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Re: Recovering history and navigating the ZeitGeist

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  • holderlin66
    The Project for the New American Disaster by Tom Chartier http://www.lewrockwell.com/chartier/chartier60.html holderlin brought: Not only is this not a war
    Message 1 of 25 , Feb 5, 2007
      The Project for the New American Disaster
      by Tom Chartier

      http://www.lewrockwell.com/chartier/chartier60.html

      holderlin brought:

      "Not only is this not a war and it is based on the roots of
      disrupting the Logos from achieving the goal of intimacy of human
      thinking, it is a poltical Sorathian surge as outlined and
      anticipated by Steiner's Anthroposophy and nailed dead clear as a
      train wreck, as the arrival of The PNAC, Project for a New Ahrimanic
      Century dead on in 1997. It follows in the rhythm pattern of 1913/14
      dawn of WW I etc..etc...picking up the pattern and impress of the
      planets. This indirect and direct attack through torture against the
      Logos in Man and the Michael Nation is brought in order to derail
      humanity from building the faculties to approach the Angelic world
      through our heart thinking."

      Steiner brought;

      "The German people believed that its imperial structure, erected
      half a century ago, would last for an unlimited time. In August
      1914, it felt that the imminent catastrophe of war would prove this
      structure invincible. Today, only its ruins are left. After such an
      experience retrospection is in order, for this experience has
      proved the opinions of half a century, especially the dominant
      thoughts of the war years, to be tragically erroneous. What are the
      reasons behind this erroneous thinking? This question must induce
      retrospection in the minds of the German people. Its potentiality
      for life depends on whether the strength exists for this kind of
      self-examination. Its future depends on whether it can earnestly
      ask the following question: how did we fall into error? If the
      German people asks itself this question today, it will realize that
      it established an Empire half a century ago, but omitted to assign
      to this Empire the mission which corresponds to the inner essence of
      its people."

      The Michael School can see the intimate recapitulations of strong
      negative will forces that are turned back at us again, you might say
      focused and reflected, rayed back into the unconscious human will
      riding on the rhythm of the sorathian surge predicted out of 1998.

      If, as Steiner brought, we were conscious or the German people were
      conscious of their cultural mission....calamity, catastrophe and
      absorbing the dark forces into our will stream, could never have
      happened if we had time stamped our motives with human conscience
      and seen ourselves as the spiritual family and spiritual beings that
      we are. Compare where the Intellectual Soul attempts to come to
      grips with itself.

      "During the summer of 1924 a former German Army corporal languished
      in relative luxury in Landsberg Prison. With time on his hands he
      dictated a turgid book of twisted thoughts to one of his loyal
      cronies. With a gift for oratory, the prisoner had risen to leader
      of a fledgling political party. An idealistically naïve and inept
      attempt to overthrow the struggling government by force had failed,
      landing the leader behind bars.

      Volume One of the book was first printed in the autumn of 1925 and
      initially sold a meager 9,473 copies. Sales dropped further to only
      3,015 by 1928. Even when sales did increase, the book was not often
      read by those who bought it. It was a prerequisite display
      of "political correctness" to be placed in view on the mantle. The
      book laid out very specifically a plan for the forceful expansion
      towards more "living space" into Eastern Europe coupled with rabid
      racism so severe it called for the extermination of an entire race
      of people. The book was titled Mein Kampf – My Struggle in English.

      One wonders, had German citizens bothered to read the book and give
      it serious thought, would Germany and the world have been spared
      unparalleled disaster?

      WW II, its cause and its carnage, is now alive only in the pages of
      history books. Offering accounts that are unimaginable to and thus
      misunderstood by new generations, such works of history are
      selectively remembered by governments with their own modern agendas.
      For most people today, the complex causes of WW II have been reduced
      to the most simplistic terms of good versus evil. It is never that
      simple.

      The world is six years into a new century. Unfortunately, the new
      century has not handed the world a clean slate with which to start
      civilization over again. Sadly, old men do not forget. Last
      century's grudges and feuds are alive and well in this century. With
      angry intolerance and dreams of conquest, mankind continues to grab
      at empire.

      Enter the Project For The New American Century.

      Well known to those who actively follow national and world
      developments, PNAC along with other think tanks governing national
      policy such as The American Enterprise Institute, operate beyond the
      view of the average American who listens to talk-radio on the way to
      work. And yet such think tanks exert an enormous influence and power
      over the future of the United States and with it mankind. Woe to
      those who do not see through the rationale and revisionist history
      used by these think tanks to justify their agenda.

      In its Statement of Principles, dated June 3, 1997, The Project for
      the New American Century spelled out its philosophy and agenda. For
      those who bothered to read it, little doubt was left concerning what
      was in store for the 21st century. The PNAC Statement is reprinted
      in its entirety below with comments.

      "American foreign and defense policy is adrift. Conservatives have
      criticized the incoherent policies of the Clinton Administration.
      They have also resisted isolationist impulses from within their own
      ranks. But conservatives have not confidently advanced a strategic
      vision of America's role in the world. They have not set forth
      guiding principles for American foreign policy. They have allowed
      differences over tactics to obscure potential agreement on strategic
      objectives. And they have not fought for a defense budget that would
      maintain American security and advance American interests in the new
      century.

      We aim to change this. We aim to make the case and rally support for
      American global leadership."

      Although touting itself as a voice of "conservatism," PNAC evidences
      little genuine conservative philosophy. Lord Salisbury warned of
      this very thing. Paul Smith writes: "Salisbury had little taste for
      colonization: he could see that all too often it was a convenient
      pretext for the robbery of the weak, and he was doubtful whether the
      advantages it brought offset the heavy expense and commitment
      incurred."

      "Radical" would be a more apt description for PNAC policies. In the
      military jargon of "strategy" and "tactics," a call is made
      for "American global leadership." What exactly are these "American
      interests" that PNAC wants to "advance"?

      The Statement of Principles continues:

      "As the 20th century draws to a close, the United States stands as
      the world's preeminent power. Having led the West to victory in the
      Cold War, America faces an opportunity and a challenge: Does the
      United States have the vision to build upon the achievements of past
      decades? Does the United States have the resolve to shape a new
      century favorable to American principles and interests?

      In short, with the break up of the U.S.S.R. there is no country
      strong enough to stop the U.S., therefore we must strike now… while
      the iron is hot.

      We are in danger of squandering the opportunity and failing the
      challenge. We are living off the capital – both the military
      investments and the foreign policy achievements – built up by past
      administrations. Cuts in foreign affairs and defense spending,
      inattention to the tools of statecraft, and inconstant leadership
      are making it increasingly difficult to sustain American influence
      around the world. And the promise of short-term commercial benefits
      threatens to override strategic considerations. As a consequence, we
      are jeopardizing the nation's ability to meet present threats and to
      deal with potentially greater challenges that lie ahead. We seem to
      have forgotten the essential elements of the Reagan Administration's
      success: a military that is strong and ready to meet both present
      and future challenges; a foreign policy that boldly and purposefully
      promotes American principles abroad; and national leadership that
      accepts the United States' global responsibilities."

      Did the United States under president Reagan actually lead the West
      to victory in the Cold War? Or did Reagan's forceful policies and
      rearmament combine with the implosion of the U.S.S.R.'s failed
      economy as the Russians lost their ill-advised war in Afghanistan?

      Does the U.S. have decades of international achievements on which to
      build and of which to boast? WW I was fought to a standstill with
      the U.S. participating in the final year, 1918. In WW II, Nazi
      Germany suffered greatly by the perpetual British and U.S. aerial
      bombardment; however, it was the onslaught of the Russian Red Army
      that dealt National Socialism the deathblow. Through attrition of
      resources, tiny Imperial Japan's 1941 aggression against the U.S.
      never had a chance against the expanse of America.

      How about Korea? Vietnam? Are these achievements of past decades to
      build upon in a quest for a New American Century? And don't forget
      America's achievements in the little third world. The U.S. has been
      busy inside countries of no threat to, and with no possibility of
      defense against the mighty U.S. war machine. As stated by AEI Neocon
      Michael Ledeen: "Every ten years or so, the United States needs to
      pick up some small crappy little country and throw it against the
      wall, just to show the world we mean business."

      Are these policies something to boast of and build upon
      as "successes?"

      While feeding their own paranoia, the "thinkers" at PNAC are
      rationalizing their own delusions of grandeur.

      "Of course, the United States must be prudent in how it exercises
      its power. But we cannot safely avoid the responsibilities of global
      leadership or the costs that are associated with its exercise.
      America has a vital role in maintaining peace and security in
      Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. If we shirk our responsibilities,
      we invite challenges to our fundamental interests. The history of
      the 20th century should have taught us that it is important to shape
      circumstances before crises emerge, and to meet threats before they
      become dire. The history of this century should have taught us to
      embrace the cause of American leadership."

      "Prudent" in the exercise of power? Since when? How can any sentient
      being consider Michael Ledeen's
      statement "prudent?" "Peace?" "Security?" Where? In the Middle East?
      This is merely a smoke screen of "morality."

      What is important in this passage is the carefully worded hint of
      preventive war. To hell with "intelligence" and concrete proof,
      we'll make that up as we go along. The ends justify the means. It is
      America's "fundamental interests," and claims to the world's
      remaining oil supplies, which must be protected. Morality does not
      enter into it.

      "Our aim is to remind Americans of these lessons and to draw their
      consequences for today. Here are four consequences:

      we need to increase defense spending significantly if we are to
      carry out our global responsibilities today and modernize our armed
      forces for the future;
      we need to strengthen our ties to democratic allies and to challenge
      regimes hostile to our interests and values;
      we need to promote the cause of political and economic freedom
      abroad;
      we need to accept responsibility for America's unique role in
      preserving and extending an international order friendly to our
      security, our prosperity, and our principles."
      These are not "consequences." These are statements rationalizing
      conquest through force.

      Increase defense spending? The United States spends billions more
      on "defense" than is needed to defend her borders. The United States
      is protected both to the east and west by vast oceans and has non-
      hostile neighbors to the north and south. No nation in the world
      could seriously contemplate an invasion of U.S. borders as a matter
      of foreign policy. The terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001 were
      not a militaristic act of a hostile state but a brutal terrorist
      attack of a privately funded, fringe group of radicals scorned and
      feared by many of the Middle Eastern nations. It was not an
      invasion. It was not a state-sponsored act of war.

      What PNAC actually means is: increase "military spending for
      offense" and for the benefit of the military industrial complex in
      order to serve aggressive pursuit of a bigger empire.

      Challenge hostile regimes? In other words, destroy nations that do
      not kowtow to our demands. The mighty U.S. will threaten to bomb
      them back into the Stone Age to show we mean business.

      Promote political and economic freedom abroad? Is this best
      accomplished at the point of a gun? What about political and
      economic freedom at home? Must America's Constitution and civil
      liberties be discarded in the New American Century? Evidently so.

      Accept responsibility for what? Creating a Militaristic Empire for
      the power hungry neoconservatives? The United States is responsible
      for the United States, not for the world. The U.S. is not the global
      guardian. Last I heard, the United Nations was supposed to fill that
      role.

      "Such a Reaganite policy of military strength and moral clarity may
      not be fashionable today. But it is necessary if the United States
      is to build on the successes of this past century and to ensure our
      security and our greatness in the next."

      No doubt, PNAC's Statement of Principles is attractive to those
      Americans who love to be number one and care little how they get
      there.

      The Greatness of America is a delusional falsehood which has been
      fostered by our schools, movies, television and newspapers. America
      and the PNAC have bloated egos claiming to be the saviors of the
      world. Was 9/11 evidence that the world may not share this view? To
      the eyes of the world community, we are the bullies to be feared…
      and hated. "Such a Reaganite policy of military strength and moral
      clarity" may have become fashionable with PNAC thugs but it lacks
      not simply "moral clarity" but morals entirely. It is nothing more
      than Empire building madness. America's white hat is splattered in
      blood.

      Note the signatories. Many are familiar names within the current
      Democratic Dictatorship of secrecy and privilege. And this list is
      only a fraction of the Neocons driving towards the disaster of the
      New American Century.

      Elliott Abrams, Gary Bauer, William J. Bennett, Jeb Bush, Dick
      Cheney, Eliot A. Cohen, Midge Decter, Paula Dobriansky, Steve
      Forbes, Aaron Friedberg, Francis Fukuyama, Frank Gaffney, Fred C.
      Ikle, Donald Kagan, Zalmay Khalilzad, I. Lewis Libby, Norman
      Podhoretz, Dan Quayle, Peter W. Rodman, Stephen P. Rosen, Henry S.
      Rowen, Donald Rumsfeld, Vin Weber, George Weigel, Paul Wolfowitz

      One member of PNAC, whose name is not shown on this list, is PNAC
      chairman and co-founder William Kristol. Kristol has just joined
      Time magazine as a columnist. About Kristol one might quote Ayn
      Rand's description of: "a journalist who wrote that it is proper and
      moral to use compulsion 'for a good cause,' who believed that he had
      the right to unleash physical force upon others – to wreck lives,
      throttle ambitions, strangle desires, violate convictions, to
      imprison, to despoil, to murder – for the sake of whatever he chose
      to consider as his idea of 'a good cause,' …since he …relied solely
      on his own 'good intentions' and on the power of a gun." [Ayn Rand,
      ATLAS SHRUGGED, Part II "Either-Or," Chapter VII "The Moratorium on
      Brains," p 605]

      In late August of 1939, with Austria annexed to Germany and
      Czechoslovakia occupied by the Third Reich, one "only had to look at
      a map to see who was next, Poland." An attack by fake Polish
      soldiers on a German radio station in Gleiwitz was staged by the
      German S.S. In retaliation, Germany's blitzkrieg poured across the
      border into Poland on September 1st, 1939. It was the opening day of
      WW II.

      Early victories were impressive. Six years later, Germany lay in
      ruins.

      Vigilance could have prevented WW II. Germany failed to understand
      the message of Mein Kampf. Germany could have taken action to
      prevent its own destruction. Today, the most aggressive nation in
      the world, the United States of America, is building up military
      forces around another "crappy little country," Iran. Under the guise
      of spreading peace, security, freedom and democracy the U.S.
      blitzkrieg of Iran is almost certain.

      The policies of PNAC threaten endless war in a savage re-shaping of
      a fearful world.

      The Project for the New American Century issued a warning to America
      and the world on June 3, 1997. All one had to do was read it and to
      look at the map. God help us all."
    • holderlin66
      R.S. The arrogance and superciliousness of those who imagine themselves to be practical, but whose practicality is the disguised narrow-mindedness which has
      Message 2 of 25 , Feb 5, 2007
        R.S.

        "The arrogance and superciliousness
        of those who imagine themselves to be practical, but whose
        practicality is the disguised narrow-mindedness which has in fact
        induced the calamity, must cease. Attention should be paid to what
        those who are decried as idealists, but who in reality are the
        practical ones, have to say about the evolutionary needs of modern
        times."

        Bradford comments on the Consciousness Soul standpoint;

        The stars in meaningful justification return to sender all those
        unconscious impulses that truly fail to awaken the keys that unlock
        our human mystery. It isn't merely what goes around comes around,
        but rather what was failed to be understood, learned or digested
        will continue to drag us into ever deeper and deeper unconscious
        morasses.The stars and the cosmos return to sender, unconscious will
        forces that are returned for a redo, a redux, marked: failed to
        learn the lessons of why we sit in this cosmos in the first place.

        In this instance of Time study, I am not referring to how individual
        lessons are redone and remade by making an entirely new incarnation
        blueprint to correct Karmic errors. In this instance we are
        following the nearer generational lessons that the immediate planets
        and the immediate stars return to us, that humanity failed to use
        and digest consciously to unlock the cosmic riddle.

        Now what do we mean? We mean that our lack of technical curiosity,
        our lack of objective scientific interest in how these mighty
        wonders have unlocked the mystery of the Christ and achieved such
        mighty results, have very much to do with our serious
        considerations, or complete lack of serious considerations, of how
        Zarathustra, after great efforts, achieved the ability to emancipate
        and offer a highly developed, independent model of his own human
        etheric body to students. Technically we have to bring into our
        consciousness an understanding for the amazing Formative Field
        etheric forces that levitate plants upwards, bear fruit, seed,
        flower, disperse, wither, die -- operate in more complexity in
        animals and achieve the height of complexity in the working man.

        Obviously it meant that Zarathustra became highly familiar with the
        etheric forces of the plant, the group etheric forces that model and
        shape breeds and animals and the complex physics of the human
        etheric body. This was part of Zarathustra's schooling. The
        schooling that Zarathustra integrated again and again through his
        many reincarnations into a language field, where Zarathustra could
        unfold and digest his insights into the objectivity of the etheric
        body achieved RESULTS!

        Where Zarathustra grasped Angel, Archangel and Archai and in each
        scientific field Zarathustra excelled and moved along and was able
        to reproduce the process itself. Reproduce the experiment and get
        the same results again and again, proved clearly to Zarathustra that
        there was a Science of the Spirit and he was hot on it's trail.

        When it came to the mighty Elohim, the cognitive excellence of
        Zarathustra and his grasp of what the cosmos is, what stone, plant,
        animal and man are and how they became this way, his investigations
        and explorations were warmly appreciated by the gods and even caught
        the Eye of the great Sun Being. Because Zarathustra approached the
        how, and why and could connect to it inwardly, all the tumblers and
        meaning of humanity could click into place, because a human being
        grasped his part of the bargain of how the interior, biological,
        anatomical, astral, etheric and physical realities were set in the
        skeleton stone.

        But Zarathustra and the cosmic I AM knew that the cornerstone was
        rejected by flunked out students like Jung, as unable to support
        reality. The cognitive schooling that was at the core of all these
        mysteries, the I AM, was the invisible operating force that was the
        new thing to Earth. This invisible thing, not made with hands,
        seemed unimportant to many striving souls.

        We don't get results because we are not curious about the nature of
        the levity factor, the rising factor of the Spirit of Form and
        Etheric system that we see in plants, animals and the complex system
        in humans. Zarathustra got results, scientific and star justified,
        cosmos justified, and accurate results because he grasped the human
        etheric body and was able to bequeath a working model of it to some
        of his pupils. A working model of a highly developed, complex human
        etheric body could be reproduced, emancipated by Zarathustra and
        offered to significant pupils as they progressed. Zarathustra could
        reproduce it and bequeath it, like grafting, primitively speaking,
        like grafting is to plants so the operative skills of the etheric
        body, the Ka, could be part of the research and potential skill sets
        of future students.

        Next Zarathustra worked intelligently through the forces of the
        stars that operate in the astral body. The details of his work and
        the results where Angels understood and Zarathustra planned with the
        Angelic and mighty Sun Being, how to bring about the intersection on
        the Earth of landing two vessels, two Jesus children, landing these
        with all the complicated workings of the stars and TIME, into a
        precise and CONSCIOUS location, are based on the facts of the
        science of the human being and getting specific results when we are
        accurate in our thinking and I AM system.

        If we are accurate, then even the Angels recognize the star wisdom
        in the human heart and mind. Even the Angels and Archangels
        cooperate if the human being can grasp their wisdom as his own. The
        accuracy of that star wisdom that the Angels live within and with
        allowed Zarathustra to get results. Zarathustra could emancipate an
        advanced copy, a model of a working astral body. An astral body that
        was penetrated by the thinking I and had within it specific
        discoveries and intuitions that any objective scientist or
        researcher would discover for themselves. Some of these science
        insights are now sitting in the public domain as Grail Sciences and
        Spiritual Science.

        Zarathustra accurately was able to make copies of not only his
        etheric methodolgy and his etheric body, but also was able to
        emancipate and reproduce an independent model of his astral body.
        The results of all of these integrations are the science system we
        know that must be grasped as Physical, etheric, astral, I AM,
        Sentient Soul, Intellectual Soul, Consciousness Soul and the higher
        attributes, Spirit-Self, Life-Spirit and Spirit-Man.

        If humanity continues to do all of its thinking unconciously and
        remains influenced and pressed by the dark unconscious forces of the
        hidden beings that influence his will, he will merely stumble along
        unable to understand the difference between Light and Darkness. When
        humanity continues to repeat errors over and over again then the
        stars send these failed scientific and war like social aggressions,
        back on humanity for a redux. The stars send our lessons back to us,
        the senders, and give us an F in unfounded and undeveloped moral and
        scientific theory. Unaccepted, try again! We as humanity once more
        encounter these same unconcious blunders and mirrored errors in
        similiar forms until we can detox them and learn the lessons of the
        cosmos consciously.

        Reality responds when humanity becomes conscious of how the parts of
        the complex time mechanism of man fits into a whole. The carnival,
        the media circus and our own cleverly manufactured Ahrimanic Sun of
        the nuclear age was placed there so that humanity had seemed to have
        gotten results. Nice try but wrong, dead wrong! Wrong light and all
        moral substance, utterly removed...dead light, you found dead light,
        not living light and not only that the light that you found
        continues to kill and does not continue to heal. These are man made
        results.

        The Christ Event contains actual scientific results of clear
        thinking that reveal the highest level of physics and light
        condensed through the moral fiber of the human I AM. With the event
        of Golgotha and all of the factors associated with Golgothat, that
        founded the scientific thinking that got such overwhelming results,
        these are all part of the Grail Sciences that Orwellian history
        revisionists wish to dismiss, deny and destroy. In other words the
        actual cornerstone of the cosmos, the I AM, and Logos that sits in
        the stone of the physical, is truly spirit.

        http://www.ibiblio.org/eldritch/jkh/gr7.html

        Now when we examine the levity of light and the pure etheric full
        floating and rising form of the fully impressed Spirit Man rising
        from the schooling that humans got right, that they understood with
        scientific clarity, that they could make the models for and redux
        and repeat the experiment again and again, with scientific accuracy,
        they knew that they were now understanding the intricate physics of
        the human being. The intricate physics, for lack of a better
        concept, of that light which quantum mechanics seeks...and what
        quantum mechanics seeks within the activity of light, might very
        well be contained in the first lines of the Gospel of St. John. That
        is why Steiner would have brought a morally grounded physics science
        to Munich and named it the Johannes Bau. Why?

        "The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not
        understood it. He was in the world, and though the world was made
        through him, the world did not recognize him." (John 1:5,10)

        …..." 12[And Jesus said to them,] "I am the light of the world.
        Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the
        light of life." 13The Pharisees challenged him, "Here you are,
        appearing as your own witness; your testimony is not valid." 14Jesus
        answered, "Even if I testify on my own behalf, my testimony is
        valid, for I know where I came from and where I am going. But you
        have no idea where I come from or where I am going… 23…"You are from
        below; I am from above. You are of this world; I am not of this
        world."

        Instead of a manufactured poison Ahrimanic circus act, a bright
        poison light without moral substance, Steiner would have gladly
        connected the dots of Light and Love to the moral framework and core
        of the human being as the Science of being Human, a Grail Science
        and the mission and meaning of why Steiner would have intercepted
        those physics scientists in Munich and unriddled the opening verses
        of the John Gospel for them and for all mankind.

        The intricate integration of the etheric timepiece and the vast, yet
        specifically shrink wrapped Star navigation system that each person
        carries as the results, in their Dodecahedron enclosed system, of
        our TWELVE cranial nerves, is part of the physics systems of human
        beings. We each have sucked and inverted into us an individualized
        cosmic map. In this core, and along the walls of the skull, the star
        map glitters and sparkles like vivid and animated cave paintings and
        visual impressions, memories, dreams and reflections that allow us
        to strike out and capture time impressions from the past as well as
        the future.

        We own a sensitive light house beacon, a light sensitive pineal
        gland, that when schooled and awakened, not only picks out and
        differentiates different thought spectrum bands, different thought
        spectrum light fields from individuals who think, but is slowly able
        to see the qualities of Time Beings and the qualities and aspects of
        Spiritual Beings. The Pineal is an Eye that detects thoughts and
        qualties and Steiner nailed it in the Philosophy of Freedom by
        saying it is an organ for the peception of thought. Our brains and
        directly our pineal embedded Eye, diferentiates different light and
        ideas, thoughts and Beings, infinite different spectrums and learns
        to read this light from within the enclosed dark chamber of the
        skull.

        Humanity must continue to fail at it's repeated star exams and the
        Michael School at this juncture is re-encountering the rejected and
        unconscious impulses that promoted the chaos of the 20th century and
        returns again in another form and another generation to rob us of
        the 21st century. The robbing and hijacking of the 21st century are
        the results of our failure to see the repeated pattern and
        unconscious dark intent of beings, yet it is also a challenge for
        the Michael School to see the details of what Steiner wrestled with
        in TIME, within a conscious Zeitgeist relationship and offered as
        clarity to the German people. We can fathom and track the meaning of
        this same clarity today, but with greater insight, greater vision
        and greater understanding because Rudolf Steiner forged a path ahead
        of us and prepared the next generation of Michael students to read
        the signs of the times.

        http://wn.rsarchive.org/Books/GA023/English/SCR2001/GA023_appendix.ht
        ml

        We in western civilization will continue to fail and have these
        impulses thrust back in our faces in a more and more severe
        Orwellian fashion unless we learn the Science of Man. Spiritual
        Science reveals the accurate Scientific data that Zarathustra worked
        through. It was bequeathed to Steiner so that Steiner could present
        this data in his most excellent Scientific thought world process and
        stand as a conscious Being, presenting the Schooling that the Logos
        expects and accepts as excellent.

        When I look at the biodynamic calendar it is vastly different for
        the plants and the accuracy of the science of the etheric world,
        than if someone follows some computerized horoscopes taken from the
        internet. The positions of the Sun, Moon and planets are not correct
        so that even when we measure the stunted and inaccurate horoscopes
        against the active and living RESULTS that come from biodynamics, we
        clearly understand that we have taken a giant step closer to reality
        and scientific results by having biodynamic accuracy before us.

        Biodynamic food tastes differently, richer, and the techniques are
        approached with more wisdom and moral substance because they are
        based on corrected and renewed clarity regarding the growth of
        plants, the seasons and the activity of the stars themselves.
        Zarathustra would have no problem with Biodynamics. He certainly
        would know the etheric inside out and well enough as a Bodhisattva,
        that he could bring vast improvements to agriculture and the secret
        remedies of the world.

        The question for those who claim to have anything to do with
        scientists are just how very happy they are when they seem to get
        results. Products that come off the assembly line like our Hydrogen
        or nuclear results, prove that there is an anti-human direction that
        perverts, yes you heard it, perverts human common sense and shifts
        it into results without ethics. Shifts corporate and multi-national
        militaristic motives into the mix of what it considers results that
        profit the corporate entity. This perversion and fragmentation of
        the science of man, is what we offer our children and invest all our
        money so that our children will have an education that promotes
        perversion of the intellect. Eisenhower warned America but we have
        failed to keep watch over our own dark intents.

        We will lose the connections and results of understanding the
        Science of the Grail if we lose the 20th and the 21st centuries and
        they get buried under the debris of World Wars and chaos again. We
        are too simplistic and too naive to think through and support real
        understanding of Grail Sciences and recover history and Spiritual
        Science so that it shines and glows in pristine purity from
        classrooms everywhere. We already wading through the debris of the
        19th and 20th century attacks on the Consciousness Soul and Grail
        Sciences. Each person has to clarify their own intelligence and
        parents have to be true guardians, not in the sense of fake
        fundamentalism, but in vast and well grounded spiritualized humanism
        that supports the vistas and vision of the I AM.

        This Do in Remembrance of Him. "That the Lord Jesus the same night
        in which he was betrayed took bread: And when he had given thanks,
        he brake it, and said, Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken
        for you: this do in remembrance of me" (1 Cor. 11:23­24).

        He took the cup, saying: "This cup is the new testament in my blood:
        this do ye, as oft as ye drink it, in remembrance of me. For
        [whenever] ye eat this bread, and drink this cup, ye [proclaim] the
        Lord's death till he come" (1 Cor. 11:25­26). He said that this
        sacrament would be done in remembrance of Him. "This do in
        remembrance of me" were His words (Luke 22:19).

        And as Christ is the actual Etheric Sun of the moral Earth, when we
        understand that to be a Grail Science, is to understand how
        difficult and how hard it is to find Spiritual Science buried in the
        impulses of The Christmas Conference and humble Angelic call to
        mankind of "The Foundation Stone". To find, locate and clearly grasp
        the obscure location that Parsifal could barely refind, and only
        found after maturing, is the challenge of grasping the very hidden,
        humble and obscure reality and RESULTS, when the Cosmos says Yes, as
        it did with the Christ Event. Finding Grail Sciences and the thread
        of history through the storm that is presented is truly a Parsifal
        task. It is a Parsifal task make no mistake.

        The Goetheanum remains, obscure, hidden and out of reach and has all
        the earmarks of the full and astonishing tale of the obscure path
        required to find the Holy Grail. And Steiner, Michael, Wagner,
        Kaspar Hauser and vast numbers of individuals wanted humanity to
        have this Grail wisdom, and we must keep it alive or it will get
        utterly lost in watered down Orwellian history and lies.
      • carol
        `The greatest misfortune is the harbinger of the greatest redemption `On earth one sees the destruction, yet in the destruction is contained already the seed
        Message 3 of 25 , Feb 7, 2007
          `The greatest misfortune is the harbinger of the greatest
          redemption'

          `On earth one sees the destruction, yet in the destruction is
          contained already the seed of renewal.'

          These words of wisdom are derived from the `after-death messages'
          which Rudolf Steiner received from the then disincarnate Helmuth von
          Moltke, in 1919 and which he(RS) effectively documented. They
          appear in the volume `Light For The New Millennium' (Rudolf Steiner
          Press l997). I have transcribed some passages from several of these
          messages because I found that they add to the insights which we, as
          incarnated souls, are able to generate amongst ourselves concerning
          our present task in light of what we experience outwardly and what we
          have understood through contemplating Steiner's lectures. These are
          by no means the only insights available in this book, I only stopped
          at a given moment.

          These communications may offer some comfort to readers, since they
          touche upon what relevance suffering may have towards the greater
          picture of humanity's strivings…

          In one passage, when referring to the twenty first century, the being
          of HvM indicated that `everywhere there will be centers of
          spiritual will and deed'. I imagine that the internet has
          effectively sealed this truth, even though there also exists today
          many centers in the physical sense.

          That which is striking and yet conveyed in a most familiar manner is
          the `reality' that discarnate souls are quite engaged in the great
          spiritual tasks of world, even when they are not here. Also, that
          they depend on the thoughts which incarnate souls generate within
          themselves in order to be able to contemplate the lofty ambitions of
          their own future return.

          One could also note the sense that `the greater picture' in which we
          are now engaged on a physical level, contains very many details which
          we inevitably find hard to ascertain in our present incarnate
          condition. I've noticed that at times, in exchanges on topics of
          spiritual science, that various people will affirm a truth, but
          almost immediately afterward, affirm another one which is
          strikingly clothed with perception dependent on physical reality. I
          guess that we all have to all learn to be vigilant in developing our
          abilities to feel for what is living in a spiritual sense when
          something is communicated to us, and recognize through feeling,
          that which is encased in impressions derived from sense perception.

          I thoroughly enjoyed Bradford's latest post in which he focused on
          bridging scientific perception to the spirit world. I felt that I
          should retrieve these 2 passages from the Bible "The light shines in
          the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it. (John 1:5) " 12
          [And Jesus said to them,] "I am the light of the world.Whoever
          follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of
          life." Light and darkness continue to be discussed even from the
          world beyond.

          In the `after death messages' one can gather a sense that a bridge
          has been established between both the below and at the same time,
          taking into account the great turmoil which occurs in the `below';

          Out of obstruction the spirit seeks
          For strong supports, which may bear it
          As in the dawning, the light reveals itself
          As the bearer of the forces of destiny.
          With spiritual bonds, both here and there
          We shall strive together
          To seek both now and ever more
          The meaning in true life. (message23, 23 march 1919)


          In the following messages, `she' `El's' refer to the being HvM's
          still incarnate wife. `It' could refer to one form of a constant,
          conscious spiritual reality.


          38. Message of 29 January l918

          In human life the soul can take hold of something long before
          consciousness takes hold of it. The bodily organization is often an
          obstacle to understanding consciously what the soul has taken hold of
          already. For consciousness requires for its instrument a certain
          organization, be it a physical one between birth and death or a
          spiritual one between death and a new birth. The soul alone may well
          experience something but not be able to understand it consciously.
          However, man can only comprehend the experiences of his soul through
          his physical body if this physical body can be imbued with the fully
          developed spirit-organism. Yet it is often the physical body itself
          which presents an obstacle to that. It is a bliss to realize in
          retrospect that the suffering one has endured originated there.

          The suffering one has endured presents a very different picture when
          one looks back on it at a later time..

          Wakefulness is necessary, in the narrow as well as in the wider
          contexts. There s a lot of chaos on earth. The spiritual, however,
          is as if blunted. Human beings will first have to prepare their
          souls by developing a feeling for the spiritual world. Then the
          spiritual world-waiting to be understood-will be there to help.

          James1, 17 `Every gift which is truly good and every perfect present
          descends to us out of the higher world from the Father of lights I
          whom there is no alternation and no phases of light and darkness.'

          39. Message of 8 February 1918

          …In the context of the present spiritual constellation it seems good
          to me now that I was scarcely drawn into an active role in the
          battles in the East. This enables me to make spiritual connections
          with many eastern souls. The chaos there will only gradually take o
          the forms that it must eventually come to. My view of the tasks that
          come to me from the East is unobstructed to the extent that I have
          worked directly in the West and only indirectly in the East. Thus
          what was puzzling down there is now clear. The East is awaiting a
          task for which I must prepare myself by the next century. Earthly
          institutions must then be founded which will be an image of spiritual
          ones. `She' and others who are linked with us are to work together on
          this.

          A spiritual wilderness is now spreading over the earth. The `old
          man' can see this now, too. How he will stand in relation to the
          task that lies before us is not yet clear. In the twentieth century
          there will be a great deal of materialism which will be even more
          powerful in the twenty-first century. But everywhere there will be
          centers of spiritual will and deed. That is where the task will
          lie. In the `forms' of Dornach which I can now feel, I can see lines
          which are preparing something which in future will enable one soul to
          understand another more inwardly.

          …Wakefulness is needed. I cannot see everything very clearly in this
          area. But I can see a crisis. In essence there is much that has
          built up over many years which is now moving towards a crisis. While
          I was alive I faced this with some anxiety. This anxiety now has a
          baleful effect when I look at the critical situation…Nevertheless, it
          is essential to be wakeful on earth.

          It has a warming effect on me that `she' now has `it' with her
          again. Now is the time for something spiritual between them to join
          on to what was there before, which is important for the future and
          for the task. There is more at work in `it', than `it' itself
          knows. This has to do with the fact that `it' was also an
          intermediary to the spiritual world for my soul. We had to go
          through spiritual experiences in which there was much that was
          unconscious. `It' has to remember many things from those days. By
          this means, `it' will be able to help a great deal in the present and
          in the future. `She' will need much wakefulness now. In the company
          of `it' this wakefulness will gain in strength. When the two are
          together there lives a force in my soul which serves to make me
          strong for the `task'…

          …Whatever happens, `she' should follow the dictates of `her'
          understanding; if one does not always appear to come to the right
          thing, it is only apparently so and later, subsequent events will
          show what was right…

          …the greatest misfortune is the harbinger of the greatest
          redemption: many who are on earth will learn of this, but will only
          gradually come to experience it. Spirits who now strive to work in
          souls on earth freeze in spiritual coldness that works like fire, and
          consumes the effect….

          40. Message of 1 March l918

          …It is now possible for me to view objectively what is going on in
          the small details and in the major events of life on earth. Early
          sufferings are often the starting points for processes of spiritual
          development. Let `her' be aware that I am with `her', let `her' see
          what is happening now as necessity. `She' must not let her heart be
          troubled by events, but must connect her thoughts with the fact that
          by means of these events, things of the future are coming to pass,
          which must come to pass. The spirit must destroy many things in
          order to build anew. On earth one sees the destruction, yet in the
          destruction is contained already the seed of renewal.

          We often see pass away
          What on earth has been built
          Yet what is truly coming to pass
          Seen rightly in the spirit
          Reveals in earthly night
          To the seeking light of the soul
          The developing might of spirit
          And sufferings are not
          What on earth they seem
          They are in full truth
          What they spiritually mean
          In the kingdom of soul clarity

          `El's' individuality was connected with us differently to that
          of `it'. `El' must first bring into consciousness how she belongs to
          us. She must find the strength to be conscious out of suffering.
          She is now holding back an old power in order to gain a new one. My
          soul must be with her so that `she' may find the right way Events
          can be confusing. Wakefulness will lead to what is right at the
          right moment. No good is done by saying at the outset: `This and
          this should happen', one must wait and see what circumstances require.

          Looking back at the moment of my `rebirth', at the beginning of this
          century, is the lifeblood of my soul; looking back at the time of my
          suffering before my present entry into the spiritual world gives me
          the spiritual air I breath. Thinking through with `her' what karma
          has woven through us over the centuries gives light of day to my
          soul. Let `her' see the manner in which I live with her in this
          way. I must hold fast to these great connections in my soul, so that
          I can live wit those things which move her in the realm of time.
          For the being who is no longer embodied, those temporal things which
          come up to him from those who are close to him on earth, enabling him
          to share in their lives, are like the objects in a room for one who
          is living. The latter cannot see these objects, however close they
          may be, unless the light of the sun shines into the room. In the
          spiritual world, this sunlight is provided by insight into the great
          spiritual connections. In earthly life one might have the perspective
          even as an older person of a few decades. Out of the body, one must
          direct the gaze of the soul across centuries. And this gaze across
          the centuries must be illuminated by the understanding which one has
          been able to acquire through contemplating ideas of how things relate
          to one another in the greater dimension of the spirit. ..In the life
          of the spirit, one has constantly to re-enliven the thought with
          one's own life of soul, just as, in life on earth, the physical body
          must constantly breather in fresh air. Thus it is also good when
          tried and tested thoughts keep coming up from those who are still
          living in the body.
        • Valerie Walsh
          ... Hey, hey, my, my... ... They do make an excellent grilled cheese there. ... for ... so ... fish ... I never watched Meet your Meat but I liked Store Wars a
          Message 4 of 25 , Feb 7, 2007
            --- In anthroposophy@yahoogroups.com, "chanting_om"
            <blue_star_in@...> wrote:

            > Well that is just the most amazing song! I have one for you.. I
            > picked it up in India. Its called Journey to infinity, it is so
            > beautiful, haunting.. bamboo flute.. and its 14.27 minutes long.
            >
            > I'll put it on right now.

            Hey, hey, my, my...

            > Hong Kong.. I'm not in Hongkong ! Otherwise I would have had a
            > grilled cheese sandwich with a touch of worscestor sauce long ago !

            They do make an excellent grilled cheese there.

            > NO ! I am on an island which is 50 percent covered with rainforest
            > and I am more or less in the middle of it. Now there are shops on
            > campus but they don't stock anything that you and I would
            > recognise..in fact the vast majority of food is fresh vegetables,
            > meat and fish.
            > I watched that film on smirking chimp about Meet your Meat so that
            > causes considerable conscience problems now, everytime I put a drop
            > of milk in my tea or think of a cheese sandwich I must apologise
            for
            > my weaknesses. The other day I thought Okay I will buy some fish,
            so
            > I go down to the market and this woman has a whole row of large
            fish
            > with the heads cut off who are still alive balanced on their necks,
            > gulping air and rolling their eyes. The rest of their bodies have
            > already been cut up and filleted.

            I never watched Meet your Meat but I liked Store Wars a lot.

            > But on the otherside of the rainforest - south - there is Sanya
            and
            > to the north there is Haikou.. :) (and cheese sandwiches and butter
            > and what happened to the cows...?)
            >
            > Could that have been one of your songs that you unburied...?

            No, couldn't have been-I did sing the National Anthem once but that's
            a sing along.

            > Anyway perhaps we can borrow some books from the library and there
            is
            > definately a hotel ! Do you know how to fly?

            Nahhhh, never took it up but that's a long story.-Val
          • Valerie Walsh
            ... http://moviesnooneshouldsee.wordpress.com/2006/12/12/27/
            Message 5 of 25 , Feb 7, 2007
              --- In anthroposophy@yahoogroups.com, Shakti <blue_star_in@...> wrote:

              > What an amazing poem I will present it to my students !
              > Its lovely

              http://moviesnooneshouldsee.wordpress.com/2006/12/12/27/
            • Mark Willan
              Hi everyone I set out a few more pieces of the mosaic of what is going on across the planet: RS referred to the Apocalypse of the Mount of Olives (Matt 24,
              Message 6 of 25 , Feb 14, 2007
                Hi everyone

                I set out a few more pieces of the mosaic of what is going on across the planet:

                RS referred to the Apocalypse of the Mount of Olives (Matt 24, Mark 13 and Luke 2:15-33)   as specifically referring to the time of the Second Coming - ie of the etheric Chirst - that is now.

                It is well worth reading all 3 passages for the insights they give on our present time.

                I also recently learned that the "curse of the psuchotherapist" was the inablility to fall in love - how telling and what preparation for a campaign by the adversaries of human development.

                For both Sorath and Ahriman hide from human awareness in order to better manipulate mankind, and they aim to produce resuklts which karma cannot later compensate for.

                We can however, consciously work inwardly to counter these currents: 

                firstly by learning and meditating on the lessons for each of us from the state of grace that being in love is, which is an archetype of our future relations with each othert (I am the Vine and you are the branches- and see the Discourses of the Last Supper in John), and 

                secondly by realising that those humans we identify as doing evil (and whose victims we may also be) are often acting out of a misguided conviction that they are right. The Nazis were mostly convinced they were doing the right thing, and this is a lesson we should learn.

                It is very rare for anyoen to consciously choose to do evil, but it is more often that people become compromised and cannot see the way out. 

                If we cannot empathise, and find a way through their guard, we can never hope to bring them round to a correct way of thinking - living thinking. Foe example, by attacking GWB we will only cut short any dialogue - if we look for the positive in his approach (the desire to take responsibility, however misguided, etc,) living thought seeds can be sown which may yet change the world.

                For even if they are our enemies, such people whio give us trails often turn out to be our truest friends, by makign sure our own development is not a fake - by ensuring that we stop trying to take the splinter out of our briother's eye and work on the beam in our own.

                The real work to be done to change the world is on ourselves, the microcosm. When we haev changed that, the macrocosm must inevitably follow.

                That is why a number of inner workers have now been gathering, sent by forces of fate, to the orient - to prepare the spiritual onslaught against the forces of Ahriman being arrayed in the West.

                Miraculous spirit growth has occurred in newly Christian China, and we can see that allied with the forces of the etheric Christ, a shift in world view is actually a possibility as a mass movement, to be nurtured and founded here.

                At the moment, we are in a kind of pralaya, in which the seeds for this are being sown in spirit.

                We shall be intensifying work inwardly to perfect ourselves, to ready ourselves for the great work that remains to be done.

                So should we all, IMHO.

                For we want our lives to be a blessing don't we, not a burden on humanity.

                And let us remember, that it is mankind's karma to develop and grow - which means if we do not do so consciously without pain, we will learn the hard way. That is the way it works - just look at life around you.

                Let us also remember that the destiny of mankind rests not just in our own hands, but in those of the Logos. To quote Gandhi, for a time the forces of oppression can appear invincible, but they never last.

                Nor can they this time. 

                Just my tuppence worth.








                Mark Willan

                21 Balmoral Park
                #02-14 Pïnewood Gardens
                Singapore 259850

                Tel: +65 64040702
                Mob: +65 9019 4314





              • holderlin66
                In French, alternate history novels are called uchronie. This neologism is based on the word utopia (a place that doesn t exist) and the Greek for time,
                Message 7 of 25 , Feb 15, 2007
                  "In French, alternate history novels are called uchronie. This
                  neologism is based on the word utopia (a place that doesn't exist) and
                  the Greek for time, chronos. An uchronie, then, is defined as a time
                  that doesn't exist. Another occasionally-used term for the genre
                  is "allohistory".

                  "The earliest example of alternate history appears to be Book IX,
                  sections 17-19, of Livy's History of Rome from Its Foundation. He
                  contemplates the possibility of Alexander the Great expanding his
                  father's empire westward instead of eastward and attacking Rome in the
                  4th century BC.

                  19th century

                  "In the English language, the first known complete alternate history
                  is Nathaniel Hawthorne's short story "P.'s Correspondence", published
                  in 1845. It recounts the tale of a man who is considered "a madman"
                  due to his perceiving a different 1845, a reality in which long-dead
                  famous people are still alive such as the poets Burns, Byron, Shelley,
                  and Keats, the actor Edmund Kean, the British politician George
                  Canning and even Napoleon Bonaparte.

                  Bradford comments;

                  Recovering history and understanding psychology allows us to examine
                  an author who felt the sting of two universes, two different grooves
                  of time and the ZeitGeist. The author had good reason for this
                  experience and not exactly the same reasons that a Michael School
                  student might have.

                  On the other hand, when you examine the evidence you might clearly
                  understand that the writer who brought, "Blade Runner", "Total Reall"
                  and "The Minority Report" also had a twin sister whose death and
                  spirit hovered over Dick through his whole life. Dick's writing career
                  was an effort in trying to reconcile a hovering experience that
                  brought his gaze to the vicinity of how two worlds interact. In Philip
                  K. Dick himself there attempts to break into his experiences from a
                  parallel psychology aother world, another history, an alternative
                  history, behind the history that we accomodate or pacify ourselves
                  with.

                  To those who are training themselves to look into the etheric world,
                  to understand that for instance, the manufactured world of worship
                  that was created with the rise of the Ahrimanic Sun, brought humanity
                  to it's fearful pagan quivering knees, because it manifested a poison,
                  inhuman, murdering light that fit the bill of how we imagined the
                  wrath of god. In this lie we see and live currently in an alternate
                  universe. We are just too cognitively weak to take hold of real ideas,
                  so we tend to meld them and mush them together in the soul.

                  And that same god we worship today as we threaten Iran with nuclear
                  attack is an Ahrimanic god, that has stepped in, with all our world
                  wide media glorification, and adoration, to eclipse, just at the right
                  moment, eclipse from the view of the world, the rise of the Human
                  Cosoms of Mankind and The Etheric Christ Being who mastered for
                  humanity the entire future model of the SPirit Man. We see an
                  alternative universe and an alternative history.

                  This future model of Spirit Man must be attained within a vast sweep
                  of long term human development that follows Earth with Jupiter
                  evolution and Venus and Vulcan evoltuion... and the names, like Vulcan
                  have all been hijacked and woven into pop culture trivia and the sound
                  and imagination of the word divorced from the unfolding reality of how
                  humanity has grown from Ancient Saturn as a mere seed of warmth, Old
                  Sun, adding an etheric superstructure, and Ancient Moon evolution with
                  an astral body and nervous system design, and Earth, with it's Iron
                  and Sun like blood forces that respond to compassion, love, and
                  courage and bears the signature of a time being, a reincarnating i am
                  in dipping in and out of the stream of ongoing time. These are rich
                  thoughts and thought that can keep a human being sober while he
                  navigates the Zeitgeist.

                  But Philip K. Dick, got his form of initiaiton the hard way. He felt
                  very clearly his dead twin sister. We can use the hovering soul of his
                  sister, as a kind of orbiting lunar reflection that hovered over
                  Dick's soul and cast into his thought sphere, refractions, prismatic
                  refractions, that partially had intuitions from the world of the dead
                  and the spiritual world and partially mangled constructs of science in
                  modern materialism. Dick wrote to reconcile these extremes in himself,
                  but unable to define the soul or spirit as the science that should be
                  there.

                  "Philip Kindred Dick and his twin sister, Jane Charlotte Dick, were
                  born six weeks prematurely to Joseph Edgar and Dorothy Kindred Dick in
                  Chicago. According to various accounts, Dorothy was unable to properly
                  feed and care for the newborns, and Jane was badly burned by an
                  electric blanket. Dick's father, a fraud investigator for the United
                  States Department of Agriculture, had recently taken out life
                  insurance policies, and an insurance nurse was dispatched to the home.
                  Upon seeing the malnourished Philip and injured Jane, the nurse rushed
                  the babies to the hospital, but baby Jane died on the way there, five
                  weeks after her birth (January 26, 1929). The death of Dick's twin
                  sister had a profound effect on his writing, relationships, and every
                  other aspect of his life, leading to the recurrent motif of
                  the "phantom twin" in many of his books."

                  "In summarising Philip K. Dick in his history of science
                  fiction, "Trillion Year Spree", Brian Aldiss commented: "All his
                  novels are one novel . . ." But it goes further than that, because the
                  premise behind virtually all his writing is a subjective view of
                  reality, an almost paranoid obsession with things being other than
                  they seem. Suppose you discover that you have been leading a false
                  existence or, worse still, one imposed on you by those in positions of
                  authority."

                  "Throughout February and March 1974 he received a series of visions
                  which he collectively referred to as 2-3-74, shorthand for
                  February/March 1974. He described his initial visions as laser beams
                  and geometric patterns, and occasionally brief pictures of Jesus and
                  ancient Rome, which he would glimpse periodically. As the pictures
                  increased in length and frequency, Dick claimed that he began to live
                  a double life, one as himself and one as Thomas, a Christian
                  persecuted by Romans in the 1st century A.D. Despite his past and
                  continued drug use, Dick accepted these visions as reality, believing
                  that he had been contacted by a god-entity of some kind, which he
                  referred to variously as Zebra, God, and, most often, VALIS."

                  Dick's writing, "The Man in the High Castle" underwent its point of
                  divergence from our own world due to the assassination of President
                  Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1933. He was succeeded by Vice President John
                  Nance Garner, who was subsequently replaced by John W. Bricker.
                  Neither man was able to revive the nation from the Great Depression,
                  and both clung to a isolationist policy related to the oncoming war.

                  Due to poor U.S. economic performance and isolationism, Britain and
                  the rest of Europe fell to the Axis Powers. Russia collapsed in 1941
                  and was occupied by the Nazis, while most of the Slavic people were
                  exterminated. The Slavic survivors of the war were confined
                  to "reservation-like closed regions". The Japanese completely
                  destroyed the United States' Pacific fleet in a much more expansive
                  attack on Pearl Harbor. Due to Japan's expanded military capabilities,
                  it was able to invade and occupy Hawaii, Australia, New Zealand and
                  the Southwestern Pacific in the early forties. After this, the United
                  States fell to the Axis, with many important cities suffering great
                  damage.

                  By 1947, Allied forces had surrendered to Axis control. The Eastern
                  Seaboard was placed under German control while California and other
                  western states ceded to Japanese rule. The Southern United States was
                  revived as a quasi-independent state (as a Nazi puppet state like
                  Vichy France). The Rocky Mountain States and much of the Midwest
                  remained autonomous, being considered unimportant by either of the
                  victors, as well as a useful buffer. At the end of the war, the
                  British leaders and generals were tried for war crimes (e.g. the
                  carpet bombing of German cities) in a parallel of the Nuremberg Trials.

                  After Adolf Hitler was incapacitated by syphilis, the head of the Nazi
                  Party Chancellery, Martin Bormann, assumed the leadership of Germany.
                  The Nazis created a colonial empire and continued their mass murder of
                  races they considered inferior, murdering Jews in the puppet United
                  States and other areas they controlled and mounting massive genocide
                  in Africa. However, unlike the Nazis, the Japanese had no policy of
                  cleansing the occupied areas of "unwanted" races.

                  Nazi Germany continued their rocketry programs, so that by 1962, they
                  had a working system of commercial rockets used for inter-continental
                  travel and also pursued space exploration, by sending rockets to the
                  Moon and Mars. The novel also mentions television as being a new
                  technology used in Germany.

                  Meanwhile Japan continued more peaceful, but certainly not democratic
                  rule, over much of Asia and territories within the Pacific Ocean. Like
                  the United States and the Soviet Union after our own world's World War
                  II, the Japanese and the Germans are distrustful of one another. Nazi
                  Germany and the Japanese Empire both possess nuclear weapons and are
                  mired in their own Cold War.

                  During the novel, Martin Bormann dies and other Nazis such as Joseph
                  Goebbels and Reinhard Heydrich challenge to become Reich Chancellor
                  (German: Reichskanzler). Various factions of the Nazi party are
                  described as either seeking war with Japan or being more interested in
                  colonizing the solar system"

                  http://www.answers.com/topic/the-man-in-the-high-castle

                  Bradford concludes;

                  Our examinations hinges on the defeat, or retreat of Michael Zeitgeist
                  Grail Science schooling, that was planned and a model of the building,
                  the Johannes Bau, for Munich was made by Steiner, but Anthroposphy
                  retreated and was boxed into Dornach, and reduced to Biodynamics world
                  wide sciences; Medical hospitals with Anthro/and regular medical
                  doctor training; Waldorf Education and a host of centers around the
                  world that are living off of the Christmas Conference, The Foundation
                  Stone, and the verified states of consciousness that surpass the
                  limitations of Jungian psychology and rest on an intangible but solid
                  experience of The Etheric Christ event that was on the rise as early
                  as the dawn of the Age of Light, 1899.

                  The question is, do you consider yourself a flaky and insane human
                  being if you follow the science laid down by Rudolf Steiner, Science
                  of the Spirit? The question remains, certainly most common sense views
                  of the matter refer to Dick's twin sister as an early childhood source
                  point where a two soul contact, two souls one on earth and the other
                  experiencing the conflicts near the threshold, might it not be the
                  source point of that which spurred Dick's entire biographical struggle
                  with twin realities?

                  How would materialistic science and its effect on a human being's
                  thinking mix with sporatic influences from the world of the dead?
                  Dick appears to my thinking as someone, like Rod Serling, Robert
                  Heinlein and his "Stranger in a Strange Land". Heinlein inserted into
                  culture a paradox of how Buddha and St. Francis on Mars was strongly
                  and unconsciously experienced by Heinlein in his time between death
                  and a new birth....Science Fiction was a partial method of the
                  transformation of the Mars forces of the intellect.

                  Philip K. Dick wrote;

                  "Several years ago, when I was ill, Heinlein offered his help,
                  anything he could do, and we had never met; he would phone me to cheer
                  me up and see how I was doing. He wanted to buy me an electric
                  typewriter, God bless him—one of the few true gentlemen in this world.
                  I don't agree with any ideas he puts forth in his writing, but that is
                  neither here nor there. One time when I owed the IRS a lot of money
                  and couldn't raise it, Heinlein loaned the money to me. I think a
                  great deal of him and his wife; I dedicated a book to them in
                  appreciation. Robert Heinlein is a fine-looking man, very impressive
                  and very military in stance; you can tell he has a military
                  background, even to the haircut. He knows I'm a flipped-out freak and
                  still he helped me and my wife when we were in trouble. That is the
                  best in humanity, there; that is who and what I love."
                • holderlin66
                  Take out your Main Lesson books Spiritual Science students. Today we are offering the Giant s Heart a discourse on current events. Bradford brought; That is
                  Message 8 of 25 , Feb 16, 2007
                    Take out your Main Lesson books Spiritual Science students.
                    Today we are offering the Giant's Heart a discourse on current
                    events.

                    Bradford brought;

                    "That is why when we look at the disturbed heart condition of Dick
                    Cheney, we understand the disturbed condition of his heart in
                    relation to the great heart of the world."

                    Bradford adds;

                    Now this is where true thinkers rise and poor thinkers fall by the
                    way side. Poor thinkers with limp souls cannot and refuse to make
                    the connection that we are about to make. The connection that we are
                    about to make is to the Giants Heart. Presently being vice president
                    of the greatest super power on the planet, the United States, makes
                    Dick Cheney a heartless Giant. Now what kind of giant is Dick
                    Cheney? What is wrong and where is his heart if it has such trouble
                    finding the rhythm and keeping beat with the heart of the world?
                    Thesee are all simple questions with surprisingly simple answers
                    that with Jungian insights and vague imaginations we certainly will
                    not find many people left in the U.S. who can digest rich insights
                    and see imaginations with the intimate clarity that students of
                    Spiritual Science may.

                    Of course we can and we have in the past brought into the argument
                    aspects of the U.S. involvement in America's fall into fascism and
                    how Dick Cheney truly plays a very significant part in where we
                    would raise the question of Ahrimanic ailments of the soul and
                    malfunctioning disconnection of a human heart to the heart of the
                    world. These Sorathian Spiritual Science and Ahrimanic patterns we
                    have traced with precise historical relationships that have picked
                    up the patterns of the dawn of 1914 and the surge of military
                    ahrimanic intent that is currently riding on the same historical
                    rhythm that led Cheney to sign and bring forward the pre-emptive
                    Imperialism of the PNAC or Project for a New Ahrimanic Century at
                    the crack of light of the dark arising of 1997/8.

                    For Cheney and big Oil middle eastern chaos must continue to erupt.
                    The world's supply of oil must be owned and kept by the United
                    States. This is U.S. policy. Pre-emptive attacks on innocent
                    countries murdering tens of thousands with escalation of torture and
                    fair trials gone the way of Nazi Germany...along with the U.S.,
                    Britain and Israel, a nasty triad that is sinking to Sorathian
                    levels of dark lodge intents, all this must continue for Amerika to
                    dominate under Cheney's heartlessness.

                    What type of imagination hovers around the leader, the actual black
                    Lodge mouthpiece of someone who cannot adjust his heart to the
                    actual heart of the world? We will present the diagnosis in a fairy
                    tale. That way those with true understanding of diagnostic pictures
                    and imaginations will have something extremely vital to point to
                    when they point to the reality behind the fall of the United States.
                    And we grant that all of us know that the real idea of terrorism is
                    not anywhere close to the representative reality of the heart of the
                    world, but if it were black ops and terrorism, it would match up
                    with what Dick Cheney wants to project all around him and America
                    with torture chambers over the globe... a Giant Darkness.

                    Now the second wave of Michael Intelligence might very well
                    understand the problems that exist in the subtext of history vs that
                    of recovering Grail history, the Etheric Christ and the human heart,
                    or the aspect of Justice and the aspect of understanding that as a
                    human being, if such a bad heart serves a dark master, it is better
                    to get a new heart and a new incarnation rather than continue on
                    with such an icy corrupt and cold heart. Dick Cheney has had his
                    heart removed.

                    The Heartless Giant

                    [Note when the word Giant appears INSERT, Dick Cheney}

                    On the whole, there's absolutely no need to be frightened by Giants.
                    Giants are gentle souls, perfectly harmless, and very affectionate.
                    Unless, of course, the Giant has no heart in his body.

                    Think of all kinds of unpleasant things and add Giant to them and
                    that's what you get when a Giant has no heart. Such a Giant once
                    terrorized a county in the far north of the world, near the very
                    top. He'd hidden his heart. It gave him too much trouble, all those
                    Giant Feelings, too much pain. In its place was a wasps' nest. About
                    to swarm. Put your ear to his chest and you'd hear an angry buzzing
                    noise.

                    This Heartless Giant could shake a man and shuffle his wits. He
                    could crack a skull with his fist like a walnut. And frequently did.
                    Until, at last, the old King of that country, as good as the Giant
                    was bad, trapped him in a giant trap and locked him in a cell. There
                    the Giant crouched, an inch of the outside world to look at, the
                    damp dripping from the walls, the dull rattle of his chains, his low
                    angry growl a ceaseless rumble through the King's castle.
                    Years passed in this was until the Giant's voice had grated away to
                    the hoarsest whisper and folk had quite forgotten about Giants with
                    no hearts. And he'd be there still, in his foul pit, were it not for
                    a little boy whose name was Leo.

                    Leo was the King's youngest son. He had two brothers who were
                    bigger. Prince Leo could leave not stone unturned, no passage
                    unexplored, no drawer unrammaged, so incurably curious was he. One
                    morning, scouting the far and deep of the castle, he came across a
                    tiny, barred window set in the bottom of a huge gray wall. Looking
                    through it, Leo saw nothing buy dank dark pitch black. But as he
                    turned away he imagined he heard a stir, and then came a growl, a
                    low buzz of a growl. It was a frightening sound.

                    His brothers told a Giant with no heart lived in this prison with
                    the tiny window. He didn't believe them. They were older, his
                    brothers, and forever teasing him. But the next day he went back,
                    carrying his drum. "Rat-tat-rat-ta-ta-tat," he played outside the
                    window. From inside the dark dank pitch black he heard a rattle,
                    like the rattle of a chain. He crept to the window and squinted into
                    the shadows. Two eyes blinked back at him. Leo jumped. A wasp buzzed
                    angrily through the bars. Leo ran off. It was true, there was a
                    Giant!

                    All night Leo thougth about the Giant, his eyes, the low rumbling
                    growl. Next morning, he was back, "rat-tat-rat-ta-ta-tat," on his
                    little drum. The Giant was waiting for him. When Leo tiptoed to the
                    window, he was there, whispering hello. The Giant told Leo that long
                    ago he had done some bad things and that the King had locked him up.
                    Leo couldn't imagine what these bad things were. He worried about
                    the poor Giant, stuck down there in terrible chains. He lit a candle
                    and held it to the hole.

                    The Giant was so big he had to crouch with his chin on this knees
                    and his elbos bent. He looked to Leo like a huge sad baby, his
                    yellow eyes screwed up against the candle's sudden glare. Leo said
                    he would speak to his father, it wasn't fair the Giant had been
                    locked up for so long; he must have been forgotten. "No," croaked
                    the Giant, all anxious. "If you say anything, they'll make me stay
                    down here forever and I shall surely perish." The eyes blinked
                    nearer. "Would you like to be my friend?"

                    Leo was elated. "Oh yes, yes please!" "Good. Good," said the Giant.
                    Good, thought Leo; I have a secret friend. Good, thought the Giant
                    who had shed his heart at last. And he sighed a chill sigh and
                    planned chill plans, while the young prince skipped back along the
                    path, swinging the iron gate behind him, caressing his secret,
                    nurturing it, back to his room.

                    And so it began, the friendship between the huge, crouching Giant
                    and the little Prince. Every day, the boy would appear, rat-tat-
                    tatting on his drum. Every day he'd tell a little more, hear a
                    little more, until he felt he knew no one better, that no one knew
                    him better. Oh, he wanted to tell the whole world about his friend.
                    But the Giant said, "Out secret," and Leo agreed, although he would
                    have loved to tell his mother or his two brothers or somebody. But
                    he couldn't so he shouldn't, so he wouldn't so he didn't. The Giant,
                    meanwhile crouched in his blackness and schemed. And so it was that
                    one day he told Leo he'd heard a Guard saying that the King slept
                    with the keys to the Giant's chains hanging on a ring by his bed.
                    Leo had always those keys were for the Crown Jewels. "No," said the
                    Giant. "They're for my misery." Leo felt desperate for his
                    misunderstood fiend, and a plan formed in his mind. The Giant
                    watched it being born and sighed a cold sigh. Deep inside, in the
                    prize where his heart should have been, the wasped seethed and
                    buzzed.

                    That very night, when the whole castle was sleeping, when the Royal
                    Guards slumped against their sentry posts and dozed, when the owls
                    hooted, little Prince Leo slipped from his bed, slid past a sleeping
                    sentry, and pushed on the door of his parents' room. He tiptoed
                    round the great bed with its velvet eiderdown, past his sleeping
                    mother and sleeping father, to the hook where the keys were hung.
                    They were so heavy. He heaved them up and they swung together,
                    clanging like the Angelus bell. Leo clutched them tight, their black
                    metal teeth squashing his toes, their hooped handles framing his
                    face. Slowly, slowly, inch by inch, he dragged the huge keys out of
                    the room.

                    "I've got the keys," he whispered, trembling at the little window.
                    He let them ring against the bars. "Who goes there?" challenged a
                    voice from the darkness. It was the one sentry still awake. "Hurry,
                    hurry!" growled the Giant from the bowels of the dungeon. Leo
                    struggled to push the keys through the bars. The teeth went in and
                    the long shafts, but when it came to the ring he couldn't work out
                    how to do it. "They're too big," he explained as he heard the
                    Giant's snort of impatience. "I can't do it." Leo wanted to drop the
                    keys and run for his life. "Push them," hissed the Giant. "Push
                    them!" The Giant's voice was colder than the night, it was icy. Leo
                    pushed. A great hand yanked on the keys. Leo saw its shape in the
                    shadows. He felt a terrible force pulling downward.

                    "Who goes there?" demanded the approaching voice. And then, with a
                    sudden wrench, the keys disappeared, pulling the bars with then into
                    the blackness. Leo heard a sigh issue from the Giant. A horrible
                    aching sigh. Then the turning of locks, the crushing of
                    doors. "Don't forget to let me have them back," he said, staring
                    blankly into the dungeon. He shivered again.

                    The sentry's torch was almost upon him. Suddenly the silence was
                    rent with cries. A man screamed, and there was the sound of
                    crunching, like a great walnut cracking. Then a broken, throaty
                    roar. At the far corner, a door burst from its hinges, spilling
                    light onto Leo's face. The Giant appeared. From his head, squeezing
                    at the entrance, pulling away bricks and lintels, then his
                    shoulders, squeezing, straining through. A giant baby being born
                    into the night. Leo watched, horrified. The Giant glanced at Leo,
                    but only for a second. As he emerged from the entrance, first one
                    sentry, then a second confronted him, challenging him with a sword
                    and spear. The Giant hoisted them up, one in each fist, and cracked
                    their heads together before tossing them away. Then, with the sound
                    of the alarm, the Heartless Giant turned and limped off, roaring his
                    broken roar.

                    All night Leo sat shivering on the battlements at the King and his
                    men searched the grounds of the castle. His father's angry words
                    haunted him. "Someone betrayed us. Only a madman would help a Giant
                    with no heart. Someone betrayed us." Leo's face swam with tears. So
                    letdown, he felt. So stupid. So guilty. Every scream was his fault.
                    Every cracked skull. And when finally morning came, the boy in him,
                    the innocent heart, the joy in him, they were gone-those things,
                    like his friend-and they would never return.

                    Next morning, Leo looked down and saw his Elder Brother march across
                    the courtyard. He carried his sword and his axe and his bow and a
                    large saddlebag, which he yanked up onto his shoulder. "Where are
                    you going?" Leo called down. "Sh-h-h!" warned the brother. "I am
                    going to get back the Giant." Leo felt awful. "Have you told
                    anybody?" Elder Brother shook his head proudly. "No. Of course not.
                    But I must go. Father is too old." And with this he offered up his
                    hand in salute and turned, young warrior, off to find the
                    Giant. "I'm sorry," wept his brother, but no one heard him.
                    And Elder Brother did not come back.

                    The spring came and went with sadness in it. Every day, more stories
                    reached the castle of the Giant's cruel rampage. So it was that one
                    glum morning, perched on the ledge of his window, Leo looked down
                    and saw Middle Brother striding through the courtyard, golden helmet
                    blazing, shield sparkling. "Where are you going?" Leo called
                    out. "To find our brother and to kill the Giant." Leo was beside
                    himself. "Please don't! It's madness. He has no heart." Middle
                    Brother shook his proud head. "I must go. Our father's too old now."
                    Leo could not stand it. "But he'll trick you!" he blurted
                    out. "He'll trick you!" Middle Brother would not listen. He raised
                    his hand in salute and set off to find the Giant. Terrible, Leo
                    felt, as he watched him go, terrible.

                    And Middle Brother did not come back either.

                    The summer that year was short, the winter wild and endless. One
                    day, Leo heard his mother's sobs from far off and came into her
                    bedroom to find her kneeling in sorrow, head against the green
                    velvet of the eiderdown. "Mother?" The Queen did not look up. "Your
                    father says he intends to go off and fight the Giant. "I've lost two
                    sons already. He's too old. He's too ill." She wept and wept. She
                    wanted Leo to promise he would not follow his brothers. "Promise me,
                    promise me you won't ever go." But he couldn't promise, how could
                    he? Were it not for him, the Heartless Giant would still be chained
                    and locked and safe in the dungeon.

                    Next morning, at the crack of dawn, dressed in thick leather jerkin,
                    Leo rode into the Royal Stables. He carried with him saddlebags
                    stuffed with cheese and ham and biscuits and salted beef, but no
                    weapon of any kind. He approached the stall where his father's
                    stallion stood, tall, scarred, imperious, swung the saddle over the
                    beast's back, and led him from the stable. Off they rode without
                    looking back, their breath steaming out before them, the path
                    flashing by, on and on and on.

                    And so the young Prince Leo rode the land in search of his once
                    friend the Heartless Giant. Three winters came and went, their
                    bitter shiver, but still he rode on, determined. And many times were
                    the saddlebags epmtied and filled; many nights slept achingly cold,
                    huddled with his horse for warmth; many days spent without sighting
                    a single soul. The boy changed slowly into man, took his own
                    counsel, his jaw set in resolve, his heart firm, his plan fixed. Yet
                    to find the Heartless Giant was no easy thing. His pillage had
                    stripped the landscape bare. Only bleached bones, spat-out ruins,
                    whispered nightmares remained. Where the Giant was no one knew. Long
                    gone, the survivers told Leo as he bent from the horse's neck. Lone
                    gone.

                    Then one day he came to a place and knew he was finally on the
                    Gaint's trail. The sweet stench of blood curdled the air. A village,
                    abandoned, smoldered and smoked. Leo's horse reared and bucked and
                    was fearful. Looking down to the earth for clues, they saw a bird
                    flap, helpless, a torn wing shuddering pitifully. The Prince set
                    down and took up the bird in his hands. "Craa! Craa! Help me!" it
                    cried. "The Giant broke me and now I cannot fly, cannot eat. Craa!
                    Help me."

                    And Leo tended the bird, fixed its wing, fed it bread soaked in
                    milk. And soon all was well with it. Leo threw it high into the air
                    and watched it soar, its vivid re-ascent. "Thank you!" cried the
                    bird from the heavens. If you need me, I shan't forget." And with
                    that a "Craa! Craa!" it flew off. And they followed.

                    Not lone after, Leo stopped at a brook, horse and rider hungry and
                    thirsty, sore and weary. As they drank, they heard a flapping, heard
                    a thrashing, heard a slapping, and, looking round, Leo saw a salmon,
                    twisting, franitic, beached in the crook of a small crevasse. "Help
                    me!" cried the choking fish. "Help me back into the water! I'm stuck
                    here, I'm stranded, I'm beached up and landed! Help me!"

                    Now Leo was famished, and he loved salmon over the taste of any
                    fish. But he'd suffered sufficient, this fellow, thought the Prince.
                    He pick up the flailing fish and swung it gently into the stream,
                    back to where the salmon is King. Off it flashed through the reeds
                    and green ripples, before leaping up in the middle of the water,
                    slapping the surface with its message. "Thank you!" it cried. "If
                    you need me, I shan't forget." Then it plunged back into the brook,
                    and they followed its zig and its zag down the stream, for that way
                    lay the Giant.

                    Now neither Leo nor his horse had eaten in days. They were faint
                    with hunger. Their progress slowed to a weary jog and stumble, until
                    at last the old stallion sank slowly to his knees and gave up the
                    ghost. Enough, he sighed, rolled over, and died. Leo lay behind his
                    faithful servant and shed tears enough to break a heart, half from
                    love, half from despair. Then he slipped into sleep. He dreamed he
                    was in his mother's bed, warm and cherished. So warm, his mother
                    mursing him, licking up his wet cheeks, hugging him. So vivid. He
                    woke hugging himself, only to find a dead horse beside him and not
                    his mother but a great Wolf coiled around his body, terrible teeth
                    glistening, tongue hanging out with hunger.

                    And, seeing his eyes flicker, the Wolf howled a terrible howl, fixed
                    on Leo's bare, unguarded throat. "Help!" howled the Wolf. "I've not
                    eaten since the winter came. Help me and I'll not forget you." Leo
                    had no food, save his own flesh. He took up his courage and spoke to
                    the Wolf, whose sour breath plaited with his own, so near they were
                    to the other's jaw. "How can I?" he replied. "I have no food
                    myself." The Wolf nudged against the dead horse. "Then let me eat
                    your horse," he panted, his tongue a vicious red swipe across his
                    teeth. "I'll eat it and be strong again. Trust me. I'll help you."
                    The Prince could not watch as the starving animal leapt upon the
                    flesh of the stallion. In no time, he eaten every scrap of flesh,
                    chewed the bones, spat them out. Leo allowed himself to single
                    glance from a distance. He caught the Wolf's red eyes contemplating
                    him, the tongue sweeping the teeth, the body crouched over a mess of
                    rib and hunk.

                    "Master. Come here," said the Wolf. Leo was resigned. "Am I next to
                    go?" he asked simply. The Wolf nodded. "Oh yes, us both must go," he
                    replied. "For you seek the Giant, I know. And now, strong again,
                    I'll help you. On my back, sir, and let's leave this place."
                    Off they went a gray dash, a day and a night and a morning, until
                    they came at last to a strange garden full of statues. Stone men.
                    Stone women. Stone soldiers. Leo slipped from Grayleg's back and
                    examined the statues. So lifelike were they, he felt a warmer sun
                    might thaw them into being. He passed the bend, supplicant figure of
                    an old woman, ivy in her stone tresses, then came to a statue of a
                    brave young warrior, sword drawn, shield raised. Leo walked round to
                    face it. "It's my brother!" he gasped. "This is a statue of my
                    brother!" Graylegs the Wolf shook his head. "No, my lord, no statue.
                    This is the Giant's work. There is his house," he continued, nodding
                    toward a clearing. "All who approach he turns to stone."

                    A little way down, the Prince came across another figure, frozen in
                    the act of straining at the longbow, arrow poised at the ear. It was
                    the Elder Brother. "You too!" cried Leo in despair. "You too."
                    At the end of the clearing was the place where the Giant lived, a
                    strange building made by tearing up the whole village and squashing
                    it into a single house. Inside, the Heartless Giant was asleep.
                    A "Rat-tat-rat-ta-ta-tat," over and over. He heaved his huge frame
                    to the patchwork of windows and looked out. Standing there,
                    fearless, without weapon, beathing his child's drum, was the young
                    Prince Leo.

                    The Giant took Leo in as his servant. The Prince explained how it
                    was discovered he had helped the Giant escape. The Giant laughed at
                    this. Had he seen his brothers, stone men in the garden? Leo said he
                    had. Any who crossed him got the same treatment, so Leo had better
                    be on his mettle. The Giant picked up the drum between his fingers
                    and tapped out the march rhythm, memories flooding back. "That
                    terrible cage," he sighed. "I had to fool you to get the keys.
                    Otherwise I'd still be there, rotting. I still limp, you know." Then
                    he squeezed Leo affectionately in his palm. "so, my little Leo, back
                    again. Hah! Yes, stay if you like. No tricks, though, to traps. Else
                    you'll end up like your brothers."

                    "No tricks, no traps," agreed the boy and went inside.
                    So Leo became the servant of the Giant. For weeks he cleaned, for
                    weeks he scoured, until spick where speck was and span where
                    squalor. Each evening, the Giant returned from his Wild outings to
                    find the fire lit, the hearth swept, his breeches pressed. He liked
                    this. Very nice. "Very nice," he'd say as he slurped and slopped his
                    stew. "I should have had a servant before. I like it." He
                    burped. "It befits a Giant." Leo bowed and cleared the plates away.
                    He was always silent, always polite, always cleaning, always
                    watching.

                    Then the Giant croaked his cracked laugh. "And don't I treat you
                    bad, do I? For a Heartless Giant." Leo kept walking away with the
                    dishes. He spoke without looking back, his words light and idly
                    curious. "What happened to your heart?"

                    Black clouds furrowed the Giant's brow. "It's in safekeeping," he
                    growled. Leo kept walking. The Giant continued, suddenly swelling,
                    thumping the place where his heart should have been: "Can't feel
                    without it, can I? Can't get hurt. Can't die from heartbreak if I
                    haven't got one. I'm invincible!" he guffawed. Leo shrugged,
                    impressed. "Clever," he said casually. "So where is it, then, your
                    heart?" Wasps streamed from the Giant's mouth. "He who pries is
                    prone to die," he warned. "Do you follow me?" "Yes." Leo walked into
                    the kitchen. Then the Giant called after him. "But I'll tell you if
                    you want to know. My heart's in that cupboard."

                    Leo was passing a huge laundry press, its old wooden doors bleached
                    and scarred with age. He paused for an instant, felt his own heart
                    pounding. There! pounded his heart; his heart is there! The
                    Heartless Giant, crouching at the table, missed nothing. He smirked,
                    belched, and slumped into an after-dinner snore.

                    Next morning, the Giant stalked off as early as ever. His prison
                    years had made him fearful of walls. Out he went, all the daylight
                    hours, roving, raging, rampaging. Leo stood at the window watching
                    him limp and lumber away. Then he rushed to the linen press, heaved
                    on the doors. Inside was a riot of this and that: a tusk, a trowel,
                    a tent, a trap, a towel, a tin, a thousand trinkets. And then boxes.
                    All manner of boxes. Leo opened them all, big or small. Two were
                    heart-shaped. He tore at them. But there was no heart. Anything but
                    hearts.

                    "I'm back," announced the Giant later that evening, tossing a brace
                    of dead pigs on the kitchen step. The Giant sniffed into the air. A
                    suspicious sniff. "What's that smell?" he demanded, his nose tilted
                    up, snorting like a bellows. Leo pointed at the gleaming doors of
                    the old cupboard. "Polish," he said. The Giant's eyes widened in
                    disbelief. "What you polishing the cupboard for?" he demanded.
                    "It's the home of your heart," declared Leo. "It should be
                    polished." The Giant roared with laughter. "Did you really think I
                    kept my heart in a cupboard? Gah!" Leo feigned a look of
                    disappointment, then went to the first pig and heaved it up on his
                    shoulders to carry into the pantry. It was still warm. "If you want
                    to know," the Giant called after him, "my heart is under the
                    step." "Right," said Leo, treading on the stone step and continuing
                    on his way. "That old step," chortled the Giant. "That's where my
                    little heart beats. Ticktock."

                    Next morning, same story: off stomped the Giant and out went the
                    Prince, pick and shovel, hack and hew, digging out the step,
                    spooning out the earth. Stone. Dust. Roots. But no heart! Ach! Poor
                    Leo. He sank down onto the step, feet in the mounds of earth, and
                    despaired. From where he sat he could see the grim silhouettes of
                    his brothers and their fellow sufferers. Waiting. Waiting for him to
                    make amends.

                    "I'm back," called the Giant, throwing down a sack, splitting it,
                    and revealing hares and hens and ducks and every type of small bird,
                    all strangled. As he limped into the house, the Giant looked down to
                    see a map of his journey recorded in huge red footprints. "What's
                    that?" he demanded as Leo appeared. "Ah, you must have trodden on
                    the step, sir," replied Leo politely. "I painted it." The Giant
                    scowled. "What did you paint that old step for?" "It covers your
                    heart, and should be special." Leo bowed. "What?" gaffawed the
                    Giant. "You're a daffle-box! You'd believe anything!" "Yes,"
                    admitted Leo. "I supposed I am, sir. I mean, I fetched the keys to
                    the dungeon thinking I could trust you, didn't I? So...yes."
                    The Giant didn't know how to take this. He wasn't sure whether he
                    should feel flattered or insulted. So he sat on his chair and
                    offered his smudged boots for Leo to remove.

                    "The fact is, no one can find my heart," he declared proudly. "I'll
                    tell you exactly where it is and you'll still not find it." Leo did
                    not look up, but continued unwinding and bootlaces as the Giant
                    unleashed a torrent of directions in a single breath. "Far away, so
                    far you could not fathom it, so high you could not climb it, is a
                    mountain, and in the mountain is a lake in the lake is an island and
                    in the island is a church and in the church is a well and in the
                    well is a duck and in the duck is an egg and in the egg...is my
                    heart."

                    The Giant poked Leo with a giant finger, bowling him over and over
                    on the flagstones. "Not so easy, little thief, eh?" he
                    declared. "Not such a diddle and a doddle as you thought, is it? No.
                    Your father tricked me once. I shan't be tricked again."

                    That night as the Giant slept, Leo lay on his cot staring at the
                    ceiling. An egg in a duck in a well in a church in an island in a
                    lake in a mountain. Impossible, he decided as he stole from the
                    house and began the journey. Impossible, he decided as he passed his
                    brothers. Impossible, he decided as he glanced at the moon and saw,
                    in its pale silver, his friend Graylegs the Wolf, raising his head
                    to the wind and howling long and loud before turning and bounding
                    towards him. In a second, they were reunited, and Leo was explaining
                    everything. He knew, he said, he knew where the Giant's heart was,
                    he knew how to get there, but the journey was hard, treacherous,
                    impossible.

                    "Hold tight," said Graylegs, offering the Prince his back. "Hold
                    fast." And very tight they young Prince held, and very fast, for a
                    gray dash they went, headlong, a breathless blur of world flashing
                    by. And they came to the mountain, clambering, scrambling. And up at
                    last. And then the lake. Wide. Deep. "Hold tight!" the Wolf cried
                    again. "Hold close." And plunge, splash into the lake, heads arched
                    up above the water, cold, soaking, chilled, choking. And out at
                    last. On the island.

                    In its center loomed the church, its spire so high it threatened to
                    tear Heaven. Leo twisted the iron handles on the massive doors. The
                    doors were locked. Nothing would budge them. Leo hammered in
                    frustration on the thick oak panels. Above them the bells rang for
                    the Angelus. They looked up at the swing and toll.

                    "Look!" cried Graylegs and, squinting into the glare, Leo saw,
                    dangling impossibly high from the bell tower, the key. Then,
                    mingling with the cling-clang-clang-clong-clang of the bells, came a
                    new note. "Craa!" it sounded. "Craa! Craa!" And from nowhere the
                    bird whose wing Leo had mended swooped past them in salute before
                    swinging up the tower with a single beat and pulling the key off its
                    thread. Seconds later, the doors swung open. Sure enough, in one
                    corner they came upon a well, and in the well swam a duck.

                    Leo clambered up onto the lip of the well and began to scatter bread
                    to tempt the duck toward his open hands. He coaxed the duck with
                    each crumb, nearer and nearer until, with a sudden lunge, he had the
                    bird firmly in his grasp. But then, just as he pulled the duck out
                    of the water, the egg dropped from its body back into the water,
                    sinking into the blackness. Leo was dumbfounded. Then, miraculously,
                    the water's skin broke and a beautful fish leapt, twisted, turned,
                    and plunged, then reappeared, slapping the water with its tail. The
                    salmon! Back it dived, vanished, surfaced to flip the egg high into
                    the air. "Catch it!" howled Graylegs at Leo. And he did. He caught
                    the Giant's heart. Held it in his hands.

                    For a second time, the Heartless Giant woke to the sound of a drum
                    playing. "Rat-tat-rat-ta-ta-tat. Rat-tat-rat-ta-ta-tat." "Where've
                    you been?" he roared in his cracked voice as he charged from the
                    house toward Leo. "I've a good mind to set you there with your
                    brothers." Leo ignored him, continued the little drum roll on his
                    drum. "Rat-tat-rat-ta-ta-tat. Rat-tat-rat-ta-ta-tat." The Giant
                    boiled. "Stop that!" he ordered. Leo did not stop, but spoke as he
                    continued to beat on his drum. "Year ago, sir, you broke my heart,"
                    he said in a quiet voice. "Now I shall break yours." And with that
                    he laid down his drum and held aloft the egg that held the Giant's
                    heart. The Giant was terrified, paralyzed.

                    "No!" he whispered. "Don't...Be careful...don't break that...please,
                    I beg you." Leo stood before him, egg pressed threateningly between
                    his palms. "I will break it," he promised. "I'll squeeze and squeeze
                    it to bits unless you release my brothers and all these poor people."
                    "Yes! Anything! Don't drop, careful, please, please be careful!" The
                    Giant seemed to shrink with each second, his voice disintegrating to
                    a sorry broken cord. "I'll do anything you ask," he promised,
                    staggering toward the stone figures. "Look! I'm doing it!" And with
                    that he limped from statue to statue, touching each one, mumbling
                    the while. As he passed, each pose melted, softened, shuddered to
                    like. Leo's brothers ran to him, praising Heaven, embracing
                    him. "Brother! You've rescued us!" they cried.

                    The Giant limped toward the three brothers. "I've done as you bid,"
                    he whispered. "Can I have my heart?" Leo nodded. "You can, sir. As I
                    promised. For I know that with your heart in place you could not be
                    as you are now." The Giant sighed. "Thank you," he said, holding out
                    his hand for the return of his heart.

                    Leo's brothers lunged at him, trapping his arms, snatching the agg
                    from his grasp. Leo yelled. The Giant groaned. "Now, villain!" the
                    brothers cried. "For five long years we've stood here helpless and
                    watched your cruelty." Leo protested, struggled. The Giant hung he
                    head, closed his eyes. "Please," he asked sadly. "Don't. Please." By
                    now, the crowds of liberated souls has surrounded the group,
                    demanding vengeance. "Kill him!" they chanted. "Kill him! Kill him!
                    Kill him!"

                    "Don't!" Leo pleaded. "I promised! Don't!" But no one heard him. His
                    elder brother advanced on the Giant and squeezed on the egg. The
                    Giant staggered back, clutching the place where his heart should
                    have been, gasping for air, short agonized gasps. The crowd roared
                    it approval. Leo wept and wept, screaming to be heard over the
                    cheering. His brother squeezed again. As he sank slowly to his
                    knees, the Giant caught Leo in a terrible gaze. "You promised," he
                    said. "You promised."

                    Then the egg burst in the elder Pince's hands, yolk and white
                    slopping him. The crowd cheered. The Giant slumped forward and died.
                    Wasps swarmed angrily from his mouth. Where the Giant fell a hill
                    grew. And in time, when much was forgotten, when many Kings had come
                    and gone, the place was still known as the Hill of the Heartless
                    Giant.

                    Prince Leo lived to be a great age, became King, had forty-two
                    grandchildren, and told them all that tale. But in his story the
                    Giant got back his heart and made amends for all his wrongs.
                    Because, you see, despite all that took place, a little boy once met
                    a Giant and they became friends."
                  • Carol
                    re:The Heartless Giant Funny, how the solution to one of the most complex riddles which Humanity will be forced to resolve, has already been successfully
                    Message 9 of 25 , Feb 17, 2007

                      re:The Heartless Giant

                       Funny, how the solution to one of the most complex riddles which Humanity will be forced to resolve, has already been successfully tackled.  Who was the soul that composed that piece, and  when?  I have already read a very abbreviated version of the ‘tale’,  but this one in all it’s details has fallen at a perfect moment…

                       

                      I enjoy taking note of ‘action on this front’,  and though the following occurred  some months ago, details of  which are not readily publicised,  I thought to dig it up and share it, at this moment.

                       

                      PRESIDENT SEES LIGHT SURROUNDING HIM    

                      http://www.iran-press-service.com/ips/articles-2005/november-2005/ahmadi_revelations_291105.shtml

                       

                      ----- Original Message -----
                      Sent: Friday, February 16, 2007 4:53 PM
                      Subject: [anthroposophy] Re: Recovering history and navigating the ZeitGeist

                      Take out your Main Lesson books Spiritual Science students.
                      Today we are offering the Giant's Heart a discourse on current
                      events.

                      Bradford brought;

                      "That is why when we look at the disturbed heart condition of Dick
                      Cheney, we understand the disturbed condition of his heart in
                      relation to the great heart of the world."

                      Bradford adds;

                      Now this is where true thinkers rise and poor thinkers fall by the
                      way side. Poor thinkers with limp souls cannot and refuse to make
                      the connection that we are about to make. The connection that we are
                      about to make is to the Giants Heart. Presently being vice president
                      of the greatest super power on the planet, the United States, makes
                      Dick Cheney a heartless Giant. Now what kind of giant is Dick
                      Cheney? What is wrong and where is his heart if it has such trouble
                      finding the rhythm and keeping beat with the heart of the world?
                      Thesee are all simple questions with surprisingly simple answers
                      that with Jungian insights and vague imaginations we certainly will
                      not find many people left in the U.S. who can digest rich insights
                      and see imaginations with the intimate clarity that students of
                      Spiritual Science may.

                      Of course we can and we have in the past brought into the argument
                      aspects of the U.S. involvement in America's fall into fascism and
                      how Dick Cheney truly plays a very significant part in where we
                      would raise the question of Ahrimanic ailments of the soul and
                      malfunctioning disconnection of a human heart to the heart of the
                      world. These Sorathian Spiritual Science and Ahrimanic patterns we
                      have traced with precise historical relationships that have picked
                      up the patterns of the dawn of 1914 and the surge of military
                      ahrimanic intent that is currently riding on the same historical
                      rhythm that led Cheney to sign and bring forward the pre-emptive
                      Imperialism of the PNAC or Project for a New Ahrimanic Century at
                      the crack of light of the dark arising of 1997/8.

                      For Cheney and big Oil middle eastern chaos must continue to erupt.
                      The world's supply of oil must be owned and kept by the United
                      States. This is U.S. policy. Pre-emptive attacks on innocent
                      countries murdering tens of thousands with escalation of torture and
                      fair trials gone the way of Nazi Germany...along with the U.S.,
                      Britain and Israel, a nasty triad that is sinking to Sorathian
                      levels of dark lodge intents, all this must continue for Amerika to
                      dominate under Cheney's heartlessness.

                      What type of imagination hovers around the leader, the actual black
                      Lodge mouthpiece of someone who cannot adjust his heart to the
                      actual heart of the world? We will present the diagnosis in a fairy
                      tale. That way those with true understanding of diagnostic pictures
                      and imaginations will have something extremely vital to point to
                      when they point to the reality behind the fall of the United States.
                      And we grant that all of us know that the real idea of terrorism is
                      not anywhere close to the representative reality of the heart of the
                      world, but if it were black ops and terrorism, it would match up
                      with what Dick Cheney wants to project all around him and America
                      with torture chambers over the globe... a Giant Darkness.

                      Now the second wave of Michael Intelligence might very well
                      understand the problems that exist in the subtext of history vs that
                      of recovering Grail history, the Etheric Christ and the human heart,
                      or the aspect of Justice and the aspect of understanding that as a
                      human being, if such a bad heart serves a dark master, it is better
                      to get a new heart and a new incarnation rather than continue on
                      with such an icy corrupt and cold heart. Dick Cheney has had his
                      heart removed.

                      The Heartless Giant

                      [Note when the word Giant appears INSERT, Dick Cheney}

                      On the whole, there's absolutely no need to be frightened by Giants.
                      Giants are gentle souls, perfectly harmless, and very affectionate.
                      Unless, of course, the Giant has no heart in his body.

                      Think of all kinds of unpleasant things and add Giant to them and
                      that's what you get when a Giant has no heart. Such a Giant once
                      terrorized a county in the far north of the world, near the very
                      top. He'd hidden his heart. It gave him too much trouble, all those
                      Giant Feelings, too much pain. In its place was a wasps' nest. About
                      to swarm. Put your ear to his chest and you'd hear an angry buzzing
                      noise.

                      This Heartless Giant could shake a man and shuffle his wits. He
                      could crack a skull with his fist like a walnut. And frequently did.
                      Until, at last, the old King of that country, as good as the Giant
                      was bad, trapped him in a giant trap and locked him in a cell. There
                      the Giant crouched, an inch of the outside world to look at, the
                      damp dripping from the walls, the dull rattle of his chains, his low
                      angry growl a ceaseless rumble through the King's castle.
                      Years passed in this was until the Giant's voice had grated away to
                      the hoarsest whisper and folk had quite forgotten about Giants with
                      no hearts. And he'd be there still, in his foul pit, were it not for
                      a little boy whose name was Leo.

                      Leo was the King's youngest son. He had two brothers who were
                      bigger. Prince Leo could leave not stone unturned, no passage
                      unexplored, no drawer unrammaged, so incurably curious was he. One
                      morning, scouting the far and deep of the castle, he came across a
                      tiny, barred window set in the bottom of a huge gray wall. Looking
                      through it, Leo saw nothing buy dank dark pitch black. But as he
                      turned away he imagined he heard a stir, and then came a growl, a
                      low buzz of a growl. It was a frightening sound.

                      His brothers told a Giant with no heart lived in this prison with
                      the tiny window. He didn't believe them. They were older, his
                      brothers, and forever teasing him. But the next day he went back,
                      carrying his drum. "Rat-tat-rat- ta-ta-tat, " he played outside the
                      window. From inside the dark dank pitch black he heard a rattle,
                      like the rattle of a chain. He crept to the window and squinted into
                      the shadows. Two eyes blinked back at him. Leo jumped. A wasp buzzed
                      angrily through the bars. Leo ran off. It was true, there was a
                      Giant!

                      All night Leo thougth about the Giant, his eyes, the low rumbling
                      growl. Next morning, he was back, "rat-tat-rat- ta-ta-tat, " on his
                      little drum. The Giant was waiting for him. When Leo tiptoed to the
                      window, he was there, whispering hello. The Giant told Leo that long
                      ago he had done some bad things and that the King had locked him up.
                      Leo couldn't imagine what these bad things were. He worried about
                      the poor Giant, stuck down there in terrible chains. He lit a candle
                      and held it to the hole.

                      The Giant was so big he had to crouch with his chin on this knees
                      and his elbos bent. He looked to Leo like a huge sad baby, his
                      yellow eyes screwed up against the candle's sudden glare. Leo said
                      he would speak to his father, it wasn't fair the Giant had been
                      locked up for so long; he must have been forgotten. "No," croaked
                      the Giant, all anxious. "If you say anything, they'll make me stay
                      down here forever and I shall surely perish." The eyes blinked
                      nearer. "Would you like to be my friend?"

                      Leo was elated. "Oh yes, yes please!" "Good. Good," said the Giant.
                      Good, thought Leo; I have a secret friend. Good, thought the Giant
                      who had shed his heart at last. And he sighed a chill sigh and
                      planned chill plans, while the young prince skipped back along the
                      path, swinging the iron gate behind him, caressing his secret,
                      nurturing it, back to his room.

                      And so it began, the friendship between the huge, crouching Giant
                      and the little Prince. Every day, the boy would appear, rat-tat-
                      tatting on his drum. Every day he'd tell a little more, hear a
                      little more, until he felt he knew no one better, that no one knew
                      him better. Oh, he wanted to tell the whole world about his friend.
                      But the Giant said, "Out secret," and Leo agreed, although he would
                      have loved to tell his mother or his two brothers or somebody. But
                      he couldn't so he shouldn't, so he wouldn't so he didn't. The Giant,
                      meanwhile crouched in his blackness and schemed. And so it was that
                      one day he told Leo he'd heard a Guard saying that the King slept
                      with the keys to the Giant's chains hanging on a ring by his bed.
                      Leo had always those keys were for the Crown Jewels. "No," said the
                      Giant. "They're for my misery." Leo felt desperate for his
                      misunderstood fiend, and a plan formed in his mind. The Giant
                      watched it being born and sighed a cold sigh. Deep inside, in the
                      prize where his heart should have been, the wasped seethed and
                      buzzed.

                      That very night, when the whole castle was sleeping, when the Royal
                      Guards slumped against their sentry posts and dozed, when the owls
                      hooted, little Prince Leo slipped from his bed, slid past a sleeping
                      sentry, and pushed on the door of his parents' room. He tiptoed
                      round the great bed with its velvet eiderdown, past his sleeping
                      mother and sleeping father, to the hook where the keys were hung.
                      They were so heavy. He heaved them up and they swung together,
                      clanging like the Angelus bell. Leo clutched them tight, their black
                      metal teeth squashing his toes, their hooped handles framing his
                      face. Slowly, slowly, inch by inch, he dragged the huge keys out of
                      the room.

                      "I've got the keys," he whispered, trembling at the little window.
                      He let them ring against the bars. "Who goes there?" challenged a
                      voice from the darkness. It was the one sentry still awake. "Hurry,
                      hurry!" growled the Giant from the bowels of the dungeon. Leo
                      struggled to push the keys through the bars. The teeth went in and
                      the long shafts, but when it came to the ring he couldn't work out
                      how to do it. "They're too big," he explained as he heard the
                      Giant's snort of impatience. "I can't do it." Leo wanted to drop the
                      keys and run for his life. "Push them," hissed the Giant. "Push
                      them!" The Giant's voice was colder than the night, it was icy. Leo
                      pushed. A great hand yanked on the keys. Leo saw its shape in the
                      shadows. He felt a terrible force pulling downward.

                      "Who goes there?" demanded the approaching voice. And then, with a
                      sudden wrench, the keys disappeared, pulling the bars with then into
                      the blackness. Leo heard a sigh issue from the Giant. A horrible
                      aching sigh. Then the turning of locks, the crushing of
                      doors. "Don't forget to let me have them back," he said, staring
                      blankly into the dungeon. He shivered again.

                      The sentry's torch was almost upon him. Suddenly the silence was
                      rent with cries. A man screamed, and there was the sound of
                      crunching, like a great walnut cracking. Then a broken, throaty
                      roar. At the far corner, a door burst from its hinges, spilling
                      light onto Leo's face. The Giant appeared. From his head, squeezing
                      at the entrance, pulling away bricks and lintels, then his
                      shoulders, squeezing, straining through. A giant baby being born
                      into the night. Leo watched, horrified. The Giant glanced at Leo,
                      but only for a second. As he emerged from the entrance, first one
                      sentry, then a second confronted him, challenging him with a sword
                      and spear. The Giant hoisted them up, one in each fist, and cracked
                      their heads together before tossing them away. Then, with the sound
                      of the alarm, the Heartless Giant turned and limped off, roaring his
                      broken roar.

                      All night Leo sat shivering on the battlements at the King and his
                      men searched the grounds of the castle. His father's angry words
                      haunted him. "Someone betrayed us. Only a madman would help a Giant
                      with no heart. Someone betrayed us." Leo's face swam with tears. So
                      letdown, he felt. So stupid. So guilty. Every scream was his fault.
                      Every cracked skull. And when finally morning came, the boy in him,
                      the innocent heart, the joy in him, they were gone-those things,
                      like his friend-and they would never return.

                      Next morning, Leo looked down and saw his Elder Brother march across
                      the courtyard. He carried his sword and his axe and his bow and a
                      large saddlebag, which he yanked up onto his shoulder. "Where are
                      you going?" Leo called down. "Sh-h-h!" warned the brother. "I am
                      going to get back the Giant." Leo felt awful. "Have you told
                      anybody?" Elder Brother shook his head proudly. "No. Of course not.
                      But I must go. Father is too old." And with this he offered up his
                      hand in salute and turned, young warrior, off to find the
                      Giant. "I'm sorry," wept his brother, but no one heard him.
                      And Elder Brother did not come back.

                      The spring came and went with sadness in it. Every day, more stories
                      reached the castle of the Giant's cruel rampage. So it was that one
                      glum morning, perched on the ledge of his window, Leo looked down
                      and saw Middle Brother striding through the courtyard, golden helmet
                      blazing, shield sparkling. "Where are you going?" Leo called
                      out. "To find our brother and to kill the Giant." Leo was beside
                      himself. "Please don't! It's madness. He has no heart." Middle
                      Brother shook his proud head. "I must go. Our father's too old now."
                      Leo could not stand it. "But he'll trick you!" he blurted
                      out. "He'll trick you!" Middle Brother would not listen. He raised
                      his hand in salute and set off to find the Giant. Terrible, Leo
                      felt, as he watched him go, terrible.

                      And Middle Brother did not come back either.

                      The summer that year was short, the winter wild and endless. One
                      day, Leo heard his mother's sobs from far off and came into her
                      bedroom to find her kneeling in sorrow, head against the green
                      velvet of the eiderdown. "Mother?" The Queen did not look up. "Your
                      father says he intends to go off and fight the Giant. "I've lost two
                      sons already. He's too old. He's too ill." She wept and wept. She
                      wanted Leo to promise he would not follow his brothers. "Promise me,
                      promise me you won't ever go." But he couldn't promise, how could
                      he? Were it not for him, the Heartless Giant would still be chained
                      and locked and safe in the dungeon.

                      Next morning, at the crack of dawn, dressed in thick leather jerkin,
                      Leo rode into the Royal Stables. He carried with him saddlebags
                      stuffed with cheese and ham and biscuits and salted beef, but no
                      weapon of any kind. He approached the stall where his father's
                      stallion stood, tall, scarred, imperious, swung the saddle over the
                      beast's back, and led him from the stable. Off they rode without
                      looking back, their breath steaming out before them, the path
                      flashing by, on and on and on.

                      And so the young Prince Leo rode the land in search of his once
                      friend the Heartless Giant. Three winters came and went, their
                      bitter shiver, but still he rode on, determined. And many times were
                      the saddlebags epmtied and filled; many nights slept achingly cold,
                      huddled with his horse for warmth; many days spent without sighting
                      a single soul. The boy changed slowly into man, took his own
                      counsel, his jaw set in resolve, his heart firm, his plan fixed. Yet
                      to find the Heartless Giant was no easy thing. His pillage had
                      stripped the landscape bare. Only bleached bones, spat-out ruins,
                      whispered nightmares remained. Where the Giant was no one knew. Long
                      gone, the survivers told Leo as he bent from the horse's neck. Lone
                      gone.

                      Then one day he came to a place and knew he was finally on the
                      Gaint's trail. The sweet stench of blood curdled the air. A village,
                      abandoned, smoldered and smoked. Leo's horse reared and bucked and
                      was fearful. Looking down to the earth for clues, they saw a bird
                      flap, helpless, a torn wing shuddering pitifully. The Prince set
                      down and took up the bird in his hands. "Craa! Craa! Help me!" it
                      cried. "The Giant broke me and now I cannot fly, cannot eat. Craa!
                      Help me."

                      And Leo tended the bird, fixed its wing, fed it bread soaked in
                      milk. And soon all was well with it. Leo threw it high into the air
                      and watched it soar, its vivid re-ascent. "Thank you!" cried the
                      bird from the heavens. If you need me, I shan't forget." And with
                      that a "Craa! Craa!" it flew off. And they followed.

                      Not lone after, Leo stopped at a brook, horse and rider hungry and
                      thirsty, sore and weary. As they drank, they heard a flapping, heard
                      a thrashing, heard a slapping, and, looking round, Leo saw a salmon,
                      twisting, franitic, beached in the crook of a small crevasse. "Help
                      me!" cried the choking fish. "Help me back into the water! I'm stuck
                      here, I'm stranded, I'm beached up and landed! Help me!"

                      Now Leo was famished, and he loved salmon over the taste of any
                      fish. But he'd suffered sufficient, this fellow, thought the Prince.
                      He pick up the flailing fish and swung it gently into the stream,
                      back to where the salmon is King. Off it flashed through the reeds
                      and green ripples, before leaping up in the middle of the water,
                      slapping the surface with its message. "Thank you!" it cried. "If
                      you need me, I shan't forget." Then it plunged back into the brook,
                      and they followed its zig and its zag down the stream, for that way
                      lay the Giant.

                      Now neither Leo nor his horse had eaten in days. They were faint
                      with hunger. Their progress slowed to a weary jog and stumble, until
                      at last the old stallion sank slowly to his knees and gave up the
                      ghost. Enough, he sighed, rolled over, and died. Leo lay behind his
                      faithful servant and shed tears enough to break a heart, half from
                      love, half from despair. Then he slipped into sleep. He dreamed he
                      was in his mother's bed, warm and cherished. So warm, his mother
                      mursing him, licking up his wet cheeks, hugging him. So vivid. He
                      woke hugging himself, only to find a dead horse beside him and not
                      his mother but a great Wolf coiled around his body, terrible teeth
                      glistening, tongue hanging out with hunger.

                      And, seeing his eyes flicker, the Wolf howled a terrible howl, fixed
                      on Leo's bare, unguarded throat. "Help!" howled the Wolf. "I've not
                      eaten since the winter came. Help me and I'll not forget you." Leo
                      had no food, save his own flesh. He took up his courage and spoke to
                      the Wolf, whose sour breath plaited with his own, so near they were
                      to the other's jaw. "How can I?" he replied. "I have no food
                      myself." The Wolf nudged against the dead horse. "Then let me eat
                      your horse," he panted, his tongue a vicious red swipe across his
                      teeth. "I'll eat it and be strong again. Trust me. I'll help you."
                      The Prince could not watch as the starving animal leapt upon the
                      flesh of the stallion. In no time, he eaten every scrap of flesh,
                      chewed the bones, spat them out. Leo allowed himself to single
                      glance from a distance. He caught the Wolf's red eyes contemplating
                      him, the tongue sweeping the teeth, the body crouched over a mess of
                      rib and hunk.

                      "Master. Come here," said the Wolf. Leo was resigned. "Am I next to
                      go?" he asked simply. The Wolf nodded. "Oh yes, us both must go," he
                      replied. "For you seek the Giant, I know. And now, strong again,
                      I'll help you. On my back, sir, and let's leave this place."
                      Off they went a gray dash, a day and a night and a morning, until
                      they came at last to a strange garden full of statues. Stone men.
                      Stone women. Stone soldiers. Leo slipped from Grayleg's back and
                      examined the statues. So lifelike were they, he felt a warmer sun
                      might thaw them into being. He passed the bend, supplicant figure of
                      an old woman, ivy in her stone tresses, then came to a statue of a
                      brave young warrior, sword drawn, shield raised. Leo walked round to
                      face it. "It's my brother!" he gasped. "This is a statue of my
                      brother!" Graylegs the Wolf shook his head. "No, my lord, no statue.
                      This is the Giant's work. There is his house," he continued, nodding
                      toward a clearing. "All who approach he turns to stone."

                      A little way down, the Prince came across another figure, frozen in
                      the act of straining at the longbow, arrow poised at the ear. It was
                      the Elder Brother. "You too!" cried Leo in despair. "You too."
                      At the end of the clearing was the place where the Giant lived, a
                      strange building made by tearing up the whole village and squashing
                      it into a single house. Inside, the Heartless Giant was asleep.
                      A "Rat-tat-rat- ta-ta-tat, " over and over. He heaved his huge frame
                      to the patchwork of windows and looked out. Standing there,
                      fearless, without weapon, beathing his child's drum, was the young
                      Prince Leo.

                      The Giant took Leo in as his servant. The Prince explained how it
                      was discovered he had helped the Giant escape. The Giant laughed at
                      this. Had he seen his brothers, stone men in the garden? Leo said he
                      had. Any who crossed him got the same treatment, so Leo had better
                      be on his mettle. The Giant picked up the drum between his fingers
                      and tapped out the march rhythm, memories flooding back. "That
                      terrible cage," he sighed. "I had to fool you to get the keys.
                      Otherwise I'd still be there, rotting. I still limp, you know." Then
                      he squeezed Leo affectionately in his palm. "so, my little Leo, back
                      again. Hah! Yes, stay if you like. No tricks, though, to traps. Else
                      you'll end up like your brothers."

                      "No tricks, no traps," agreed the boy and went inside.
                      So Leo became the servant of the Giant. For weeks he cleaned, for
                      weeks he scoured, until spick where speck was and span where
                      squalor. Each evening, the Giant returned from his Wild outings to
                      find the fire lit, the hearth swept, his breeches pressed. He liked
                      this. Very nice. "Very nice," he'd say as he slurped and slopped his
                      stew. "I should have had a servant before. I like it." He
                      burped. "It befits a Giant." Leo bowed and cleared the plates away.
                      He was always silent, always polite, always cleaning, always
                      watching.

                      Then the Giant croaked his cracked laugh. "And don't I treat you
                      bad, do I? For a Heartless Giant." Leo kept walking away with the
                      dishes. He spoke without looking back, his words light and idly
                      curious. "What happened to your heart?"

                      Black clouds furrowed the Giant's brow. "It's in safekeeping, " he
                      growled. Leo kept walking. The Giant continued, suddenly swelling,
                      thumping the place where his heart should have been: "Can't feel
                      without it, can I? Can't get hurt. Can't die from heartbreak if I
                      haven't got one. I'm invincible!" he guffawed. Leo shrugged,
                      impressed. "Clever," he said casually. "So where is it, then, your
                      heart?" Wasps streamed from the Giant's mouth. "He who pries is
                      prone to die," he warned. "Do you follow me?" "Yes." Leo walked into
                      the kitchen. Then the Giant called after him. "But I'll tell you if
                      you want to know. My heart's in that cupboard."

                      Leo was passing a huge laundry press, its old wooden doors bleached
                      and scarred with age. He paused for an instant, felt his own heart
                      pounding. There! pounded his heart; his heart is there! The
                      Heartless Giant, crouching at the table, missed nothing. He smirked,
                      belched, and slumped into an after-dinner snore.

                      Next morning, the Giant stalked off as early as ever. His prison
                      years had made him fearful of walls. Out he went, all the daylight
                      hours, roving, raging, rampaging. Leo stood at the window watching
                      him limp and lumber away. Then he rushed to the linen press, heaved
                      on the doors. Inside was a riot of this and that: a tusk, a trowel,
                      a tent, a trap, a towel, a tin, a thousand trinkets. And then boxes.
                      All manner of boxes. Leo opened them all, big or small. Two were
                      heart-shaped. He tore at them. But there was no heart. Anything but
                      hearts.

                      "I'm back," announced the Giant later that evening, tossing a brace
                      of dead pigs on the kitchen step. The Giant sniffed into the air. A
                      suspicious sniff. "What's that smell?" he demanded, his nose tilted
                      up, snorting like a bellows. Leo pointed at the gleaming doors of
                      the old cupboard. "Polish," he said. The Giant's eyes widened in
                      disbelief. "What you polishing the cupboard for?" he demanded.
                      "It's the home of your heart," declared Leo. "It should be
                      polished." The Giant roared with laughter. "Did you really think I
                      kept my heart in a cupboard? Gah!" Leo feigned a look of
                      disappointment, then went to the first pig and heaved it up on his
                      shoulders to carry into the pantry. It was still warm. "If you want
                      to know," the Giant called after him, "my heart is under the
                      step." "Right," said Leo, treading on the stone step and continuing
                      on his way. "That old step," chortled the Giant. "That's where my
                      little heart beats. Ticktock."

                      Next morning, same story: off stomped the Giant and out went the
                      Prince, pick and shovel, hack and hew, digging out the step,
                      spooning out the earth. Stone. Dust. Roots. But no heart! Ach! Poor
                      Leo. He sank down onto the step, feet in the mounds of earth, and
                      despaired. From where he sat he could see the grim silhouettes of
                      his brothers and their fellow sufferers. Waiting. Waiting for him to
                      make amends.

                      "I'm back," called the Giant, throwing down a sack, splitting it,
                      and revealing hares and hens and ducks and every type of small bird,
                      all strangled. As he limped into the house, the Giant looked down to
                      see a map of his journey recorded in huge red footprints. "What's
                      that?" he demanded as Leo appeared. "Ah, you must have trodden on
                      the step, sir," replied Leo politely. "I painted it." The Giant
                      scowled. "What did you paint that old step for?" "It covers your
                      heart, and should be special." Leo bowed. "What?" gaffawed the
                      Giant. "You're a daffle-box! You'd believe anything!" "Yes,"
                      admitted Leo. "I supposed I am, sir. I mean, I fetched the keys to
                      the dungeon thinking I could trust you, didn't I? So...yes."
                      The Giant didn't know how to take this. He wasn't sure whether he
                      should feel flattered or insulted. So he sat on his chair and
                      offered his smudged boots for Leo to remove.

                      "The fact is, no one can find my heart," he declared proudly. "I'll
                      tell you exactly where it is and you'll still not find it." Leo did
                      not look up, but continued unwinding and bootlaces as the Giant
                      unleashed a torrent of directions in a single breath. "Far away, so
                      far you could not fathom it, so high you could not climb it, is a
                      mountain, and in the mountain is a lake in the lake is an island and
                      in the island is a church and in the church is a well and in the
                      well is a duck and in the duck is an egg and in the egg...is my
                      heart."

                      The Giant poked Leo with a giant finger, bowling him over and over
                      on the flagstones. "Not so easy, little thief, eh?" he
                      declared. "Not such a diddle and a doddle as you thought, is it? No.
                      Your father tricked me once. I shan't be tricked again."

                      That night as the Giant slept, Leo lay on his cot staring at the
                      ceiling. An egg in a duck in a well in a church in an island in a
                      lake in a mountain. Impossible, he decided as he stole from the
                      house and began the journey. Impossible, he decided as he passed his
                      brothers. Impossible, he decided as he glanced at the moon and saw,
                      in its pale silver, his friend Graylegs the Wolf, raising his head
                      to the wind and howling long and loud before turning and bounding
                      towards him. In a second, they were reunited, and Leo was explaining
                      everything. He knew, he said, he knew where the Giant's heart was,
                      he knew how to get there, but the journey was hard, treacherous,
                      impossible.

                      "Hold tight," said Graylegs, offering the Prince his back. "Hold
                      fast." And very tight they young Prince held, and very fast, for a
                      gray dash they went, headlong, a breathless blur of world flashing
                      by. And they came to the mountain, clambering, scrambling. And up at
                      last. And then the lake. Wide. Deep. "Hold tight!" the Wolf cried
                      again. "Hold close." And plunge, splash into the lake, heads arched
                      up above the water, cold, soaking, chilled, choking. And out at
                      last. On the island.

                      In its center loomed the church, its spire so high it threatened to
                      tear Heaven. Leo twisted the iron handles on the massive doors. The
                      doors were locked. Nothing would budge them. Leo hammered in
                      frustration on the thick oak panels. Above them the bells rang for
                      the Angelus. They looked up at the swing and toll.

                      "Look!" cried Graylegs and, squinting into the glare, Leo saw,
                      dangling impossibly high from the bell tower, the key. Then,
                      mingling with the cling-clang- clang-clong- clang of the bells, came a
                      new note. "Craa!" it sounded. "Craa! Craa!" And from nowhere the
                      bird whose wing Leo had mended swooped past them in salute before
                      swinging up the tower with a single beat and pulling the key off its
                      thread. Seconds later, the doors swung open. Sure enough, in one
                      corner they came upon a well, and in the well swam a duck.

                      Leo clambered up onto the lip of the well and began to scatter bread
                      to tempt the duck toward his open hands. He coaxed the duck with
                      each crumb, nearer and nearer until, with a sudden lunge, he had the
                      bird firmly in his grasp. But then, just as he pulled the duck out
                      of the water, the egg dropped from its body back into the water,
                      sinking into the blackness. Leo was dumbfounded. Then, miraculously,
                      the water's skin broke and a beautful fish leapt, twisted, turned,
                      and plunged, then reappeared, slapping the water with its tail. The
                      salmon! Back it dived, vanished, surfaced to flip the egg high into
                      the air. "Catch it!" howled Graylegs at Leo. And he did. He caught
                      the Giant's heart. Held it in his hands.

                      For a second time, the Heartless Giant woke to the sound of a drum
                      playing. "Rat-tat-rat- ta-ta-tat. Rat-tat-rat- ta-ta-tat. " "Where've
                      you been?" he roared in his cracked voice as he charged from the
                      house toward Leo. "I've a good mind to set you there with your
                      brothers." Leo ignored him, continued the little drum roll on his
                      drum. "Rat-tat-rat- ta-ta-tat. Rat-tat-rat- ta-ta-tat. " The Giant
                      boiled. "Stop that!" he ordered. Leo did not stop, but spoke as he
                      continued to beat on his drum. "Year ago, sir, you broke my heart,"
                      he said in a quiet voice. "Now I shall break yours." And with that
                      he laid down his drum and held aloft the egg that held the Giant's
                      heart. The Giant was terrified, paralyzed.

                      "No!" he whispered. "Don't...Be careful...don' t break that...please,
                      I beg you." Leo stood before him, egg pressed threateningly between
                      his palms. "I will break it," he promised. "I'll squeeze and squeeze
                      it to bits unless you release my brothers and all these poor people."
                      "Yes! Anything! Don't drop, careful, please, please be careful!" The
                      Giant seemed to shrink with each second, his voice disintegrating to
                      a sorry broken cord. "I'll do anything you ask," he promised,
                      staggering toward the stone figures. "Look! I'm doing it!" And with
                      that he limped from statue to statue, touching each one, mumbling
                      the while. As he passed, each pose melted, softened, shuddered to
                      like. Leo's brothers ran to him, praising Heaven, embracing
                      him. "Brother! You've rescued us!" they cried.

                      The Giant limped toward the three brothers. "I've done as you bid,"
                      he whispered. "Can I have my heart?" Leo nodded. "You can, sir. As I
                      promised. For I know that with your heart in place you could not be
                      as you are now." The Giant sighed. "Thank you," he said, holding out
                      his hand for the return of his heart.

                      Leo's brothers lunged at him, trapping his arms, snatching the agg
                      from his grasp. Leo yelled. The Giant groaned. "Now, villain!" the
                      brothers cried. "For five long years we've stood here helpless and
                      watched your cruelty." Leo protested, struggled. The Giant hung he
                      head, closed his eyes. "Please," he asked sadly. "Don't. Please." By
                      now, the crowds of liberated souls has surrounded the group,
                      demanding vengeance. "Kill him!" they chanted. "Kill him! Kill him!
                      Kill him!"

                      "Don't!" Leo pleaded. "I promised! Don't!" But no one heard him. His
                      elder brother advanced on the Giant and squeezed on the egg. The
                      Giant staggered back, clutching the place where his heart should
                      have been, gasping for air, short agonized gasps. The crowd roared
                      it approval. Leo wept and wept, screaming to be heard over the
                      cheering. His brother squeezed again. As he sank slowly to his
                      knees, the Giant caught Leo in a terrible gaze. "You promised," he
                      said. "You promised."

                      Then the egg burst in the elder Pince's hands, yolk and white
                      slopping him. The crowd cheered. The Giant slumped forward and died.
                      Wasps swarmed angrily from his mouth. Where the Giant fell a hill
                      grew. And in time, when much was forgotten, when many Kings had come
                      and gone, the place was still known as the Hill of the Heartless
                      Giant.

                      Prince Leo lived to be a great age, became King, had forty-two
                      grandchildren, and told them all that tale. But in his story the
                      Giant got back his heart and made amends for all his wrongs.
                      Because, you see, despite all that took place, a little boy once met
                      a Giant and they became friends."

                    • holderlin66
                      Profile in Ahrimanic intrusion and Soul overshadowing. The Voice of the White House Washington, D.C., March 18, 2007: Early last week, I was having dinner
                      Message 10 of 25 , Mar 20, 2007
                        Profile in Ahrimanic intrusion and Soul overshadowing.

                        The Voice of the White House

                        "Washington, D.C., March 18, 2007: "Early last week, I was having
                        dinner with an old friend of my wife's who works for the Justice
                        Department as an analyst. During the course of the meal, he
                        mentioned a lengthy report he has on his desk about Vice President
                        Cheney. It was compiled by a Department individual, known to him and
                        considered to be very accurate.

                        It is a lengthy report on Cheney's psychological makeup, his
                        physical problems and a clear rationale for his very possible death,
                        probably in the near future.

                        It is not a state secret that Cheney is in very bad health. He had
                        suffered, to date, four major and three minor heart attacks, he has
                        had quadruple bypass surgery, a pacemaker installed and two
                        angioplasty surgical procedures (to clear badly plugged arteries.)
                        The last available, but certainly not public, medical prognosis is
                        that it would take very little for Cheney to have a final, and
                        fatal, heart attack.

                        The recent discovery that Cheney suffered a blood clot in his leg
                        and has undergone both a medical intervention and is now receiving
                        anticoagulant medicines in addition to a significant regimen of
                        other medications aimed at controlling his very high blood pressure
                        and equally high cholesterol levels. He has been told by his
                        doctors to lose at least 30 pounds, to be very careful of his diet
                        and to engage in physical exercise, designed to improve circulation,
                        on a daily basis. His age, lack of exercise and weight problems
                        coupled with his psychological makeup are inevitably going to kill
                        him, sooner rather than later.

                        Cheney's psychological makeup is a contributory factor to his
                        ongoing and escalating circulation problems.

                        He has an obsessive/compulsive personality that internalizes
                        stressful episodes. Cheney has always been the powerful and driving
                        force behind Bush's disastrous Mid East policies. Cheney is a
                        fixated Cold War personality who hates and fears the Russians,
                        believing that they are still Communists, bent on the destruction of
                        the United States. Cheney is also determined to enrich himself via
                        his stock options with Halliburton, the oil company. Due solely to
                        his actions in giving Halliburton many highly lucrative, no-bid
                        government contracts, Cheney has effectively boosted the value of
                        Halliburton's stock and he now holds a significant number of stock
                        options in that company, which he once ran, which, if liquidated,
                        would make him very rich.

                        He has instigated a number of CIA operations against the Russian
                        Republic, designed to gain US control over former Soviet republics
                        that are rich in oil or who possess territory over which immensely
                        profitable oil and gas pipelines must pass in order for these
                        resources to reach western markets.

                        Cheney hates Russian President Putin because he sees Putin as a man
                        who deliberately thwarted US plans to gain control over Russian oil
                        and gas resources via the actions of the so-called Russian
                        Oligarchs. The latter were all Jews and working with an Israeli-
                        controlled bank in New York and with the cooperation of their co-
                        religionists in the IMF and the World Bank, came very close to
                        achieving this control.

                        Putin is now seen by Cheney and his associates as the one force
                        blocking a renewal of US business control over Russian natural
                        resources and Cheney has made no attempt to conceal his fury and
                        frustration over what he sees as a major business and political
                        defeat.

                        In addition to this problem, Cheney's failing plans to set up a
                        permanent US military base in oil-rich Iraq to secure the area and,
                        in addition, serve as a badly-needed bulwark for an Israel who
                        hates, and is afraid of, many of her very hostile Arab neighbors has
                        added immensely to what has been a stressful career.

                        I knew Cheney during the Reagan years in power and even then he was
                        a driven man, obsessive in his attitudes, completely intolerant of
                        any opinions that ran counter to his os own and determined to be
                        the man whose decisions were the only correct ones and therefore
                        must be implemented. Our of the government, he longed to return to
                        the corridors of power and when he was asked to chair a committee to
                        find a suitable vice president for the Supreme Court-appointed Bush,
                        he naturally chose himself.

                        His aides have often spoken, sometimes in my presence, about
                        Cheney's contempt for what he sees as a weak and spineless president
                        but he realizes that he is incapable of becoming chief of state
                        though he once said,,,"If someone nails George, then you'll see some
                        royal ass-kicking!"

                        Cheney's personal drive and his complete dominance over a weak
                        president, coupled with the vicious and vindictive manipulations of
                        Karl Rove, Bush's poison dwarf, have wreaked havoc on the American
                        diplomatic, military, political and now, economic, structures but he
                        will never give up and never leave his White House office except on
                        a gurney.

                        He has been further stressed by the departure and subsequent
                        conviction of I. Lewis Libby, one of his closest associates and a
                        good friend. Cheney in triumph was a study in arrogance and power
                        but Cheney in growing defeat will only turn his rage and frustration
                        inwards and, given his serious medical problems, is a certain
                        candidate for an imminent state funeral.

                        This may sound cruel on my part, but given the damage Dick Cheney
                        has done, and is capable of doing, his passing would be a blessing
                        for the people of the United States and, indeed, the world."

                        The Heartless Giant ---- Can be read from earlier post

                        [Note when the word Giant appears INSERT, Dick Cheney}

                        On the whole, there's absolutely no need to be frightened by Giants.
                        Giants are gentle souls, perfectly harmless, and very affectionate.
                        Unless, of course, the Giant has no heart in his body.

                        Think of all kinds of unpleasant things and add Giant to them and
                        that's what you get when a Giant has no heart. Such a Giant once
                        terrorized a county in the far north of the world, near the very
                        top. He'd hidden his heart. It gave him too much trouble, all those
                        Giant Feelings, too much pain. In its place was a wasps' nest. About
                        to swarm. Put your ear to his chest and you'd hear an angry buzzing
                        noise.

                        This Heartless Giant could shake a man and shuffle his wits. He
                        could crack a skull with his fist like a walnut. And frequently did.
                        Until, at last, the old King of that country, as good as the Giant
                        was bad, trapped him in a giant trap and locked him in a cell. There
                        the Giant crouched, an inch of the outside world to look at, the
                        damp dripping from the walls, the dull rattle of his chains, his low
                        angry growl a ceaseless rumble through the King's castle.
                        Years passed in this was until the Giant's voice had grated away to
                        the hoarsest whisper and folk had quite forgotten about Giants with
                        no hearts. And he'd be there still, in his foul pit, were it not for
                        a little boy whose name was Leo.

                        Leo was the King's youngest son. He had two brothers who were
                        bigger. Prince Leo could leave not stone unturned, no passage
                        unexplored, no drawer unrammaged, so incurably curious was he. One
                        morning, scouting the far and deep of the castle, he came across a
                        tiny, barred window set in the bottom of a huge gray wall. Looking
                        through it, Leo saw nothing buy dank dark pitch black. But as he
                        turned away he imagined he heard a stir, and then came a growl, a
                        low buzz of a growl. It was a frightening sound.

                        His brothers told a Giant with no heart lived in this prison with
                        the tiny window. He didn't believe them. They were older, his
                        brothers, and forever teasing him. But the next day he went back,
                        carrying his drum. "Rat-tat-rat-ta-ta-tat," he played outside the
                        window. From inside the dark dank pitch black he heard a rattle,
                        like the rattle of a chain. He crept to the window and squinted into
                        the shadows. Two eyes blinked back at him. Leo jumped. A wasp buzzed
                        angrily through the bars. Leo ran off. It was true, there was a
                        Giant!

                        All night Leo thougth about the Giant, his eyes, the low rumbling
                        growl. Next morning, he was back, "rat-tat-rat-ta-ta-tat," on his
                        little drum. The Giant was waiting for him. When Leo tiptoed to the
                        window, he was there, whispering hello. The Giant told Leo that long
                        ago he had done some bad things and that the King had locked him up.
                        Leo couldn't imagine what these bad things were. He worried about
                        the poor Giant, stuck down there in terrible chains. He lit a candle
                        and held it to the hole.

                        The Giant was so big he had to crouch with his chin on this knees
                        and his elbos bent. He looked to Leo like a huge sad baby, his
                        yellow eyes screwed up against the candle's sudden glare. Leo said
                        he would speak to his father, it wasn't fair the Giant had been
                        locked up for so long; he must have been forgotten. "No," croaked
                        the Giant, all anxious. "If you say anything, they'll make me stay
                        down here forever and I shall surely perish." The eyes blinked
                        nearer. "Would you like to be my friend?"

                        Leo was elated. "Oh yes, yes please!" "Good. Good," said the Giant.
                        Good, thought Leo; I have a secret friend. Good, thought the Giant
                        who had shed his heart at last. And he sighed a chill sigh and
                        planned chill plans, while the young prince skipped back along the
                        path, swinging the iron gate behind him, caressing his secret,
                        nurturing it, back to his room.

                        And so it began, the friendship between the huge, crouching Giant
                        and the little Prince. Every day, the boy would appear, rat-tat-
                        tatting on his drum. Every day he'd tell a little more, hear a
                        little more, until he felt he knew no one better, that no one knew
                        him better. Oh, he wanted to tell the whole world about his friend.
                        But the Giant said, "Out secret," and Leo agreed, although he would
                        have loved to tell his mother or his two brothers or somebody. But
                        he couldn't so he shouldn't, so he wouldn't so he didn't. The Giant,
                        meanwhile crouched in his blackness and schemed. And so it was that
                        one day he told Leo he'd heard a Guard saying that the King slept
                        with the keys to the Giant's chains hanging on a ring by his bed.
                        Leo had always those keys were for the Crown Jewels. "No," said the
                        Giant. "They're for my misery." Leo felt desperate for his
                        misunderstood fiend, and a plan formed in his mind. The Giant
                        watched it being born and sighed a cold sigh. Deep inside, in the
                        prize where his heart should have been, the wasped seethed and
                        buzzed.

                        That very night, when the whole castle was sleeping, when the Royal
                        Guards slumped against their sentry posts and dozed, when the owls
                        hooted, little Prince Leo slipped from his bed, slid past a sleeping
                        sentry, and pushed on the door of his parents' room. He tiptoed
                        round the great bed with its velvet eiderdown, past his sleeping
                        mother and sleeping father, to the hook where the keys were hung.
                        They were so heavy. He heaved them up and they swung together,
                        clanging like the Angelus bell. Leo clutched them tight, their black
                        metal teeth squashing his toes, their hooped handles framing his
                        face. Slowly, slowly, inch by inch, he dragged the huge keys out of
                        the room.

                        "I've got the keys," he whispered, trembling at the little window.
                        He let them ring against the bars. "Who goes there?" challenged a
                        voice from the darkness. It was the one sentry still awake. "Hurry,
                        hurry!" growled the Giant from the bowels of the dungeon. Leo
                        struggled to push the keys through the bars. The teeth went in and
                        the long shafts, but when it came to the ring he couldn't work out
                        how to do it. "They're too big," he explained as he heard the
                        Giant's snort of impatience. "I can't do it." Leo wanted to drop the
                        keys and run for his life. "Push them," hissed the Giant. "Push
                        them!" The Giant's voice was colder than the night, it was icy. Leo
                        pushed. A great hand yanked on the keys. Leo saw its shape in the
                        shadows. He felt a terrible force pulling downward...."
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