Dancing In The Quantum Book Excerpts

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The following is excerpted from DANCING IN THE QUANTUM:


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 disappear entirely.

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 Chiricahua Mountains.

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 in.

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 for.     

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 means, exactly.

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 of existence.

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 on.)

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 it.


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 coming.”

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 him.

“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 cup.”

“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 delicately vibrating.


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 parked.

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 temporarily immortal.)

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 this:

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.


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.




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