch. I knew that in a few moments he’d be lying down in the dark to listen to a meditation tape whose sound content would maneuvre his brain waves into a frequency that could propel him in my direction. I waited patiently while he answered the phone and brushed his teeth.

Gordon’s fairly new at retrievals done in the daytime meditative state, and finds it all frustratingly vague and unverifiable. Like many newbies he feels like he’s talking to himself, making it all up to satisfy his expectations and ambitions. Of course, it’s the old faith vs doubt debate incarnate humans have been indulging in since time began, and maybe even before. Eventually his abilities will stretch far beyond his need for verification, but for now he will have to go on trust, which is a trip in itself. Funny thing is, at night when he’s asleep he becomes this amazing spirit being, whose efforts in the emancipation of ignorance are almost endless. It’s interesting for me to see these two halves of him, so different and yet so distantly related.

Guiding his relaxed mind to Adrian in the morgue, I let him do his stuff unaided. He knows, as do the others, that if a human, however vague, appears to him, that human is more than likely to be deceased, confused, and in need of their retrieval skills. I can see him interacting almost immediately. He doesn’t yet have enough depth of vision to know they’re in a morgue, but he intuits Adrian’s basic medical state, anxiety and confusion, and knows, more or less, how to deal with it.After a polite exchange he asks what the problem is. Adrian tells him about the sprint and the guy collapsing and nobody talking to him. Gordon assures him he’s the guy collapsing and no-one will talk to him because they can’t see him as he is now. And how, exactly, is he now? In a word, dead. This at least gets Adrian to laugh, always a good sign. And how come then Gordon’s talking to him? Well, he understands how it is for dead people and makes a point of seeking them out. And how is it for dead people, Adrian asks, not believing a word of it. Pretty frustrating and confusing most of the time, is the reply.“And you’re gonna fix all that up for me are ya?” “Sure, especially if you let that attitude down for a minute.”

Fortunately by the time Gordon had maneuvred him into the afterlife ‘proper’, as he calls it, Adrian, no doubt dazed by the thrill of flight, had let down his defences long enough for me to be of some use to him. And having taken the heat for me, Gordon quickly bowed out and went back to his nap with only the sketchiest notion of what he’d just accomplished. But true to form, he did take a second to turn to me and
wink, whispering , “I guess I’ll get my reward in heaven, huh?”

So by the time Adrian and I were standing in his parents’ place drying our tears I was just about his best buddy. The athlete’s village I’d introduced him to would no doubt capture his affections in the days to come, but in this immediate post-mortem period I was still his staff and compass. It is often like that when a young person has no parents or grandparents in the astral that a guide can become more like family. He did have a couple of gangster wannabe cousins caught up in the usual criminal illusions of a lower astral neighborhood, but he was in no way keen to make their acquaintance. A service in a nearby Baptist church was more to his taste.

And so it was, after a week or so earth time, he was able to fly from the sadness of his parents den to the charismatic succor of his pastor, where I left him off, knowing I was no longer needed just then, and that months might pass before he realized that “training” here was less a matter of moving the limbs in the required manner, and more a matter of letting thought take you away. He would continue to believe in gravity and the necessity of effort in overcoming its pull until I, or someone like me, would arrive by flying.

Of course there was always the possibility that his pastor might convince him that such a delightful transport was but a demonically inspired bewitchment drawing him away from the true path. Pastors here are like pastors there: they tend to their flocks tenaciously, especially when they see a loose cannon like me around. But we’ll face that one when we come to it.

Now there's a retrieval for you. And I had to have somebody else tell me about it! Retrievals can be done either by soimeone like gordon, still alive and meditating, or someone like Henry or Serene, long dead but looking to help out. Henry's specialty is doing a great fake job to just get someone's attention.

Now another part of ‘me’ was in attendance at a temple of wisdom on the mid-astral, similar in purpose to the one described in Gordon’s first book, but with a completely different style and attitude. Disguised to accomodate the more recent arrivals from the younger generation, this building was placed in an urban atmosphere and was designed to appeal to the youthful taste in dance clubs and rave drugs. A goodly number of the creators and appreciators of this subculture are here now, and we quickly realized the need for a cultural focus for them and their soon-to-be-arriving compatriots.

The disused warehouse ambience was noted and employed, sound systems and light shows installed. Some of the attendees had been scooped up personally by me, as od-ing and dehydration related heart attacks were, and are, quite common as the subculture makes its way across the planet, and all one had to do was a quick nightly drive through to find a few lost partiers in the immediate vicinity of their last transit. A few would be in subway stations, waiting for trains, all giggly and silly, not knowing why they’d gotten separated from their friends. I got so I could do the European big cities one night and the North American ones the next without even breaking into a sweat. The kids liked the club and made suggestions as to its improvement.

As the drugs and dance of their culture emphasized an ecstatic togetherness and empathy for the other, their bonding here was almost effortless, and my role was limited to appearing in the quiet chill out rooms and dispensing advice to the pleasantly tired and lovelorn. My preferred look was that of the old and genial hippy, tie-dyed and pony-tailed, with belly pleasantly pillow-like. My language, a bit stiff at first, soon morphed into the required shapes. Some were no more than happily childlike and affectionate children, others were explorers, and an understanding of the psychedelic gurus like Leary and McKenna and Castaneda, was necessary, but I dutifully did my homework and soon warmed to the ancient plant based shamanism they espoused.

Aside from the usual hints on how to move around the astral and visit still living family without getting trapped, my basic aim was to show these arrivals that they could think themselves into the altered states they so loved, that their prized substances were like training wheels: superfluous when you knew how to ride. And so imagine yet another ‘me’, sprawled on a couch in a darkened room answering questions like ‘When I’m so, like, gone, where do I go?’ and ‘Do you know where Jerry is man?’. To the first I say ‘You lose your vibrational focus and become a willing slave to sound and light. You are inside form looking out, rather than outside form looking in’. To the second I say ‘No but I can guess’. Jerry is Jerry Garcia, former leader of the rock band Grateful Dead, whose passing, it seems, saddened many of several generations. I’m interrupted by a ‘Hey man that was so coo1’ from my first questioner. She’s referring to my sudden appearance on the couch across the room, and my sudden wink out when the question was answered. This projection of mirror images to questioners is one of my little tricks here. There’s a touch of the shaman that’s just right for the consciousnesses I’m dealing with.

Shortly after that, as an illustration of how the high is as easily accessible as the low, he drops in on Gautama Buddha, who, it turns out, is as available for cosmic sound bites as any street corner wiseacre. At the time I thought he was just showing off.

“Souls tend to see only that part of me which they have realized within themselves, but I greet this partiality with as much gratefulness as I would offer any visitor. Gordon looks to the tiny smile in my traditional meditative pose and feels himself blending with its humorous acceptance of all the desperate and passionate illusions of form which animate his and every universe. When he thus merges, we breathe I AM and know who we are not. And like all true bodhisattvas, he wants to share this liberation beyond bliss with all those who suffer from its lack, and like all true bodhisattvas knows that he cannot, that he can but point a finger in the appropriate direction and wait while the wounded unwrap their own bandages.
Merge with me, thou born of light, and live for a time in this timeless plight, before moving back to the woe of thankless tasks! Join the design of noble desires, see dragons breathing fire and deities redeeming wreckage! The billion particles of becoming are ready to dance.

Well, he was showing off, but he had a purpose. He was leading me by the nose to eventually know myself. What do I say now? I say 'thanks'.

...more to follow