CONTROL SWITCH ON
A TRUE STORY
The Untold Story of the Most Powerful Man in the World
—RYAN MORAN—
Who Shaped the Planet for Peace
by Ira Teller, Pharm. D., Esq.
Control
Switch On: A True Story
Ira
Teller, Pharm. D., Esq.
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 by
Ira Teller
All Rights Reserved
Without
limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, the scanning,
uploading, copying, and distribution of this book via the Internet or
via any other means without the permission of
Ira Teller,
Incorporated, is prohibited and illegal.
Smashwords
Edition, License Notes
This
ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may
not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to
share this book with another person, please purchase an additional
copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not
purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please
return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for
respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of non-fiction. It is a true story written in the form of a novel. Only the names, dates and places have been altered.
ISBN 1453882030
Printed in the USA
First Edition October 10, 2010
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE: THE PRESENCE
CHAPTER TWO: ARROGANCE
CHAPTER
THREE: BABA
CHAPTER FOUR: MOTHER OF THE UNIVERSE
CHAPTER
FIVE: RECLAMATION
CHAPTER SIX: PSI
CHAPTER SEVEN: RYAN MORAN
CHAPTER EIGHT: THE DEVICE
CHAPTER NINE: MAUREEN
CHAPTER
TEN: MERGING
CHAPTER ELEVEN: SOMETHING MOST PECULIAR CHAPTER
TWELVE: THE BIG BLACK WALL
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: DARK MATTER
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN: SHOW TIME
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: FORTUNE COOKIE
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN: PATENT PENDING
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: ETCHED IN MY MIND
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: SNAPSHOTS
CHAPTER NINETEEN: CATHOLIC IRISH
ALCOHOLICS CHAPTER TWENTY: BROOKE’S LAW
CHAPTER TWENTY–ONE:
ERIKA
CHAPTER TWENTY–TWO: ROAD TRIP
CHAPTER TWENTY–THREE:
INEBRIATED
CHAPTER TWENTY–FOUR: SANCTIONED
CHAPTER
TWENTY–FIVE: REMORSE
CHAPTER TWENTY–SIX: THE LONG YEARS
CHAPTER TWENTY–SEVEN: RESET
CHAPTER TWENTY–EIGHT:
WONDERMENT
CHAPTER TWENTY–NINE: LEGACY
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
“There is one principle that bars all other principles…”
WHAT IS BIG? As a child, this was the title of one of the first books I ever read. A picture of an obviously large elephant next to a tiny mouse adorned the front cover to illustrate for young children the difference between large and small. Every calf in the herd, fry in the sea, and chick in the sky learns this same lesson about relative size. The difference between large and small is a reality that permeates this whole world. Later, as an adult, I would revisit these relative extremes in size in a new way and on a scale that I could have never previously imagined. After I had met the most powerful man in the world, I had learned firsthand—in a stunning and profound way—the answer to the question, what is big?
The most powerful man in the world was Ryan Moran, and until his death, we were friends and business partners for nearly a quarter of a century. Ryan had founded and once ran the largest, most powerful transnational corporation on the face of the planet. Yes, he was big, powerful, and a legend among all those who knew him and knew about him. Whether through the barrel of a gun, a signature put to a document, or a mere idea placed into another’s mind, Ryan Moran personified big. Although unknown to most people, until now, Ryan nonetheless touched the lives of many through the vastness of his corporate empire and far-reaching personal sacrifices. Like a pebble cast into a pond, the life of Ryan Moran cast waves upon waves of influence and change that have spread with infinite scope across the world—no one has been left unaffected, not even you. Ryan Moran’s life and legacy has touched all our lives in profound and lasting ways. This book is based upon my recollections of my conversations, adventures, and friendship with the most powerful and influential man in the world—Ryan Moran.
The notion of the nation-state no longer exists as it once did—the United States, Russia, Germany, China, Japan, and all other nations are now controlled by transnational corporations. These transnationals are their own entities, owing no allegiance to any one nation but having holdings and influence in them all. They exist offshore—they are incorporated in financial centers outside the jurisdiction of their primary operations—yet they control the financial and political outcomes of all countries. Operating with their own set of rules, regulations, and laws that transcend those of the nation-states, some transnationals (as you may already know) are so powerful that they even have their own armies. As the man who once controlled the largest and most powerful transnational organization, Ryan had stewardship over the world. Decide for yourself how big that is.
Ryan Moran was an existentialist, clearly knowing who he was and his role in the universe. Arguably, few people possess a sense of self and purpose as strongly as he did. The world was his to direct, and he did so by wielding a raw, unmitigated power that flowed from his innate, profound sense of self. Some standing in his presence would feel intimidated, as Ryan’s presence was often truly palpable. When I asked about this, he explained, “They see within me that which they do not yet have in themselves.” This is not to say that Ryan Moran was without faults. To the contrary, he knew his character defects and openly acknowledged them, seeking corrective action. But what by far outshined all else was his humility and wanting to do good as he lived among us. When I asked him why he set up his organization, he responded, “To do good in the world.”
Perhaps one of the greatest means by which Ryan could do good in the world was facilitated by the development of a new technology, the Psi-control Switch—the most advanced technology that has ever yet existed. How did Ryan learn of the Psi-control Switch? Not in any top-secret governmental meetings. Not from top physicists or engineers. To learn of this device and how Ryan learned of it, you will have to read on and be introduced to me, Ira Teller, the unsuspecting pharmacist with a dream who happened to meet Ryan Moran one day. Our chance encounter would later change the course of the world and launch the future of the Psi-control Switch for the benefit of mankind.
To tell you a bit about myself, I am anomalistic—the outlier point on the curve which, to most, is seen as different. Granted, at times my way of thinking can be tangential and angled from the norm, but I have embraced this as a positive attribute, and it is the reason that I am telling this story to you; I was able to see something different from the norm in Ryan, a unique superiority of thought and purpose that most others could not discern about the man. You see, I am an explorer, an adventurer, which requires residing near the edge, being dangerously close to the abyss. My journeys through the physical world, my ascent within the spiritual realm, and my scientific explorations of psychical domains are a collective testimony to this. If I had stayed in the middle, in the norm, then Ryan and I would never have met, this story would have never been told, and the world would not have been changed for the better. Ryan was fond of paraphrasing Herbert Spencer, “There is one principle that bars all other principles, and that is contempt prior to investigation.” How true this is. There will always be the contemptuous naysayers, doubters, and conspiracy theorists who have not traveled far, yet they will try to bar the idea that Psi-control Switches exist, and that one man, Ryan Moran, shaped the destiny of the world. But for those of you who want to explore and investigate, I ask that you bear with me, if only for a relatively brief moment in time. Try to see your universe from a different perspective—try seeing through the shared vision of Ryan Moran and me.
Here, I will offer a special note to historians, present and future. I apologize if some accuracy has been lost by the long passage of time. As one would expect, there may be some unintended alterations to my recollections. Incidents, events, dates, names, and conversations may not necessarily be quite as accurate or even in as perfect an order as they ideally should be. I will, nonetheless, do my best to recall and recount these details in a fair way so as to at least give you the flavor and feeling of the situations as they unfolded. Furthermore, there are aspects of Ryan’s life and of my life that I cannot yet reveal at this time in order to protect myself and others. As Ryan often told me, “Sometimes the withholding of a small part of the truth is not only wise, but prudent.” I believe it is extremely prudent in this case. Matters and names related to national security issues will not be discussed except in the most discreet fashion, as Ryan’s world was a world of secrets, and he was, indeed, the master of secrets. Although Ryan’s love life was prolific, there are those who may not want this disclosed. Consequently, this intimate subject matter will be mentioned in only the most scant and rudimentary ways, cleansed to some extent so as not to disrupt others’ lives in an adverse way. While the scope of Ryan Moran’s life could fill volumes, I will try my best to set down the key points of his life throughout the years that I knew him, and of our history-altering involvement with the Psi-control Switch. Historians and others are welcome to examine the life of Ryan Moran long after my death. Like you and me, they too will have to revisit the question of what is big.
CHAPTER ONE: THE PRESENCE
“Where are you going, son?”
Fifty million dead—both soldiers and the innocent—slaughtered and butchered in a bloodbath of unimaginable proportions. Young and old, rich and poor, women and children—it did not matter. They were all caught up in the gears of that Great War machine called World War II, only to be churned out in rivers of blood, with shredded bodies spewed out upon the land. Their screams for mercy and horrible last cries of pain were met by an icy indifference, smothered by the insanity of it all. It was then, in the midst of that great horror, that agents in the various intelligence communities met in secret. These were those men who witnessed the horror of that period first hand. Talking among themselves, they knew there needed to be a better way to stabilize governments, nations, and peoples; consequently, they swore their allegiance to one another to never let a war like this happen again. These were not just agents of the Allies but included their like-minded counterparts on the opposite side, agents of the Axis powers. Suffering can bind people together in unusual ways. Men who were willing to meet one another in warfare now met to fight a different kind of battle—a battle of ideology, stability, and peace. And so, after convening to ponder their strategies, these agents returned to their respective homeland agencies scattered about the world, knowing that something needed to be done. They kept in touch with one another as they formed a loose affiliation of covert progenitor cells underlying their own individual organizations. They could not have known that a redeemer was coming—Ryan Moran would be the one to eventually unify them into an international intelligence agency surpassing all other intelligence agencies in scale and scope. It would become the largest and most powerful agency in the world. This is how it all started, and this is what Ryan Moran told me.
I was restless as a teenager—still filled with the freshness of life and the exhilaration of adventure, but I didn’t know the nature of the world or my place within it. Odd, isn’t it, that I should be searching for something but did not know what. Somehow, I had this notion that the more experiences a person had, the better they would be. Perhaps, hidden somewhere in the midst of all this, I would find the object of my search.
With caution and reason cast aside, I made a purposeful attempt to take it all in—whatever came my way. I set out to explore the world and my place in it, as so many did … by thumbing rides. It was the golden age of hitchhiking, with the images of Woodstock, war protests, and the summer of love still fresh in my mind. ‘Never turned down a ride—no, not even once—for that was the hitchhikers’ creed. I let the road be my teacher, and I was the eager student willing to learn. Whatever joy or harshness the road presented, I accepted. Ride it to the very end, was my motto.
So, I was on the road again, with the wind to my back and the sun’s warmth upon my face, when I saw it far off in the distance. An orange-colored VW bus was among the other vehicles traveling on the road that day. I had chosen my hitchhiker sign with care: one said North, one said South, one said East, and another West, but my favorite said Anywhere. With a knowing sense of assurance, I put out my thumb and waited.
There was an almost magical connection between a hitchhiker and a VW van in those days; like a magnet pulling on steel, you could feel the connection. I was a master of the road, having hitched tens of thousands of miles, and this was just one of my many rides. With all the crazies, drunks, and creatures of the night, I rode along while listening to their wild stories and experiencing their bizarre worlds. From mothers and saintly Sunday churchgoers, to witches and warlocks with sinful pasts and secret books, I sat sharing their lives. So many winding roads were filled with so many varied people and unknown places—a virtual stream of consciousness. Like a constant game of tag, I went from vehicle to vehicle where I was always “it,” and wherever they went, so would I. A monkey throwing darts at a cosmic map must have been my guide. Rain or snow, black or white or shades in between, on the back of a tractor, in the cab of a truck, or in a VW van, it did not matter—regardless of who or what came my way, I continued the journey.
“Beware!” some people would caution me, as I entered their cars, “There is a killer on the loose!” Then, they would ask me, in their own nervous way, if I was him. No matter who stopped to give me a ride, each had their own reason for stopping, whether they were lonely, tired, good-willed, curious, or just wanted an adventure of their own. Some claimed that they recognized me, while others asked, “Where are you going, son?”
“Wherever you are going,” I would reply.
The farmers, salesmen, and students all had someplace to be; so, like the wind blowing the winged seeds of a dandelion, I allowed myself to be spread across the land.
Now, standing on the side of the road in Arizona’s summer heat, I watched as the approaching VW began to swerve in and out of traffic until it finally pulled up to me and came to a halt. The driver rolled down his window and smiled broadly, “Where are you going?”
“Anywhere,” I answered, smiling back.
The front of the vehicle was packed full with him, his wife, and their two children. Behind them was a pile of luggage that filled the van. He said, “We’re going to the Grand Canyon, but we don’t have any more room in the van.”
“Can I hop on top and sit on the luggage rack?” I asked. “Sure,” he grinned, “climb on!” And that I did.
It was a glorious ride that day. Passersby would blow their horns and shout, waving to me as we drove along the rim of that great canyon. What a spectacle! Feeling uplifted, and riding so high above the road, I sat on my kingly throne of luggage reveling in the exhilaration of this new adventure. Eventually, the van pulled over at the roadside and stopped. I climbed down, thanked them for the ride, and with smiling faces we parted our ways.
Although I did not know it then, it had been a ride to my destiny.
The sun soon began to set, filling the Grand Canyon with shadows and blackness, eventually forming an infinite pool of darkness. Nearby, a trail led down into the canyon’s murky depths, the trail head marked with a small sign stating, This way to the bottom. Some people, looking weary and tired, stumbled up to the head of the trail, finishing their climb. I started my descent, yearning to find out what was so grand about this rather large void of nothingness that held so many peoples’ attention. It was a long and arduous walk down a narrow and winding path. Darkness prevailed as there was no moon that night. Every now and then, I would meet another person or a couple of people making their ascent along the way. Ghostly and ash-colored in appearance, they proceeded upward, in the opposite direction, in an exhausted silence and soon vanished into the night. I persisted downward, and spurred on by with my desire to get to the bottom before daybreak, I picked up a brisk pace.
Soon, I came to a place that was particularly steep and close to the canyon’s rim. There, in a foolish hurry, I lost my footing on some loose rocks, fell onto my back, and slid toward the precipice. Sliding perilously downward, I clawed at the rocks and dirt in a dusty panic, trying anything to stop myself … but … in just a few frightful seconds … I slid over the edge. As a final act of desperation, I grabbed onto a branch of scrub brush—stopping my fall and certain demise. For an instant, I dangled there, clutching the bit of brush—it was all that held me back from drawing my last breath. With eyes wide, and a herculean effort, I pulled myself up onto the edge of the rim and scrambled back a few feet. I sat there, momentarily short of breath, shaking and trembling from the inside out, and knowing that death had been near.
Then … I felt a presence descend upon me. Mist-like, and imparting the sense that someone was holding me, I sat in awe and silence. Comforting and yet strange at the same time, it caressed me in a loving way that I had never experienced before. Ephemeral at best, it soon lifted, merging back into the night. Confused, I looked around, but no one was there. Slowly standing to my feet, I stared up into the blackness of the sky to see all those stars. There were millions and millions of them twinkling in the warm desert night, forming the great Milky Way. In my bewilderment and astonishment, I shouted out to them, “Who are you?” but I heard only my echo off in the distance. Although the question was never answered, I knew that I had a momentary glimpse of the infinite. This must be the inner workings of the universe, I thought to myself that night. Trying to grasp it with my mind, I wondered what fortune would come my way.
CHAPTER TWO: ARROGANCE
“Boy, that was bizarre!”
Nearly a decade had passed since I experienced the puzzling spiritual presence that descended upon me in the Grand Canyon. I filled this chasm of time by studying the world and its multitude complexities in hopes of better understanding the inner workings of the universe, and knowing who I was and where I fit in the grand scheme of things. Leaving the wanderlust of the open road behind me, I embarked on a new journey—the disciplines and rigors of university course work. I had decided to learn more about the world through books and lectures, and the inevitable personal growth that campus life and its unique socialization has to offer. Here, I hoped to develop the knowledge and skills necessary to prepare myself for the rigors of life, and for, perhaps, making a difference in the world. Maybe, along the way, I would even gain some insight into the enigmatic presence I encountered that day at the Grand Canyon. But it soon became apparent, through my studies, that I would need to conform to the economic realities of our time. I could not be an ideological, pioneering, perpetual student for the rest of my days. Financial imperatives and being gainfully employed ruled the day. For a hitchhiker like myself, this conformity was not always an easy fit, and many times the proverbial square peg had to be forced through the round hole. The way of the hitchhiker’s road is not always well accepted in higher levels of academia. It is easily misunderstood. Yet in the end I was able to pass their tests and join society, eager to make my mark.
What arrogance I had, as I look back upon the landscape of my early years. I had just finished my Doctor of Pharmacy degree—a professional doctorate degree with an emphasis in clinical pharmacy—and I was working as a pharmacist at Lockport Community Hospital in Mapleton, New York. Surely I was someone to be reckoned with. Had I not just finished studying the biological and chemical sciences that were the underpinning for modern day drug therapy, and hence, wasn’t I helping to define the next decade of medical therapies? As an expert, I was well paid in an area of burgeoning importance to the medical community and to the world at large. Who can argue with an expert? Medical practitioners sought me out for my views and opinions in life and death matters. Unquestionably, I must have been someone important. It was within this rigid, inner mental framework—this plague of grandiosity upon my mind—that I would learn something of significance.
I read an article by Dolores Krieger, RN, PhD, about a healing technique that she and a clairvoyant colleague had developed in the Division of Nursing at New York University called Therapeutic Touch. She was training nurses to use their hands to smooth and redirect the energy fields surrounding patients as a transpersonal healing modality. Aura combing, humph! Indeed! I thought, to myself. This new age fluff certainly flew in the face of all the science I had learned, having no just reason for being published let alone taught.
My thoughts brought me back to my eleventh grade high school friend, Scott, and an event that took place in his parents’ house. His family was gone for the day, and we were alone in the kitchen. He pulled a large bowl from out of a cupboard, filled it with water from the sink, and placed it in the center of the kitchen table. Then he took a small piece of aluminum foil, fashioned it into what he called a small boat, and floated it in the middle of the bowl. I was instructed to sit in a chair on my side of the table while he sat opposite me, and using only our minds … we were to push the boat. The person who could push the boat to the other person’s side would be the winner. So, we sat there in complete silence, locked in mortal combat, each trying to push the boat to the other’s side with our minds. I focused my mind on the boat, and so did he, but … it did not budge. It felt like an eternity as we sat there. I doubled my intensity, as did he, but still … no movement. After about ten grueling minutes of mental warfare, I broke off and told him that I did not think that this was going to work. He also broke off his mental grip upon the boat and told me that it was not working because we could not sufficiently focus our mental energy. He explained to me that if he was to take a sheet of the aluminum foil and smear it with peanut butter, then place another sheet on top of it and smear it with peanut butter, and was to do so again and again, it would be of the correct size that he could then shape it in the form of a pyramid. This, we could place upon our heads which would give us the power to move the boat. Scott went for the peanut butter, and I went for the door saying, as I hurriedly left his house, “I’ll see you later, Scott,” while thinking, Boy, that was bizarre!
With this memory of Scott’s peanut-butter-pyramid hats fresh in my mind, I crafted a disdainful letter to Doctor Krieger. This was the first time that I had ever written a critically scathing letter like this and, to date, the last time also. I do not clearly remember what I wrote, other than asking how she could publish such dribble without proper scientific understanding and documentation. I smugly dropped the letter into the mail box and waited for her reply, certain of the outcome. Shortly thereafter, she wrote back to me with a letter of her own. She was kind and gentle, and merely asked that I read the literature—of which she enclosed several references—before I was to be so critical. I read the so-called references, scoffed at them, and, in my arrogance, tossed her letter to the side of my desk, thankful that I was not of such like mindedness.
No doubt, my inflated ego had gotten the best of me. I needed to be someone greater than myself, someone of importance, respected. I needed to be big. Perhaps then people would like me even more, cultivating and perpetuating my ego to even greater proportions in an act of self-aggrandizement. Maybe then I would even like myself. Little did I realize that the universe was about to hand me a series of ego-reducing lessons—teaching me what was big.
CHAPTER THREE: BABA
“Keep with the flow.”
I had arrived early for an evening meditation program in Mahnaville, New York, so I stopped into a small commissary that was located inside the ashram. A meditation teacher, named Tom, had recommended that I meet someone whom he considered to be a great spiritual being—Baba. Sitting down on a bench between two people who were seated at a table, I turned towards the young woman who was on my left, hoping to ask her a few questions. “Excuse me,” I said, trying to get her attention—but she did not respond. “Excuse me,” I said, again, with a little more force—but, again, no response. That is when I had a chance to study her face. I noticed that her eyes were rolled up into their sockets so that only the whites showed, while she gently rocked back and forth. Rather odd, I thought. Perhaps it’s a cross between seizures and autism. Somewhat disturbed by the sight, I turned my attention to the gentleman who was seated to my right; perhaps he could tell me something about Baba. He was slowly eating a large salad that was heaped to the top with sprouts, as was customary in those days. “Excuse me,” I said.
He turned toward me, still chewing his salad.
“What is this place all about?” I asked him.
He took a few more chews, swallowed, and said in a slow, yet deliberate voice, “Stars and stripes forever.”
“Huh?” I replied.
“Stars and stripes forever,” he enunciated, in an even more forceful tone. Then he waved his hand as if to dismiss me and returned to his salad.
Well, I thought, maybe they weren’t the pick of the litter. Move along, I told myself. Keep with the flow.
I made my way to the front of the building where someone told me that it was customary to bring a small gift when meeting a saint. So, I purchased an apple from their concession, thinking it a rather inexpensive price of admission, and entered the main hall. The room was large, and I estimated that it could hold nearly a thousand people. A greeter approached me and informed me that it was traditional for men to sit on the right side of the hall, and for women to sit on the left side. With a nod of my head as a silent acknowledgement, I took my place and sat down on the carpeted floor … on the right side of the hall.
Looking about, I was perplexed by the sights and sounds around me. Certainly, this was different than anything I was used to. Large pictures of Indian men and women, dressed in somewhat traditional garb, adorned the walls, and pungent incense wafted through the air. Hundreds of people slowly drifted past me, each looking for a place to sit. Some carried small pillows, whereas others wore colorful shawls about their shoulders. They filled the hall to capacity, and then began settling down.
Yes, I know—earlier I had said that when hitching rides, regardless of who or what came my way, I would continue my journey. Now, as I sat on the floor … I began to wonder if I should continue this particular journey. But my thoughts were quickly interrupted.
A hush fell over the room as an announcer began to talk about this great and remarkable man whom we were about to meet. The announcer told us how his life had become completely transformed after he had met Baba. Gradually, the lights dimmed as everyone began to chant a mantra in a slow, rhythmic fashion, accompanied by Indian music. Shortly thereafter, the lights came back on, and there, seated in a rather oversized chair, was a small, somewhat elderly man from India. He wore a bright orange robe, had a slight smile upon his face, and was painted with a red dot upon his forehead. To his right was an attractive, well-dressed, young Indian woman by the name of Indrani who was his translator. She said that his name was Baba, and she interpreted the foreign and strange language as he began to speak. I remember little of what was said, except for the words, “the Self,” “God,” and “Where are you going?” After about an hour of Baba talking, we were invited to come to the front of the hall to meet him.
People lined up in an orderly fashion, standing several abreast, waiting to meet him. It was a process that I had not previously experienced, but I took my place among them, clutching my small gift of an apple. I watched as those in the front of the line knelt down before him and bowed with a lowering of their heads to the floor. Simultaneously, they placed a small gift into a wicker basket at his feet then looked back up at him. He, in turn, would gently swat them on the head and shoulders with a large bundle of peacock feathers as they conversed with him through the translator. Shortly thereafter, they stood up and moved out of the way, making room for the next person to bow and prostrate themselves.
Finally, my turn came. So I dropped to my knees, as I had seen others do, placed the apple into the basket, and for the first time in my life, I bowed to another human being. When I first looked up, Baba was looking down from his chair and smiling at me. Then, suddenly, a knife came out from under his robes, its steel blade glinting in the bright light. I gasped, and the crowd drew in an audible, stunned breath as he wielded the large, flashing blade over his head. Without warning, he made a menacing face and shouted at me, “—Arrgh!” Shocked and astonished by the sight, I instinctively crouched down lower, throwing up my arms as a defense against this mad man. But then I noticed that he had begun to smile, and soon he erupted into a full-blown, joyous laugh. Inquisitively, I searched his eyes, not knowing what to do. My heart was still pounding and I was trembling. He put the knife down on the table at his side. Now issuing a quieter, light-hearted laugh, he began hitting me on the head with the peacock feathers, and then he started talking to me.
His translator, in perfect English and a dispassionate voice, said, “Baba wants to know what is your name?”
I tried, in vain, to talk back, saying, “I uh … I uh …”, as I contorted my face, but no coherent words would come out.
Now, with more of a grin than a smile, he spoke to me again, all the while swatting me with the peacock feathers. “Baba wants to know where you are from,” stated his translator.
Still, I could not speak as I groped for words. What’s happening?! raced through my mind. Normally, I was glib and quick of tongue in social situations, but now, only sounds of gibberish came out from my lips in my bewildered state. I felt as though something had been severed between my mind and my voice.
Finally, he rested the feathers upon my head and asked through his translator, “What do you do?”
To my utter disbelief, I was still unable to utter even the simplest of words.
He started laughing loudly again and removed the feathers from my head.
I stood up and started my exit out of the hall. Someone gently grabbed my arm and said, “You are so lucky that Baba paid so much attention to you.”
“Uh, sure,” I said, finally regaining my voice. “Say, what was the deal with the knife?” I asked.
“Oh—,” he explained, “that is a chopping knife that they use in the kitchen to chop vegetables. Someone just before you gave it to Baba as a gift. He put it under his robes waiting to surprise you.”
“Surprise me?” I asked, becoming agitated. “He sure as hell did! He scared the crap out of me!” I hurried to exit the building, telling myself, Well, if you’ve seen one Guru, you’ve seen them all.
CHAPTER FOUR: MOTHER OF THE UNIVERSE
“What is this?”
I paid little attention to the Baba experience and went about my usual business for several days. I enjoyed most of my hospital duties—applying my clinical skills in the intensive care unit, the emergency room, and the chemotherapy unit—because helping others gave me a lot of satisfaction. On my days off, my friends and I hiked in the nearby woods, and in the evenings, we socialized in the various restaurants and bars. This pattern of life felt good, and at times, fun; yet, it had a degree of predictability about it—a degree of routine. Being relatively young—I was only 27—and not having much perspective on life, I assumed that this is what I would be doing for the rest of my days. Still, I wondered, is this all there is— the day to day, the ordinary?
One Saturday morning, I sat down in my living-room to meditate. Relaxed in my chair, I noticed that something was different from previous meditations as I felt that I was floating downward into a deep, dark pool of nothingness. Although this sense of descending into a deep void was different than other meditations, I nonetheless felt at ease and comforted … but then, suddenly, a brilliant but somewhat small, blue sphere appeared in my mind’s eye. It sparkled, and I was fascinated by its luminescence; I had never seen such a sight before. I watched it in complete awe, mesmerized by its effervescent luster—a glow that seemed to be holding me more than my gaze was holding it. Then, abruptly, shooting out from its side, a darker ray of blue light—like that of a search beacon from a light house—pierced the darkness extending to the visual horizon of my mind. Wow! My mind reeled in astonishment. What is this? Then, very slowly, the sparkling sphere began a clockwise rotation as the darker ray of blue light rotated closer toward me. I was spellbound by this unbelievable vision as the ray of light moved closer and closer, finally hitting me squarely between the eyes.
With a blast of illuminating brilliance, I felt a cracking open of my consciousness. Like water flowing out of a breech in a dam, I felt an unfolding as though my core was being poured out into the universe.
And then, there, she appeared before me, with her dark eyes and a slightly lighter shade of skin—the great mother of the universe. Her luminous face filling my field of vision, a look of profound contentment was upon her. Magnificent waves of long, black hair were draped about her face, and then began to slowly float upward, framing her cheeks as if blown by a cosmic wind. The black tendrils floated up and outward, stretching from both sides of her face to the adjacent horizons, and as the flowing waves stretched outward, so too did my consciousness. Out to the ends of the universe we went, where on both sides of her face I could see stars, planets, and galaxies pasted upon the blackness that extended outward, beyond infinity. What a magnificent sight! As if it was a gift, the entire universe was placed before me, and I bathed in its delights, joyous and free.
Abruptly, I felt a jolt run upward along my back. I began to shake violently for several minutes, as though some large, universal hand had grabbed my spine and was shaking me from side to side in a dizzying fashion. My eyes shot open, and I jumped to my feet more in abject surprise than fear. In a state of ecstatic bewilderment, I found Tom’s phone number and dialed. It seemed like an eternity before he picked up. Finally, he answered.
“Tom?” I asked.
“Yes—,”
“This is Ira. What the hell is going on?!”
“What do you mean, ‘What is going on?’” he asked.
I then told him the story of what had just happened as best as I could.
“Oh,” he said, in a dry, matter-of-fact manner, “he wants you.”
“He wants me?” I asked “Yes,” Tom replied. “He just wants you.”
“Who ‘just’ wants me?” I asked, feeling more than a little confused.
“Baba. Baba wants you.”
I hung up the phone, saying to myself in a puzzled voice, Baba wants me?
CHAPTER FIVE: RECLAMATION
“What kind of an asylum is this?”
I had a dilemma, a real predicament. Like a mule standing equidistant between two bales of hay, not knowing which to choose, I was ready to starve rather than make a choice. Pay money to find God? It was mind boggling and went against the grain. Besides, what was God worth? But there I was, standing in line to register at what Tom told me was an intensive meditation retreat at an ashram—where, if I paid a fee, Baba, the Indian Guru, could give me a direct experience of God.
I had a multitude of prior worldly experiences, as if I was seeking something in life, but I had never thought that God was the object of all my searching. Nonetheless, God must have been what I had hungered for all those years. No, I was not one of those on a quest to find God, because the word had never previously entered my thoughts. Jesus revivalists pounding Bibles at the airport, saints in movies on their knees looking upward for divine inspiration, monks in flowing ochre and saffron robes, yes—but me? I had heard and read the word “God” many times, but this was a concept that was too large and elusive for my mind to grasp.
How could I have missed something so big? I wondered, as I stood there waiting to register. The idea that this man, Baba, could give me this experience at a meditation retreat strained against all rational thought. But didn’t I experience an unbelievable meditation session just days after being in his presence? Doubts arose in my mind. Maybe it had been my imagination. Maybe I had merely been drifting off and dreaming. Or, maybe it was something in the food or air. Just then, it dawned on me that there was much more non-sense in the world than sense. Wouldn’t it be more logical to stay on the side of non-sense as there was more of it? So with that in mind, I cast aside my rational doubts and cautions, made a decision, and put my money down.
Once again, I was sitting in the ashram hall with hundreds of other people. The lights were dimmed, and we were asked to close our eyes and meditate. But being curious, I kept my eyes open and watched. I could not resist. I saw Baba get out of his chair, and with his trusty bundle of peacock feathers and his translator in tow, he moved about the room. Now and again, he would momentarily stand in front of a seated person and swat them on the head and shoulders, as I had previously experienced. Then, after laying his hand upon the person’s head for a length of time, he moved onto the next person and carried out the same silent ritual. Some whom he touched would slump down like rag dolls, their heads falling into their laps. Some stayed upright, maintaining their posture but beginning to shake vigorously. Still others issued various unexpected and strange sounds such as crying, laughing, or barking and then roaring like lions.
What kind of an asylum is this? I wondered. Between the shaking, howling, laughing, weeping, and roaring, the raucous hall was now filled with sights and sounds fit for the insane. I was spellbound, hearing and watching this unusual play before me, trying to make sense of it all. For the moment, surrounded by utter madness … I had forgotten that most everything was non-sense; futilely, I tried to engage my rational mind to put some shred of sense to it all.
Now, it was my turn. Baba stood in front of me. I hurriedly closed my eyes and heard a swoosh … swoosh as I felt the feathers upon my head. Momentarily pressing his hand firmly against my forehead, he then moved it down and grabbed the flesh between my eyes. Like a slowly forced injection of liquid light, I felt his essence flow into me. Warm and substantive, it kindled a brilliant and blazing blue-white light that burst forth at the base of my spine. With a searing heat, it quickly raced up my spine, crowning the top of my head with a sparkling incandescence. It was a revelatory moment: I was the light, and the light was me. Nothing else ever existed except for that which Is. I reveled in this state of oneness, basking in its brilliance.
CHAPTER SIX: PSI
“To the moon and beyond….”
“Here’s that letter,” I told myself, while reshuffling the papers on the table. I quickly reread the letter and muttered, skeptically, under my breath, “Can’t be.” Shortly afterwards, I was in the library looking up the references that Dr. Krieger had mailed to me. I was going to prove to myself that she was wrong, that therapeutic touch was a bunch of hooey. So, I set about reading the journal articles that she had listed, and soon I was thoroughly immersed in the research literature.
Don’t get me wrong, I had no desire at that time to be an advocate of quackery. No poster boy here. To the contrary, I was merely going to investigate the research literature in order to demonstrate that Dr. Krieger’s farfetched postulations were incorrect—I would prove this to my own satisfaction, and then go on my merry way. In today’s scientific circles if I was to speak in terms of Quantum Mechanics, Schrodinger, or Entanglement, I would be seen as informed and well educated, or at least on the cutting edge. But Dr. Krieger’s forte was the manipulation of a bioenergetics field to promote healing, which was contradictory to the principles of modern-day science. Although she was not a parapsychologist, her research and journal articles led me directly down the path to the study of psychic phenomena. You have heard of extrasensory perception (including telepathy and clairvoyance) and psycho kinesis (mind over matter)—to put it politely, strange, weird stuff. About as weird as when my high school friend Scott and I tried to make an aluminum foil “boat” sail in a bowl of water, or, needless to say, as strange as fashioning peanut butter, aluminum foil pyramid hats to intensify our efforts.
Movies and books portrayed psychic individuals and paranormal researchers as horses of a different color with zip codes straight from Mars. Literature and the cinema served up portrayals of demonic, horned individuals with hooves to match who were abundantly worthy of a priest’s exorcism. The parapsychologist was often portrayed as the white-coated, frizzy-haired, mad scientist, and his subject was his zombie-like, unblinking prey-turned-cohort. Together, they were bent on psychically infecting your children—and their insanity would soon take over the world. Shutter your windows and lock your doors! Once touched by the paranormal’s spell, you were immediately pegged as a flake having gone over the edge. Mind over matter indeed! All parapsychology scientists and those such as Dr. Krieger were stirred into the same great bubbling cauldron of psychic madness. And as I began plowing through the literature, that is how I pegged Dr. Krieger and her ilk—as having zip codes straight from Mars.
“Can’t be,” I muttered, again, upon delving deeper into the paranormal literature. “These concepts are not from this planet.” Certainly no respected scientist or biomedical researcher would ever view Dr. Krieger and the likes of her as responsible members of their community again.
Reading on, I found myself increasingly engrossed in the literature—first for hours, then for weeks, and then for months. There must be a way to explain this, I told myself, but I could not find a logical, rational way to do so. Every time I stepped into a new area of study, I found no exit because one piece of research led to another. The more I read, the more I wanted to read—for if these parapsychologists were even remotely correct in their assumptions, then the outcomes were enormous in their potential. I wondered what my high school friend, Scott, would say.
“Can it be that there is some validity to these psychic concepts?” I muttered, to myself. Granted, most of the parapsychology science was poorly constructed, but there always seemed to be that one thread that I would follow that would lead to the next and the next … until, finally, the outline of a tapestry began to form.
Initially, I tried not to engage others in conversations about the subject matter, but I soon found that I could not help myself. I was too curious, and it was too rich in possibilities. Yes, there was the inevitable rolling of the eyes or the downward glance of contempt by my peers. “But what if…?” I conjectured. Some maintained a cold and icy stare, whereas others would give a bit of a laugh and then a flippant, dismissive wave of the hand. Always, there was the long, awkward silence that followed as they drifted away, all but shaking their heads.
My affinity for the classical healing arts focused my attention on the origination of disease states within the biological sciences. Research in this area of the sciences was complicated and fraught with biological variability that further compounded its inherent complexities. Yet, it made sense to approach healing at the origin of a disease—to prevent it or to treat it early on—rather than try to cure a disease once it had developed or progressed. I made an attempt to see if this nascent psychic science could offer any clues on how to prevent or cure the start of a disease. Consequently, although confusing at first, I similarly focused my attention on this particular concept within the paranormal literature.
I soon learned that the operative phenomenon underlying all parapsychological research is known as psi. This is not to be confused with the acronym psi as a unit of measure (pounds per square inch), the 23rd letter of the Greek alphabet, psi, or PSI, the title of an album by an industrial rock group released in 2002. The term “psi” concerning the paranormal was first coined in 1942 by a biologist, Bertold P. Wiesner, and a psychologist, Robert Thouless. Psi denotes anomalous processes of information or energy transfer, processes such as telepathy or other forms of extrasensory perception currently unexplained in terms of known physical or biological mechanisms. Furthermore, psi is divided into two main categories of paranormal phenomena: extrasensory perception (ESP) and paranormal action, or psycho kinesis (PK). Psycho kinesis held my attention the most. Maddening is the fact that many parapsychologists in this admittedly esoteric and enigmatic field of study do not know what psi is or how it works. Luckily for me, I did not need to know and just wanted to use it.
Could this psi phenomenon of psycho kinesis actually change the energy of activation of chemical reactions and drive them toward different outcomes? Could this mind-over-matter psi change enzymatic reactions at a cellular level and prevent or cure diseases? Some of the research literature indicated that this was indeed possible.
Reading further, I sought out like-minded researchers in this fragile and new field. During our talks, it became apparent that they too had tried to disprove the authority of psychic phenomena, only to be drawn deeper into it. They now had a different view of the world and no longer saw things in linear and Newtonian terms. Rather, there emerged a framework of an omnipresent, evolving consciousness whereby all things were inherently interconnected. My many experiences with meditation came to mind—that profound sense of being one with the universe.
I began to put the pieces together—the scientific and the paranormal—by recalling the concept of a delta switch that we used in a radiological preparations course I had once taken. Simply put, when the level of radiation of an isotope increased and reached a certain set point, the delta switch would kick in, setting off an alarm to warn us of the danger. Likewise, if I could monitor the change, the quantitative increase of a product in an enzymatic reaction due to psi, then I could have that increase trigger a delta switch and turn on an alarm or even a light. “Hmmm…,” I said, to myself, “this should work,” as I began to sketch out the idea on paper for a Psi-control switch. “Not only that,” I mused, “but I should also be able to psychokinetically turn the switch on remotely from any distance and through any physical form of shielding or barriers.” At last, the sketch was complete, and I sat back in my chair to ponder it and all it portended. Wow…! To the moon and beyond, I reflected for a moment, now that’s an idea!
Others, however, did not see it that way. I knocked on many doors looking for funding to conduct the Psi-control Switch research, only to be shown an equal number of exits. “But don’t you see the usefulness?” I would ask. Regarded as the ugly duckling of the research world, they shut their doors to me just as they shut their minds. One could almost hear their smug laughter and imitation “quack—quack—quack” behind those doors. The pond can be a lonely place when you are all by yourself.
Meanwhile, I applied for, and received, several interviews to medical schools. I had the notion that I could especially help others with this research as a physician. With that in mind, I went to one particular interview in the Midwest, hoping to be accepted to med school. Before me sat a distinguished panel of five physicians who asked myriad questions. They indicated they liked my academic background and my answers to their questions, implying my acceptance was imminent.
That is … until I committed academic suicide by going head to head with the portly, middle-aged woman physician at the center of the group. She obviously had a psychiatry background and asked, “Well, Dr. Teller,” she addressed me by my formal title, “what is that you like to do when you want to do something special?”
“I like to meditate,” I replied.
“No,” she said, seeming somewhat annoyed by the answer. “I mean, what is it that you like to do when you want to do something different?”
“Well,” I again replied, “I really do like to meditate….”
Now, with a scowl upon her face, she asked, “Don’t you ever go out and kick up your heels, and get excited?”
I looked her straight in the eyes, not letting her belittle my meditational experiences saying, “No, ma’am. I think that excitement is pathological.”
Needless to say, the interview spiraled downward from there, until I informed them that the only way that I would attend their school was if they funded my research.
“Research?” the physician at the center asked, as she looked around at the others. “We didn’t know that you were doing any research. What is this about?”
“Let me explain,” I began, as I presented my views on curing diseases using psychical research to affect aberrant enzymes. Halfway through my presentation, my eyes grew wide as I watched another woman physician slowly draw her hand up and tightly clutch a cross around her neck. The fear on her face was real. She stared at me as though the devil incarnate was sitting before her spewing out irreverent utterances about sacred things. Can it be in this day and age that this attitude still exists? I asked myself.
Finally, having had enough, I said to the panel, “At this point, I am now letting you know that you have failed your interview.”
They sat there in total silence, bewildered, just looking at me.
Again, I said, “You have failed your interview.”
After a brief moment, one of the male physicians raised his hand and asked in a sheepish manner, “Will you please explain what you just said?”
“Sure,” I answered back. “This panel is interviewing me, but I am also interviewing this panel. I do not like the answers that I have heard, and I am letting you know that you failed your interview. As a social grace, you will not have to wait the requisite two weeks for your denial letter, because I am letting you know now—you failed.”
The panel sat in stunned silence.
“Goodbye,” I said, still watching the startled looks upon their faces as I got up and left.
Upon exiting, I thought to myself, Well, at least the positive outcome is that I won’t have to tickle prostates for a living anytime soon.
CHAPTER SEVEN: RYAN MORAN
“Yes … under the snake.”
How the hell does he do that? I asked myself, seeing Ryan Moran for the very first time.
There he was, in all his glory, grinning like the Cheshire cat and whooping it up as he bounced two attractive, young women up and down—one on each knee. The women laughed so hard, throwing their heads backward, that they almost fell off his lap. Then, barely collecting themselves, they whispered secrets into each others’ ears, punctuated by girlish giggles, before erupting in laughter once more, as they vied for his attention.
Wow! was my next thought. Why can’t I do that?
Momentarily, I studied Ryan Moran as they all laughed and carried on. We were young then, and his hair still had a light brown luster with a few curly locks on the sides. Between the laughs and smiles, I saw that his distinctive blue-gray eyes were wide and attentive. I sized him up as maybe being a decade older than me. Large of frame, with an equally large head, and a bulbous nose that sat upon fair skin, I guessed he was Irish. Wearing a white shirt, blue jeans, and a pair of worn cowboy boots, he looked as though he had just come in off the range.
I had stopped in to get a drink at Jitz’s Tavern while running errands on my day off. With only a few small tables and a tiny stage, this was the type of place where an intrepid young man with a guitar and a new song would show up hoping to launch a career. It was a student bar that catered to the university crowd. This out-of-place yahoo was not someone I expected to see on that midsummer’s day in Mapleton, New York.
Slowly swirling a straw in my drink, I took a sip, relishing the raucous sight before me. I was relaxed that day, but my mind snapped to attention when I noticed an enormous picture of a snake mounted on the wall behind Ryan Moran and the two jostling women. Curving in and out, this large, hand painted relief mural occupied most of the top portion of the wall. Its dark color contrasted sharply against the pale wall casting a surreal, undulating effect upon the boisterous scene before me. After a long day of running about in the July heat, it was quite a refreshing spectacle to stumble upon. What a sight to behold, I laughed to myself. Finally, after a fresh round of debauchery, he released his arms from around the women’s waists as they ran off and left him sitting alone. I got up, approached his table, and asked, “Can I join you?”
He put his hand out and gestured for me to sit. I still remember the cautious look on his face behind that Cheshire-cat smile. I saw it many more times in the following decades, and now, I understand why it was there.
I extended my hand across the table, “My name’s Ira.”
He reached out, tight lipped and careful, and shook my hand introducing himself, “Ryan.”
To break the ice, I asked, “How the hell did you do that?”
We both broke into full-throated laughter, as raucous as when he had been jostling the two women on his lap.
Then, Ryan leaned back in his chair, his face issuing a more genuine smile, and he said, modestly, “Oh … that was nothing.”
“Well, other than bouncing women on your lap, what kind of work do you do in town?” I asked.
“I’m a small-business planner,” he explained, pulling out his business card and handing it to me. I read out loud the large, bold letters at the top of the card that stated, “MALTA BUSINESS PLANNING AND DEVELOPMENT COMPANY.” Then, silently, I read the smaller print underneath: “Ryan Moran, Senior Partner.”
“Malta…?” I puzzled, to myself. “Malta…?” I repeated, quietly. Suddenly, it dawned on me. “Oh! I get it!” I exclaimed, with a smile. I had discerned its double meaning—a meaning known only to those who had read the book. “You want to buy eggs in Malta for seven cents each and sell them for five cents each, and still make a profit—right?”
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-26 show above.)