6. VIP - and not knowing it
Every day, almost I am filling numerous pages in my diary with unusual observations. I look at the world around me with a different, outside-the-square approach. The notion of suffering from a possible mental illness, however, has totally disappeared since May 23rd 04 (ISSO). There had been a time when I behaved in a disorderly way.
A clear example comes to mind, as I look back to my stress almost six years ago. Leading up to my first hospitalization, my wife and I were walking into our doctor's surgery. Because I had blamed our Telephone Company Telstra for bugging my mobile phone, I shouted in my raised state of mind across the waiting room: "Sell your Telstra shares!" (Sand, Chapter 10). Isobel was very embarrassed, as was the staff and waiting patients.
But had my (mad) message been taken seriously by shareholders and acted upon, they would have received around nine dollars at that time. Today (End of 2004) the share is struggling to reach five dollars.
In a positive development, my family also gradually distanced themselves from the idea that I had a mental illness and needed medication. None of them, as far as I knew, had read and comprehended my latest, earth-shattering discoveries or some of the major incidences of nearly two years ago. (Perhaps they would change their mind, if they did). So far no one outside the family had divulged my ‘madness’ (or otherwise) and presented it to them in plain language. It all was a bit embarrassing, which was understandable.
Many of my magic experiences were happening mainly out on the road, away from our house. Most correspondence took place via the computer, which Isobel seldom touched; One of my sons had his own P/C, but was not connected to the Internet. Even when I saw magic right amongst the family, when we were watching the TV News, they could not follow the way I viewed things.
A good example was a TV News item, where the 3 letters T I M stood out prominently. This made me take notice for a closer look at the news story out of Athens: Some Russian men had taken control of a bus in the Greek capital and were taking passengers hostage. They demanded money and a flight ‘back home.” These last two words, back home, plus the date of the event 15/12/04 raised my interest even more. The three letters T I M were written big on the back of the hi-jacked bus.
A further observation puzzled me. The TV News camera had been positioned to film the drama of the hi-jacked bus with only the large letters ‘nald’ showing. It was clearly part of a McDonald sign. (Just as I am editing this piece, a day after writing it, I suddenly see the remaining letters - Mc Do – the two letters MC played a big role (Mind, chapter 34). Mc Do meant: Son – do? About a week before Christmas I took a photo of a business in our suburb. Please notice, which 2 letters are missing?
The longer I write, the more agi I see (Re: Mind, Chapter 34).
I had no way of checking the accuracy of this overseas news report. Inside my spirit and my mind something was not right about the hi-jacking. On the same day, the 15th, another story made headlines on the world stage. It involved DNA testing, which I had started to doubt in a previous chapter. I took note and sent the following email to SBS TV. A copy of the email went to ABC Newsradio, the ‘Professional Body of Journalists’ plus a Federal MP:
Subject: IM Trying to make sense and ...
In a brief item on your 9.30pm News last evening (15/12/04) Anton read out a News story. It went so fast, I hardly had tim to write a quick note and it was over.
Here is what I recall: (Please correct me, where I am wrong).
"Mugayami, or a similar name, was kidnapped by North Korea 27 years ago when she was 14 years old. She was to be trained as a spy, but now had died. Her remains were sent to Japan, who denies that it is the body of Mug. A DNA test was done to prove it."
Whilst there were remains of a body, which could be DNA tested, what DNA evidence was there to compare it with? The human DNA was only mapped 3 or 4 years ago. So what existed that the Japanese could claim the DNA from dead Mug matched up with?
It appears that the Japanese scientists are well advanced, as are the French. They once discovered that a French child-king really was the one they suspected it to be for the past 200 years. But thanks to the wonders of DNA they finally had proof. They must have used 200 year old DNA.
Sorry folks, it is a little beyond me and too hard to believe without further explanation. I searched your website for more on the Mug case, but I am still lost, because I found none.
Dieter R. Fischer
PS. Be honest, would you believe, if I told you that there was a man, who walked across a lake on the water to say hi to his mates in a boat? Many wouldn't, even if I showed them a live video of the event or 2 computer bar codes that looked a perfect match.
I am not sure, if the recipients discovered my code in above email (T I M in above email is hidden in the subject and second lines) and linked it to the hi-jacked bus. All I know is that news of the end of the drama came within hours of sending my email. (It only lasted 16 hours altogether). By another small twist (co-incident of course), the camera filming the bus from behind the McDonald sign had shifted slightly. In the news that evening all I saw from the previous ‘nald’, was the ‘d’.
On the same day I sent above email the Liberal Party held pre-selections for candidates in two state Electorates – Wright and Florey. Out of interest I went along, because I had been a candidate earlier that year for a Federal seat. There were many good candidates, some of which I knew.
A young man I knew from years earlier won Wright. He was a distant relative of one of my best friends. The winner in the Florey pre-selection was an even younger man, a pastor at the Paradise Community Church. I was convinced that both men, if they passed the last hurtle by being elected to State Parliament in 2006, would stand for solid, Christian values in moral issues.
The first pre-selection process for Wright took approximately an hour and finished at 7.30pm. The next one was scheduled at 8.00pm. It would be a quick trip, but I still decided to drive home (about 5 km away) in the break for a bite to eat. When it was time to rush off again a dialog started in my mind: You have been to one pre-selection, the second one can be decided without you. Stay home and spent a night relaxing. I went anyway; glad I did.
It was a magic evening in Adelaide. Five days later would be the longest day of the year. It was a very warm evening, perfect for a nice walk, which I would still be doing, but without four-legged Becky. When I got back just on 8 pm, the church, where the college was held (who said you can’t mix church and state?) was almost empty. Then I realized the starting time was 8.00pm for 8.30pm. This seems to be party tradition, arrive a half-hour early to do your lobbying.
I was only an observer. I had no lobbying to do, so I decided to go for a walk. The church I was at was at Modbury. I walked towards the main park, Civic Park, a large open space, with neatly cut grass. A few pairs of lovers brought back memories of kissing Isobel for the first time. It was at the revolving Restaurant on top of Australia Square, Sydney, which was the tallest building in Australia in the early 70’s My father-in-law used to call the activity ‘swapping spit.’ At my age I had other things on my mind. Like picking up rubbish off the road.
But please, nobody think that I would walk around looking for things to pick up off the ground. Neither let anyone regard me so pious that I would make it a major prayer point, what direction to take for my 20 minute-walk to kill time. Christians close to God are in a state of prayer 24/7, bathing in Gods glorious presence. Whatever the task at hand, with HIM inside us, beside us, behind us and ahead of us, what can go wrong?
I crossed Civic Park in a brisk pace, the Tea Tree Gully Council Chambers on my right. I crossed the road near the Karadinga YMCA Centre and continued toward the creek, which was a little further on. The plan was to pick up a walking track beside the creek and wind my way back to the meeting place. Seeing the last street sign before the creek, I remembered that not long prior I had written about this street. (It was the one that started with Belt… and had been blocked off). Why not walk back that way instead? I thought.
As soon as I had turned left I noticed on the ground a pink piece of paper. It was about twice the size of a matchbox. It may have been plain curiosity, but because it had some handwriting on it, I picked it up and read it. It was an address in a suburb a few kilometers away and a mobile telephone number.
Out of interest I dialed the number on my mobile phone and was surprised someone answered. Slightly embarrassed I asked the male voice at the other end, what his name was. ‘Jack’. I always had looked at the name Jack as another version of Jacob, the father of the twelve tribes of Israel. But that day it dawned on me – Jack with an a/o swap = JC OK. When the receiver of my weird call gave me his surname, I knew this was a set up.
He did not even question who I was, or seemed at all curious, where I had gotten his number from. I may have indicated I rang the wrong number. But after deducting 2 from one digit, and making it into … 963 001 I knew it was the right number. (As things happen – today 26/12/04 is the first anniversary of the day I uploaded a remarkable story, featuring a registration plate …963, which again happens to be parked outside our house).
There is more, again. The name he gave as his surname sounded very much like the German word ‘hoerst’, translated it means ‘hears, listens.’ This made sense to me. God really hears (and sees) everything we say or think. For a number of years my email signature included Proverbs 3,5-6 … and HE will direct your path.
My assumption was that I was tested once again, to prove to whoever set this up, that God hears and sees and indeed cares. One other factor supported this theory. The paper was folded in half and held a piece of chewing gum in between. This way the wind or a passing car would not blow it very far.
If this pink piece of paper really was a message in my support, I felt compelled take another step and follow up the address. It was not so much to tell them I found the message, but to give them physical proof in the form of a business card. The next evening on the way to our churches Christmas carol singing, I dropped a business card into the letterbox of the address written on the paper. (I also saw a code in the street name and number, but it may cause information overload). Jack and all his friends would know that there is indeed one, whose eyes and ears are watching the evil and the good.
One creative supporter had a bright idea for a little game. Somebody must have placed a carrot on the sidewalk, right at a corner, where I walked the dog regularly. It was not the carrot that got me in, it was the direction it was pointing at, right to another wrapper, all on its own, about 2 meters away. It was an empty packet of potato chips, Samboy (US-boy) brand; it read ‘Atomic Tomato’ the flavour HITS you. This type of secret support was fun than play along with, except we must keep our streets clean (that’s why I keep picking things up).
One afternoon two teenage girls came to our door. One held a Diet Coke bottle in her hand. I was puzzled, whatever it was they wanted from us. They needed some rose pedals for a project (I have forgotten details), if they could help themselves to some of those falling off our roses. Of course, I gave permission, but later pondered their real reason for the brief visit. Perhaps they were two of the half dozen readers Isobel thinks I have?
Another one of my readers must be working at the Adelaide Airport. In the previous book (Mind, Chapter 54) you read about my son flying in from Sydney on Seat Allocation No. 9 C. On December 18th 04 my son Jon and his grandmother flew to Sydney for the Christmas period. (That’s why the Datsun 120 Y is parked outside our house, as it was last year).
When I saw the joke at first, I just smiled and thanked God for his great sense of humour and speaking to me in this special way. Jon and grandma’s seat allocation was - Nos. 9 A and 9 B. (They would have been the only VIP’s on the flight, without knowing they were). God may have arranged the seat allocation numbers just to have some fun. There was no doubt in my mind HE could do this with or without any of my readers helping out at the airport.
Around Christmas time our garden displays nice spread of lilac Agapanthus flowers. Perhaps we didn’t water them enough. For whatever reason, the whole 5 m length of Agapanthus this year only produced 3 flowers.
Anyone with advice how to grow more Agapanthus flowers?
By sheer co-incidence on Christmas Day 04 I happened to drive along Portrush Road, Evandale, thinking about this, and if I should give Peter Goers a call. He was the ABC journalist who was to work the Christmas Day Radio program later that day. He was very fond of agapanthus, always mentioning them on his show.
A moment later, driving along, I thought I noticed a face I knew, but was not sure. Something urged me to turn back and have another look. Because it was near traffic lights I could not park, so I entered a small carpark in Nelson St, near the corner to Portrush Rd.
Anybody living near there, please check it out, you will find a small area, where 5 Agapanthus are in full bloom. (This is at Christmas 04). Look only for the lilac variety, not the white ones. So what did all this prove? It was a profound lesson both my wife and I learned: When you plant Agapanthus find out, how to cultivate them, otherwise you may not get many flowers.
I did dial the ABC radio station’s phone number that afternoon, but the program producer explained that calls about were to be about Christmas memories. My Agapanthus story didn’t fit into that category.
Found - in our Garden, but it must have been placed there to be right under the bushes. The slogan reads, you are never far from your local... (Battle shop).
Local could mean - LA Cal. with an a/o swap. Many times I wished I was not so far away.
About 2 years ago a Magazine started in Adelaide. It is called LOCAL.
On December 17th my eyes opened to a further sign that people were reading my blog. ‘My words’ sounds better, but really, is there any difference between a blogger and a writer? (A writer has to crawl up to a publishing company and if they don’t like his nose, regardless of the brilliant work, they’ll send him away).
Driving west on Greenhill Road, just before it reaches Anzac Highway, I noticed graffiti on the back of a road sign. The message was plain. I deciphered it while we were waiting for the lights to turn green. It was done not with a spray can, but a heavy, black felt-tip-pen:
DfeR - DF are my initials, er means He in German.
Dise - dies.
NALe – sounds like nail, or perhaps an attempt at 'a N & L'.
I didn’t know what to make of it, except return after my lesson and take a photo. (I will not show it here to avoid a spade of copycat graffiti).
On the first anniversary of the earthquake in Bam, Iran, which I had linked to my story …
(STOP PRESS – at the time of preparing to put this online, on exactly the first anniversary of this huge quake, it is reported the world’s worst ever earthquake occurred in the Indian Ocean – first reports are very confusing and conflicting – can the Richter scale record 8.9???)
… I had reason to send another email to the well-known journalist, Phillip Adams, the atheist, whom I had written soon after the Space Shuttle Columbia crashed on 01/02/03.
As my email to him explains, I woke after only 4 hours sleep on Boxing Day (this is what we call the day after Christmas Day). I was wide-awake and sensed that God wanted me to do something, most likely to phone a talkback station.
I say ‘most likely’, because I never received detailed orders from God to follow, like a step-by-step, instruction manual. Nor have I heard HIS audible voice. My actions came after a quiet, discreet prompting by whatever controlled my self-talk. I believed this to be the Holy Spirit, whom every Christian receives from God, to carry out HIS work and HIS will.
Sadly, many Christians never discover this gently guiding Spirit, or constantly ignore it. Spiritual growth in these Christians is stunted, until the person’s mind is fine-tuned to receive it. In some it can take a lifetime. Not because of God’s inability, but for lack of genuine, fair-dinkum soul searching, coupled with a ‘filled-with-everything-else-but-God’ lifestyle.
On Boxing Day morning, the second year in a row, where a huge earthquake is reported on that day, I sent Phillip Adams the following email, which explains the lead up to a touch of magic, involving (you guessed it) numbers on the clock radio.
Email sent to Phillip Adams 26/12/04:
Subject: Conceit - can see it?
Last evening I went to bed feeding my madness. At least that’s what some people would think I was doing. As I dressed for bed I thought: What if someone asked me, what my favourite number is? I answered myself, without arguing with myself: If I had to choose different digits I would go for No. 1, No, 15, No, 153 and No. 1550.
Just then I caught the time on the clock radio and saw it was 10.55pm. I saw God in this co-incidence. You may call it madness, which continued the next morning. I woke and looked at the clock after a short while. It read 3.01am. This is not one of the numbers, but still one, which plays a big role in my life story. I will go as far as saying (please forgive me, it is not meant to offend, but fact) that I believed God wanted to show me something specific this morning. I glued the transistor to my ear to listen to the radio.
Talkback was a little controversial. (I suppose because it's people like me who ring up at that time of the morning). Turning the dial a little further I came across your interview (possibly a repeat) with Warren Mitchell, right at the beginning. (You had not interviewed, or seen him, for 18 years). You both were very entertaining, with obviously a lifetime of experiences and interesting anecdotes etc.
When Warren stated that "he was an atheist, like you", I thought "what a contradiction". Two intelligent, mature men, who achieved enough success, to entertain a nation on its airwaves, but still believe in a co-incidental world. The incredible experiences that happen to me, on a daily basis, almost, must be pure co-incidence. But every scientific discovery is made, because after a while the element of co-incidence is eliminated and conclusions are drawn, establishing that in all probabilities, a new discovery has been made.
Toward the end of your lengthy interview you said about someone: "He's a bastard, but I love him." I can't recall, who you were referring to, but perhaps it's time to stop being angry at God and - just love him. The very core of the human problem is pride - thinking yourself so clever; you can work life out for yourself; who needs to suck up to a God?
Phillip, there is no such thing as an atheist. If the God of Israel is not your God, another power is - the power of self, of pride, of rebellion. In the end those who refuse God's loving offer of salvation will curse themselves for allowing themselves to be enslaved by their own conceit. I trust you can see it.
Change is painful, especially at your age. But it's never too late to start thinking, even just doubting God in an honest, searching way. He will show you that HE really exists.
HE thought about you at 3.01am this morning and wanted you to know - HE loves you.
Dieter R. Fischer
Today, if you will hear his voice – do not harden your hearts.
Psalm 95, 7,8 ( Hebrews 3, 7,8)