The following is excerpted from DANCING IN THE
Chapter 11: Chasing Portals and Stargates
Back in Tucson, a note pinned to my front door advised
me not to try to rob a bank this week. The astrological omens indicate that I’d
have a very low chance of succeeding; and besides, it’s wrong.
I found the note when I went outside to load up my
Jeep this morning. The note went on to warn me against leaving town without
letting someone know. While walking in the early hours, two friends of mine
apparently saw my Jeep already half-loaded and ready for something. Given my
history, they weren’t sure if my intentions were to take a short trip or
For days and weeks I’d been wrestling with a number of
lucid dreams that I could neither disconnect or make sense of. For sure, I was
being downloaded with information, but none of it had coalesced, as yet. And it
was impossible to get any work done on the book I thought I was working on.
So I decided to take a trip, let things seat and
settle, perhaps find another means of accessing whatever was going on. The road
has always been a sort of mobile meditation for me. Counting telephone poles
can be very therapeutic.
In one recurring dream, I came awake with an urge to
locate Geronimo’s ‘holy mountain,’whatever or wherever —I’d never run into
anyone who knew what I was talking about. And if they did, they weren’t about
to give me any pertinent information, or even indicate that such a place
existed. Instinct told me to head south and east from Tucson, into the
Parallel to my Geronimo dream, I’d been dreaming about
portals: here, there, everywhere, portals into other dimensions. In each dream,
my job seems to be that of holding the door open on this side, this dimension,
while energy from some other dimension is downloaded and allowed to circulate
on this earthly plane. The object, as I understand it, is to accelerate the
ascension of consciousness by stepping up the energy level—‘energy’ being
information that flows through conscious awareness, alive and carrying
information new to the species, new to the planet. Something like that; not
really sure.(The bucket doesn’t have to understand water or its uses in order
to be filled and made use of.)
That’s what I am, mostly, an empty bucket waiting to
be filled with something. The trick is in determining the location of any given
portal. That’s where listening on the inside, trusting Spirit,
and surrendering to your informed impulses comes in handy. That’s what
I’ve done for most of my adult life, even when I didn’t know that’s what I was
doing. If I have a talent, it’s that my impulses are strong and the Spirit
overwhelming—never mind that I don’t always know what I’m being told or where
I’m being led, I am willing. Most of my
life I’ve just looked like someone useless and without a rudder.
Actually, this trip wasn’t as rudderless as some I’ve
taken. Loose as it was, I had a plan.
Two weeks earlier, I’d been interviewed by Shirley
Maclaine for her website, regarding my book, The Gathering, which she’d
recently read. A remarkable interviewer, it was two hours of the best phone
I’ve ever experienced. She knew where she wanted to go, and I was more than
willing to go there with her. No fluff, no histrionics, together we dived right
Among other things, she wanted to hear my take on the
events of 9-11, the bombing of the Pentagon and the Twin Towers. Without
bothering to ‘think’ about it, I told her that the bombing of the Pentagon
marked the beginning of the end of the 5th Root Race, the end of
military-industrial-polarity consciousness on the planet. The 6th
Race is already making its presence felt. There are even a substantial number
of 7th Race beings already in our midst, but hardly recognizable.
(In fact, most people run the other away when confronted by a 7th
Race being, disguised as they are, as hookers and hustlers, street people
begging on corner—familiarizing themselves with the underbelly of civilization
before changing it.) All this will
eventually lead to unity consciousness and unconditional service/love.
That’s what I said, though I don’t recall previously having thought about such
a thing myself. We were both surprised.
I went on to say that the bombing of the Twin Towers
marked the birth of the compassionate heart on the planet. Not a bad
thing. A good thing. A blessing, in fact. And the people who died there, were
willing martyrs to a greater purpose. And so on.
Off the air, Shirley invited me to visit her ranch in
New Mexico; that, in order to resume our dialog in a more relaxed and personal setting,
she said, without restraints. So that’s where I thought I was going, and what
Then I got a call from a good friend of mine, Johnny
Martin, a psychic-seer-saint and all around wild man from Missouri, now living
in Oklahoma. Johnny and I have worked together for years. He is my ‘sight,’ and
sometimes guiding light, if you will, helping me to locate and zero in on the
whereabouts of the different portals I am called to work on. He called to tell
me that the portal I’d been dreaming about was, in fact, a real place on the
map, Portal, Arizona. He gave me the coordinates and the highways, but I could
find no such place on my map. Nevertheless, my plan was to leave a few days
early, search out the coordinates, see what I could find or feel, then
head for Shirley’s ranch in New Mexico.
I finished loading my Jeep, stopped by a rock shop and
filled my pockets with crystals, and was on the road by mid-afternoon.
Working with stargates and portals indicates that you
are probably a starseed, or so I’m told. I’m not sure I even know what that
All I know is that once I recognize what I’m being
told to do, I go and do it. What I need to know in order to do the job, is
given to me in bits and snatches along the way. And it all has to do with the
ascension process, the lifting of consciousness into higher and higher realms
The ascension might be viewed as an acceleration, and
could involve skipping several processes, as a jumping or leaping ahead.
Compare it to skipping grades in school. We might be in, say, the eight grade,
then suddenly we are in the tenth and have missed a grade. There might be
experiences in the eight or ninth grades we would have benefitted from, but
expediency is more important right now than being in school longer. Likewise,
when we enter the stargate, we are entering a similar process of acceleration,
perhaps skipping a grade or two. We might be skipping a lifetime or two. We
need to advance quickly. Ideas and densities from previous incarnations that
might still be in our auras need to be removed, and that can be painful to a
third-dimensional brain living in a three-dimensional body. Removal is not as
simple as cutting something off. True, we can cut the cords of attachment to
the Earth plane; however, we still have lingering scars in our energy fields
that need to be purified. It is one thing to have the cords of attachment cut;
it is quite another to be in a total healing vibration that allows you to enter
a higher realm of consciousness altogether.
Entry into the stargate is the culmination of our
ascension work. As we enter, we pass through a series of light chambers
designed to assist us in removing densities and structural forms necessary to
the third dimension but burdensome at the other dimensions. Passing through
these chambers, each one bumping us up an octave in consciousness, we may
experience stress to our physical body, itself a three-dimensional vehicle that
must be changed in order to accommodate our new consciousness. Our body may
suffer. We may think we are dying. And since our new consciousness needs a new
brain system, we may spend many hours, days, and weeks ‘out of sync,’ while
being fitted for a new cranial hologram.
Think of the stargate as a healing chamber of gigantic
proportions, an interdimensional palace containing multiple portals—different
healing centers and a central healing area. It is our soul that needs to be
healed and purified, but any healing of the soul can and will have physical
ramifications. The body will be stressed. We may even get knocked out of
body—the ultimate cure for anything physical.
(Each of us represents a single cell of a total being;
the human species is that one being. Any healing you do for yourself, is a
healing for the entire species; what you do for one, is done for all. And so
As I understand it, there are three major stargates in
this galaxy, a number of lesser stargates, and thousands of portals being made
available around the planet, each portal supporting, if not a different kind,
at least a different degree or intensity of energy.
Look on these stargates and portals as instructional
directives. Energy is the means of that instruction, its conscious awareness.
Portals and stargates. That’s what it looks like in
retrospect, from your rearview mirror. Driving semi-blind and into the teeth of
it, is another matter.
I drove east out of Tucson on I-10, stopped in San
Simon for gas and to ask directions, crossed the state line and headed south on
New Mexico 80. Drove for another hour, counted more dust devils than houses,
and did not see a single car going in either direction. In the glare of late
afternoon sunlight, I stopped and got out to check the reading of a sign I’d
been told to watch for: Isis Way.
Isis. Consort to Osiris, Mother of Rah and Queen
Mother of all Egyptian gods and goddesses, just a green metal sign on a cast
iron pole like any sign you would see on any corner in any city in America.
Except that this was a lone sign in the absolute middle of nowhere, and
indicating a single-lane dirt road that only went one direction, in a straight
line for miles and miles across the desert until it disappeared in the
mountains. Isis Way sounded, to me,
more like a destination than some place you ignore in order to get to
the next place, the real place you think you’re going.
I walked around in the desert scrub for awhile,
pausing to listen every so often. Like a vacuum. I yelled my name, and the
desert swallowed it up and gave nothing back.
Walking back to the car, I saw a coil of sand loosen
and bend itself into a grainy S and warp across the slope. I stood dead
still. A sidewinder so matched to the grit only its undulating shadow gave it
away. That’s the way it is with the desert: deception. It can make heat look
like water, living plants seem dead, mountains miles away appear close, and
turn scaly tubes of venom into ropes of warm sand.
I turned west on road 9 and headed directly for an
immense wall of mountain that looked impossible to drive through and improbable
to drive around. The Chiricahuas, named for the Apache tribe that held this
land even before the conquistadors arrived.
I crossed into Arizona and followed a numberless,
broken road. A small wooden sign with an arrow pointing west:
In the desert flatness, the road began twisting for no
apparent reason, tacking toward the Chiricahuas. It had to be a dead end—there
could be no opening in that sheer stone obstruction, that mountain that shot
straight up off the desert.
The pavement made yet another right-angle turn, and a
deep rift in the vertical face of the Chiricahuas opened up, hidden until the
last moment. How could this place be? The desert always seems to hold something
back, a hole card you don’t expect. The narrow canyon was just wide enough for
the road and a stream, bank to bank with juniper, pine, sycamore, and white
oak. Trees covered the water and roadway and cut the late afternoon heat. Where
the canopy opened, I could see canyon walls of orange and yellow pinnacles and
turrets, fluted and twisted, everything rising hundreds of feet. More
deception: in the midst of a flat, hot scarcity, a cool and wet forest between
rock formations. I would not have been more surprised had the last turn brought
me into Atlantic City.
Portal consisted of a few rock buildings and,
strangely, a five room motel—out of season, I guess—not a human anywhere. No
cars, no barking dogs, nothing. Passing between two rock turrets standing like
sentinels on each side of the road, I went another three miles up the canyon,
forded Cave Creek, and pulled in under a big sycamore tree.
Wherever else I might’ve thought I was going, this was
As the air cooled, I built a small fire and cooked some
eggs and sausage, two things I never eat at home. Then I made a pot of coffee,
something else I wouldn’t do at home. Across the stream a javelina snorted
around, watching me with a wary eye. The woods were strangely quiet. I listened
to the creek and watched the fire. Then I took out my journal and began noting
all that had happened today.
Suddenly I was startled by movement in the darkness.
“Mind if I come in?”said a man’s voice. I jumped and
broke the lead in my pencil. I couldn’t see anything beyond the ring of light
made by the fire. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Figured you must’ve heard me
A man, about forty, stepped into the light. He had
long dark hair and a broad face, but I couldn’t tell much about it because of
the shadows and the dwindling fire. He was short, stocky, powerfully built and
bowlegged, wearing worn levis and a plaid shirt. He moved like an old athlete,
graceful and crippled up. Wondered what I was doing up here?
I told him I wasn’t sure. And that seemed to please
“Don’t get many strangers in these parts,” he said.
“Nothing much worth hunting. Leastwise, nothing you can sneak up on. Wrong
season for watching birds. Mind if I have some of that coffee? I got my own
“Help yourself,” I said. “I must’ve made it for you. I
don’t even drink the stuff.”
As he bent to the fire, I could see that he was
Indian, probably Apache, considering where we were. I asked if he lived around
here, and he motioned up the canyon, not far, he said. I wondered if he had family
or did he live alone. And he told me, no, no family, just me and Goyathlay.
Who, I asked?
He laughed, and said, Goyathlay, a moldy old lion that
lives in a cave above me.
We talked some more, not much. He finished his coffee,
thanked me and left.
It had been a full day. I crawled into my sleeping bag
and fell asleep listening to the coals
from the fire crackle and hiss and go out.
Sometime before dawn I woke up full of shivers, frost
on my beard and sleeping bag, staring into an amazing night sky rotating above
me like an oversized planetarium. Stars as bright and distinctive as I’ve ever
witnessed, an orange slice of moon, as though the perfect moon had been painted
onto the sky. Straight overhead, appearing not to move while everything else
rotated, are the Seven Sisters, the Pleiades. I’m watching this when, as if on
cue, the entire canopy of stars, night sky and everything in it seems to lower
on top of me. Were I to stand up, I’m sure I’d have to duck my head. I stare at
this startling apparition for a long time, not knowing what to think.
Then I become aware of the sound.
Not your normal night sounds in the wilderness. No
crickets, no night birds, no wind in the trees. But a high pitched whirr,
almost electrical but not unpleasant; it seems to come from everywhere. The
mountains, the sky, the desert, the very bones in my body, everything is
The next time I wake up it is full morning. I stumble
about last night’s campfire, breaking twigs, filling the coffeepot. I dip my head in the cold stream until my
nose and ears are numb.
Refreshed and dressed, the Jeep loaded, I walk down a
path the Indian took the night before, until I come to an open meadow littered
everywhere with crystals. Crystals of every size and shape and coloration, just
lying around on the ground. I take a handful of crystals from my own pocket,
picked up in Tucson the day before, and place them carefully on the ground in
the shape of a six-pointed star. Don’t ask me why I did that. I have no idea. But
it will come up again.
I replace the crystals I took from my pocket with
crystals from the meadow, and start back up the trail to where my Jeep is
Walking up the trail, I’m feeling good, I’m feeling
right, thinking about very little, when I become aware of something in the
trail in front of me. Not thirty feet away, is the largest wild thing I have
ever seen that was not in a zoo or otherwise caged, a mountain lion. We seem to
see each other at the same time. We both stop dead still. Incredulous, both of
us. Stunned to find that we are neither one alone. Looking directly into his
eyes, mesmerized, but not afraid, I felt awestricken, mute, deaf, very nearly
blind, stripped of all sensation save wonder—a defining moment in my
life. The thought occurred to me that one part of God could not harm another
part. I don’t know why I thought that, suddenly, then, and there. But in that
moment, it was beautiful and true, and a wave of profound energy—call it love,
for want of a word—a wave of love went all through me. We stood there, eye to
eye, not thirty feet apart, for what seemed a lifetime. (It wasn’t that I didn’t think I could be
hurt or ultimately die: in that moment, I knew I couldn’t be hurt; I was
We stood there for most of a minute, just looking at
each other. Then he turned and slowly moved away, pausing now and again to look
over his shoulder at me.
I felt blessed. Quietly ecstatic. Even after realizing
I had shit my pants.
I washed my smelly ass in the creek, feeling
wonderfully strung and high as a kite. I remembered something Will Rogers was
reputed to have said, always drink upstream from the herd. I changed my clothes
and drove back into Portal.
One of the rock buildings was actually a small general
store. I had to say something, tell someone. I went in and exchanged greetings
with a silver-haired couple behind the counter. I bought gum and candy and
potato chips. I inquired about the Indian I’d met the night before, and was
told no such person lived there, or anywhere around here. But when I mentioned
Goyathlay, the mountain lion, they both took a step back and cut their eyes at
one another—a pregnant moment if I ever saw one. Then they smiled and told me
Goyathlay (One-Who-Yawns) was a Chiricahau Apache who
became enraged after his family was murdered, and declared war on both the
United States and Mexico. For years he conducted raids on both sides of the
border. After many raids in the desert, he often escaped to these mountains—to
this very canyon, a sacred place where Apaches still hear voices of the dead.
Goyathlay camped and drank from this very stream. You might know him by the
name the Mexican Army gave him, Geronimo.
Saint Jerome. But that’s another story.
I left Portal determined to drive all day and spend
the night in some cheap motel on a semi-soft mattress, no stars, no moon,
nothing but a ceiling fan overhead. Tomorrow night I’d be at Shirley Maclaine’s
ranch. And I never did find Paradise.
Click here to Return