When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. — Sherlock Holmes, The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier

I am Re: Flight of the falcon god

While pregnant, my mother, who rode the Red Cars to work (the old trolley cars in Los Angeles), was approached by a woman who wanted to buy me. She refused. I was born on June 29, 1950. As I recall, my mother also claimed that someone tried to steal me when I was born. While these accounts may evoke images of Rosemary’s Baby, I do bear a resemblance to my father, so there does not appear to be anything directly supernatural in my parentage.

My father, a cook and, according to my mother, a homosexual, alcoholic and petty thief, left when I was about six. My mother raised me alone, working as an electronic assembler for various aerospace companies.

A defining period in my life began when I was about 12 years old. As I entered adolescence and junior high school, my desires and anxieties drove my grades down. I especially dreaded PE and had developed a horrible backache that school officials thought I had invented to get out of gym class.

In one test to determine if I had a kidney problem, a doctor shoved a tube up my penis and sent me for an x-ray. While I layed on the hard, cold table, the radiologist pumped fluid into my bladder and asked me to pee while he took x-rays. Having never urinated while lying down or while others were watching, I couldn't "perform." The technician tried pumping more fluid into my bladder in the belief this would force me to urinate. It didn't. Finally, frustrated and angry, he pulled the tube out and I was able to use the bathroom in private.

Later, a test confirmed that I had a spinal TB, which required that I wear for a few weeks a cast that extended from my chest to my hips. Later, I wore a back brace for several months.

The painful episode with the catheter seemed to intensify my shy bladder condition. I couldn't pee in high school because none of the stalls had doors. I couldn't urinate if people were waiting for me to finish; thus, I avoided any events or places where people had to wait in line to use a toilet. And my worst dread was that someone would use a catheter (Foley on me again — a fear that would someday be realized in literally mythic proportions.

I attended Lynwood High School in Lynwood, California. After a disappointing year at USC, where I majored in physics, I wound up for a few months at Compton Junior College. I then went to California State University, Long Beach and majored in journalism. Considering the incredibly small objects studied in physics and the broad nature of journalism, I went from studying everything about nothing to studying nothing about everything.

COSMOS X 3  At Cal State Long Beach, I worked part-time as the production manager of a small New Age publication, COSMOS. At the time, I believed most of the content to be rubbish. A few years later, I was more in tune with Carl Sagan's TV series, COSMOS, which offered a rational explanation of creation and the universe. Two decades later, I would merge these New Age and scientific perspectives into a "balanced" view of the cosmos.

In September 2008, I purchased Issue 19 of COSMOS, an Australian science magazine, at a bookstore in Vacaville, California. As this was the January 2008 issue, apparently the publication arrives on a slow boat from Sydney.

Besides adding a third component to my intersection with the cosmos, the magazine coincided with material on my website. Both the magazine and this site had stories on nuclear fusion. The COSMOS article "The Real Sherlock Holmes" included the same Holmes quote "when you have eliminated all which is impossible" that introduces this essay. COSMOS included a "Weird Science" column title on page 13. My website also has a Weird Science heading.

I attribute these coincidences to common thoughts that travel the world through a collective consciousness. Since cosmos is a synonym for universe, perhaps my trek from COSMOS to COSMOS to COSMOS is evidence that parallel or multiple universes do exist and people are traveling among them. If you think these are crazy ideas, then you have to concede another meaningful coincidence: The COSMOS article on page 58 asked "Do you have to be nuts to be a genius?" The answer: No, but it could help.

I sent an e-mail to a COSMOS editor commenting on the coincidences. In the October/November 2008 issue, my e-mail appeared as a letter to the editor. However, my correspondence was rewritten to falsely state that my fusion article and the reference to Sherlock Holmes were published in the old Long Beach-based COSMOS, not on my website. Apparently, the new COSMOS did not want to give any publicity to my blog.

A dream I had in March 2009 suggested I would continue to have problems with the media “filtering” my message. In the dream, Nexus magazine, an Australian New Age publication, accepts my Lesbian Fusion article. I receive the magazine with the article soon after. The headline and first two paragraphs state I was inspired by some other author favored by the

magazine. I am furious.

The dream seemed to suggest I cannot rely on other people to promote my ideas; they have their own agendas to push. I have to be in charge.

After graduating from Cal State Long Beach in 1973, I worked for three years on two community newspaper chains then attained better paying work in business communications.

Increasingly, I approached life as a detached observer. Except for my sexual yearnings, I enjoyed being alone. I was a virgin until July 5, 1976, when I bedded a plump young woman from Hawaii. That Bicentennial weekend also marked the start of the AIDS epidemic in the US, when Patient Zero, a Canadian flight attendant, began spreading the disease in this country. Perhaps this coincidence foretold my unusual perspective on the disease.

I moved from Southern California to an apartment in Napa in 1990 when the firm I was working for, The Doctors' Company, relocated to Napa.

Twin Peaks  My spiritual awakening began in 1990 with director David Lynch's television show, Twin Peaks. Fascinated with the symbols and dreams in the program, I became convinced that I had deciphered the secrets of the show. According to my theory, Indian spirits lived in the woods surrounding the town of Twin Peaks. When the lumber mill ravaged the forest, the angry spirits were forced from their homes. One took refuge in the log of the Log Lady and spoke to her. Others occupied the all-wood Great Northern Hotel. As revenge for the destruction of their woodland home, the spirits began possessing various people in town. One spirit, "Bob," took possession of Leland Palmer, causing him to murder his daughter Laura. Another result of the spirit-induced conflicts was that the lumber mill was burned down.

I waited for the show to eventually confirm my theory of spiritual ecoterrorism. Instead, the show devolved into a routine soap opera. Had I read into the show a meaning that wasn't there? I came to another conclusion: The spiritual world is trying to send us messages through creative artists. Writers and artists are usually unaware of this process and do not understand the messages that are symbolically represented in their movies, TV shows, songs and other creative endeavors. Twin Peaks is but one example of this phenomenon. I would subsequently discover symbolic messages in the movies Independence Day and the 1982 remake of The Thing.

In January 1991, the Gulf War began. I fantasized about various scenarios of how the war might unfold. It is always more fun to imagine what the underdog, in this case, Saddam Hussein, might do. I thought I had come up with a whopper of an idea: Saddam Hussein had built a crude nuclear reactor in Kuwait and was prepared to melt it down if forced to retreat. The

resulting radiation would poison our soldiers and the oil fields.

I contacted the military regarding my idea and two days later I was interviewed by an Army Intelligence officer who said my idea was the sort of thing Saddam would do. Another possibility, I suggested, was that Saddam had packed radioactive wastes into Scud missiles and other ordinance. Later, I would wonder if this had indeed happened and that the mysterious Gulf War Syndrome was actually a result of radiation poisoning. I also thought it strange that, to my knowledge, nobody had bothered to check the health of Kuwaiti civilians to see if they shared symptoms of Gulf War Syndrome.

I began to embellish my idea of a nuclear reactor as a weapon. If Saddam were to use such a weapon, he might want to connect it somehow to Islam. I discovered that some early nuclear reactors were in the form of a black graphite cube with a core of enriched uranium. Such cubes might be compared to the dark Kaaba (or Ka’bah, Arabic meaning "cube"), the building at the mosque in Mecca, and the uranium core might be likened to the Black Stone, a small sacred rock embedded in one corner of the Kaaba.

My musings took the form of a screenplay, which I dubbed The Black Stone. I imagined that Saddam had come upon the idea of a nuclear Kaaba in a dream and reveals it to his mistress. Then the idea came to me that the mistress was a supernatural being who had placed the dream in Saddam's head. I made her a goddess and gave her three identities: Kali, the fierce Hindu goddess; Medusa, the snake-haired goddess; and al-Uzza, a pre-Islamic goddess associated with the Black Stone. I would later discover that the triple goddess was a common form in mythology and that sacred stones were associated with synchronicity (meaningful coincidences).

After my interview with the Army Intelligence officer, I shared my idea with a fellow employee, who, it turned out, had been an Army Intelligence officer in Vietnam. In another coincidence, he had a picture of Kali on his bedroom wall.

Realizing that the odds of selling a screenplay were very long, I wondered how else I could make money out of my ideas. I noted that one cruise missile cost more than a million dollars. Certainly, my ideas were worth at least as much. I wrote a letter to my congressman, noting that I had developed what might be considered a shortcut for making a nuclear weapon. Would the government want exclusive access to the idea or should I feel free to market the concept in the free and open marketplace? Not hearing anything for several weeks, I assumed my letter had been dismissed as the ravings of a crackpot.

Three months after the letter was sent, I got a call from an FBI agent who wanted to talk to me about my "threatening" letter. I told him it was a moot subject, inasmuch as I had already shared my idea with several other people and it was no longer a secret. When I elaborated on my idea of using a nuclear reactor as a nuclear weapon, he said that wasn't the kind of idea anybody would pay money for.

Shortly thereafter, I bought my first house. The seller was a black man and the house in Vacaville was on Peregrine Way, named after a falcon. After escrow closed, I remembered that the first car I owned was a 1961 Ford Falcon, bought from a used car dealer who was also a black man. After moving to Vacaville, I switched tax preparers. I randomly picked one from

the yellow pages. When I went to his office, I discovered that he was an African-American with two pictures of falcons on his walls.

The falcon coincidences escalated. Two or three times a week, I would see a Ford Falcon in traffic, which seemed unusual since Ford had stopped making the car in the early 1970s. Falcons would appear seconds after I would turn on my TV. In one incident, I turned on an episode of Connections, the PBS series which showed the sometimes unusual circumstances that led to inventions (similar to the strange coincidences that would lead to my innovative ideas). A few seconds after turning on the show, a Kuwaiti falconer appeared.

One of the more compelling coincidences came after I had developed my ideas regarding the sexuality of nuclear energy. My theories regarding the "maleness" of the nuclear bomb and the "femaleness" of the nuclear reactor seemed obvious. I wondered if someone had thought of them before. I bought The Tao of Physics, whose yin/yang cover hinted at a male/female approach to physics. However, the author, Fritjof Capra, mostly addressed physics on the subatomic level. My original ideas were still original.

Shirley MacLaine  Then, on a trip to Southern California to visit my mother, I stopped at a bookstore in a mall and saw a stack of Shirley MacLaine's Going Within on sale. I had some interest in the book only because I had read that MacLaine had interviewed physicist Stephen Hawking, whose last name is a synonym for falconry. I picked up a copy from the stack and randomly opened it to page 177. On the right page was a quote from The Tao of Physics, the book I had just finished reading. On the left was an account of a seance in which the participants had contacted a character on the "other side" who kept peregrine falcons.

When I arrived at my mother's house, she was sitting in front of the TV, watching the movie Oh God!, which starred John Denver as a reluctant prophet of God, played by George Burns. I wondered if a similar role was being thrust on me. Several days later, while driving back to Northern California, I was nearly sideswiped by a Ford Falcon.

My work at The Doctors' Company had begun to suffer. My obsession with my screenplay played a part but it also seemed that I couldn't do anything right. I sought the help of a counselor, whose last name began with a U and had the same number of letters as Urbanek. While waiting in his office, I noticed a nature magazine with a photo of a falcon on the cover. I mentioned this and the other coincidences to the counselor. He said my experiences seemed very Jungian; I should look into the works of Carl Jung. Meanwhile, he suggested I try to draw firm boundaries between my work and my creative obsession. I tried, but nothing seemed to help. I resigned from the company in November 1992.

In my research, I had looked up falcons in an encyclopedia devoted to religion and mythology. According to one article, falcons are an omen of great political and social change. I recall finding a reference to falcons in Egyptian mythology but, for some reason, the information did not seem compelling at the time. The falcon is a symbol of the sun gods Horus and Re, though some reference works list the hawk as the symbol of Re.

Meanwhile, I had completed my screenplay of The Black Stone. While I had received some encouragement from one Hollywood "insider," I was unable to sell the script. I decided to turn my idea into a novel. I completed the book in 1993 and found a legitimate agent, but he was unable to interest a publisher in the book.

Self-Publishing  In June 1994 I began a job in San Rafael editing a managed care newsletter for CCH Incorporated. Flush with new money, I flirted with the idea of soliciting a "vanity" publisher. Then I bought a copy of The Complete Guide to Self-Publishing by Tom and Marilyn Ross (1994). A few pages into the book, I discovered this passage regarding how to conduct research on the Internet: "Don't request a printout on 'birds' if all you want to know are the nesting habits of the peregrine falcon."

Encouraged by this coincidence, I created my book, The Black Stone, on PageMaker. After getting an estimate from a printer for 3,000 copies of my 198-page manuscript, I went to the bank and closed out a maturing CD to acquire the necessary funds. As I waited for the paperwork to be completed, I gazed out the bank window and saw a Ford Falcon passing by.

After selling a few copies of my novel to coworkers and fellow members of a writing club, my sales slowed to a dribble. Distributors refused the book, one citing the unprofessional cover art. I got only two or three single-copy orders from book stores.

In mid-1997, I learned that CCH was going to move its office to the Chicago area in early 1998. We could return to Illinois with the company or be laid off. I decided to stay as I had moved my mother up to Vacaville several months before and I did not want to leave her alone.

In mid-October, the dog next door began barking all evening long. The problem continued for months, even after I complained to Animal Control and obtained signed petitions from neighbors. In March, I am finally laid off. I am having trouble finding a job. My mental condition deteriorates and I seek psychiatric help. I sue the neighbors. The dog is owned by a black man who has shacked up with an Hispanic woman who apparently is still married but separated from the owner of the house. Diversity from hell. I have lost 12 pounds. My case goes to an arbitration panel and results in an uneasy truce. The dog is barking less.

That summer, my other next-door neighbor installs a portable pool in his backyard. The splashing is very noisy.

December 1998. I have been unemployed since March, have run out of unemployment insurance and am wondering if I should apply for some kind of retail Christmas work. One morning early in December, I wake up and go to the bathroom. I cannot pee. The problem persists. I don't understand. I am alone in my house. Nothing is invading my privacy. That evening I go to the Kaiser emergency room in Vallejo. They insert a catheter. The next day, it is removed. I am able to urinate once but the problem returns. Another Foley catheter is inserted.

The urologist cannot find a rational cause for the problem. I continue wearing the catheter and have to take an antibiotic to prevent an infection. Walking can be very painful after a few feet. My appetite goes away. By the end of December I am down to about 178 lbs. (I had started the year at about 212. Still, I wouldn't recommend catherization as a weight-loss tool.) I considered driving up to Lake Tahoe, pulling off into the snow then turning the car heater off.

I make another visit to the doctor in early January. After he removes the Foley, I can immediately urinate into the metal pan right in front of him. The urine is very bloody. For the moment, my need for privacy had seemed to disappear. From that point on I can pee again, although there are some difficult periods. For several days, I am on a regimen of drinking nearly one full glass of water every hour. Also, for about 10 days, I get virtually no sleep, but a prescription from my psychiatrist resolves the problem. I don't need a refill.

My mother reports seeing a falcon land in her back yard.

By March 1999 I had pretty much given up on my special path of creativity. The falcons and synchronicity had brought me nothing but grief. My mother suggests I move in with her. I sell most of my furniture and have nearly all the boxes of my unsold books taken to the dump. I sell my house for $135,000. I had paid $144,000. (In October 2002, I discovered the house was for sale again with an asking price of $249,000. Grrrr.)

In retrospect, it seems that the noise troubles with my neighbors and my persistent unemployment were all “scripted” circumstances intended to force me into my mother’s house. Sometimes, you have to run away from a situation even if you are sure you are right (Citizens of Israel, take note.).

In November of 1999 I finally land a job through a temp agency. I examine documents and files for a First Union document storage vault in Sacramento.

Boat of dreams  In August 2000 I have a dream in which I am on the deck of a small ship with my ex-fiance Dahlia. The captain announces that there has been an explosion on the sun and we will all receive a deadly dose of radiation the next day. Hearing this, one of the passengers, George Wendt, who portrayed Norm on Cheers, jumps off the side of the ship. Next, I am in our ship cabin lying next to a naked Dahlia. She wants to have sex but I am preoccupied with the thought of dying.

After this dream, I decided to explore the mythic associations of the sun and entered "sun god" in a search engine on the Internet. I came up with this entry for Re which read, in part:

"Egyptian sun god and creator god. He was usually depicted in human form with a falcon head, crowned with the sun disk encircled by the uraeus (a stylized representation of the sacred cobra). The sun itself was taken to be either his body or his eye. He was said to traverse the sky each day in a solar barque [boat] and pass through the underworld each night on another solar barque to reappear in the east each morning . . . Re was said to have created humankind from his own tears and the gods Hu (authority) and Sia (mind) from blood drawn from his penis."

Epiphany! All things become clear. The encounters with falcons, the dream of being on a ship, and the bloody urine from my inexplicable affliction were all signs that I was the incarnation of Re. The falcon encounters with black men — the used car dealer, the home seller, the tax preparer and the dog owner — also had an Egyptian connection. In a past life I was a pharaoh or other prominent Egyptian who had dealings and conflicts with his Nubian neighbors.

My dream of being on a ship under an exploding sun was not my only boat or ship-related dream. Many years earlier, I had dreamed I was aboard an aircraft carrier. All the sailors were lined up on the deck. I am having sex with a woman on a cot or small bed on the deck of the ship. The sailors applaud. Reflecting on my newly discovered divinity, I interpreted this dream to mean that I have "conquered" a goddess, and this has pleased the warriors.

In a dream in March of 1998, I am in a small Mexican fishing port with actor Woody Harrelson (from Cheers). I fear night is approaching and I only want to go out on a small boat for a couple of hours. Woody wants to rent a big yacht. I am afraid of being alone with him. Next, I am standing on the small boat, looking over at the yacht. Woody is standing on the deck of the yacht, with a woman in a bikini under each arm.

At the time, I interpreted this dream to mean I shouldn't settle for second-best. I should indulge myself in the joys of life. I turned down what seemed to be a mediocre editing job that included a long commute. I also treated myself to a two-day vacation by the ocean to escape the neighbor's barking dog.

After learning more about Re, I changed my interpretation. During the day, in the forms of Khepera and "Re at noon," the sun god travels in a large barge. At night, in the person of Tem, he mans a small boat. In the dream, I wanted to assume the role of Tem; Woody was advising me that I really belonged on the big boat: I was Re at noon.

In a dream I had in June 2001, I am on a small boat in a place that seems like the Everglades in Florida, but there are tract houses and the water covers the streets, lapping over the sidewalks. People use boats like cars. I see a man on land pull a large fish from the water but throw it back. He then pulls out another fish, a catfish I think, and shows me its teeth.

Next, I am on a large boat or yacht some ways from shore. A woman is swimming alongside the boat. The boat starts to move toward the shore. I fear we are leaving the woman behind but she is swimming as fast as the boat is moving. Now, I am below the boat's deck and can see the woman in the water through a window. She appears to be naked or nearly naked. Suddenly, I am again in the small boat near a house.

The water might represent the vast unconscious. Many people are now closer to the collective unconscious and are "fishing" for meanings in their dreams. I am not sure of the role of the swimming woman. Taken literally, the dream could predict the earth being flooded by global warming.

In a dream from September 2001, I am in a great hall, sitting on a carpet or pillows on the floor. An Asian prostitute who has been talking to me says it is time to stop talking. She takes off her clothes. I think she is wearing a white bra and panties. I ask what the price is. She says $34, which seems like a silly amount. We begin to have sex, she on top, but before I climax, I somehow leave.

Next, I am on a large barge on a large lake or ocean, returning to the great hall. The barge is filled with women in raggedy clothing who have sores and lesions. Maybe they are former prostitutes. One looks at me angrily. I discover I am lying on top of some of them. However, a beautiful woman appears on top of me and tells me not to be concerned; my weight is evenly distributed. She is dressed in white. She offers me a nipple, saying that is what I need. As I reach for her bosom, I am again in the great hall. An Asian servant approaches me with my car keys, which I had left behind on my previous visit. He says I must first go to the prostitute again before I can have the keys back. I follow him and the dream ends.

My interpretation is that the women on the barge are spiritually ill or impoverished. They are "supporting" me so that I can take them to a better place. The prostitute in the great hall holds the keys I need to advance myself, but who the prostitute is or how I will find her remain mysteries.

Open cathedral  If I am the incarnation of Re, should I not have at least one dream in which I am flying like a falcon? I will not disappoint.

In a dream from approximately 1993, I am standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room of a very old house. I am naked except for a white towel I clutch around my waist. Robed members of a church choir file through the living room and out the front door, on their way to church. They pay me no mind.

I need to get some clothes on. I head up a staircase to my bedroom. I open the door. Nine middle-aged women from a liberal Methodist church I had been attending are sitting around the room, some on my bed and others on chairs. I tell them I have paid for the room, I need to get dressed and they cannot meet there.

They seem disappointed but understand and file out of the room. I suggest that maybe they can come back when I’ve finished dressing. They don’t respond.

I open a dresser but there are no clothes inside. I look under the bed. Nothing. As I peer up, I first see the shoes then the black evening dress of a young woman. As I look at her, I realize it is my mother when she was young. She has been out dancing. I stand up. She wants me to come over and hug her, but I know I cannot do that unless I drop the towel first. I step toward her and let got of the cloth.

Now I am flying through the sky, looking down at a small valley in a pine forest. Rising from the clearing are the gray spires of a modern church or cathedral. As I draw closer, I see that the spires are like the points of a crown. The church has no roof; the floor is open to the sky.

I have never been in love. When you are in love, your soul is naked to the person you love. The women in my life are the women in the bedroom in the dream. I barely know them because I did not bare my soul to them. No matter who I was with, I was always alone.

The last person to see my naked soul was my mother. When you are a child, you show everything in your heart. When you open your heart, your soul is a cathedral open to heaven.

About six years later, I saw in a Fairfield art gallery a composite picture created by photographer Scott Mutter. It depicts an eagle soaring above an open cathedral in a wooded mountain area. Naturally, I bought it. The inscription at the bottom of the print reads:

Born into this world

We create echos of our inward yearnings,

And shift along the axis

From matter to spirit.
 
The Great Ruler  In September of 2000 we are in the midst of repacking several rows of boxes at First Union. As I empty one file, I discover a 15-inch ruler marked with the name "Falcon." I conclude the falcon represents Re or a pharaoh, who would be a "great ruler" inasmuch as 15 inches is greater than 12 inches. For awhile I keep the ruler at my work table but decided one day to take this valuable relic home. About two days later I and other temporary employees were laid off. I wondered if there might be a connection. If the ruler stayed at work, I would stay at work. Take the ruler home, and I stay home. I go where the ruler goes. On the day I was laid off, my supervisor was wearing a necklace with an image of an Egyptian goddess.

Two months later, the presidential election created a crisis in America. When it seemed we might not have any president on Inauguration Day, I decided to put my ruler premise to the test. I wrote to the chief usher at the White House (I got his name from a Christmas special on HGTV), briefly explaining my incarnation as Re, and suggested that, as an experiment, I send him the ruler to see if its presence there would place me in the White House.

I heard nothing back until a few days before the Inauguration when two Secret Service agents came to my mother's home. They wanted to know, among other things, if I belonged to any group, did I plan to travel to Washington, DC in the next few days, and would I sign a release to let them look at my psychiatric records. No, no and no. Well, that was a bit disconcerting.

I decided to scale back my ambitions. I mailed the ruler to California Governor Gray Davis, suggesting that the ruler, symbolic of Re, might bring him good fortune and wisdom as governor. I heard nothing back. A few days later, I decided this had been a bad move. The ruler was the Staff of Re and I was a fool to part with it. I wrote a letter to the governor's office, asking that the ruler be returned. I would gladly pay any handling and postage. Again, no answer.

In February of 2001 I began a new job as an indexing clerk for Pro-Tech Storage Systems in Benicia, California. The work was similar to what I had been doing at First Union. What impressed me most about the facility was the huge warehouse filled three stories high with boxes of mortgage documents. The warehouse reminded me of the scene at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark when the Ark of the Covenant is stashed away among hundreds of crates in a large warehouse. I began to see myself as a kind of Ark that had been hidden in a large vault. Perhaps I cannot free myself; someone else must release me so I can rule again.

After being burned in my book publishing effort, I decided to spread my ideas in a more economical way: a website on the Internet. At about this time, my mother required surgery to have a pacemaker installed. On one of my trips to the hospital, while waiting in the lobby, I leafed through a business magazine and noted one information services advertisement that listed a website with 22 letters, the same number on a URL name I had considered, tonyahardingshotjfk.com, but had initially rejected because I felt it had too many letters. On the next page of the magazine was a polarized image of what appeared to be a falcon. I launched my website in April 2001.

In October, I was laid off from Pro-Tech Storage after the company was hit by the economic fallout from Nine Eleven. In March 2002, I obtained employment as a temporary clerk/typist/secretary for the Fairfield-Suisun Unified School District, but was terminated in September after two schools (out of 15 where I served) and personnel at the district office complain that I am not a very good secretary. In late October, I started work as a stocker at Target for the Christmas season. That only lasted until mid-December.

My mother's health became worse: an unending litany of suffering that included pneumonia, chronic nose bleeds, a leg infection and, finally, breast cancer.

In July 2005 my mother died. Her final trips to a hospital were in an ambulance managed by Falcon Critical Care Transport. She complained the rides were too rough, which, in retrospect, made me wonder if I, the falcon, could have made life smoother and gentler for my mother in her final days.

My mother was born and raised in Texas, home of cowboys. Her final resting place was in Vacaville. "Vaca" is Spanish for "cow." Perhaps these were signs that my mother was Hathor, the Egyptian cow goddess, daughter of Re and mother of Horus. She was my daughter, she was my mother. Long live Hathor. Now Sekhmet rules.

My mother left me her house, her Toyota Tercel (the tercel is a male falcon) and several bank accounts. I have the luxury of sitting back and doing nothing. Or I can continue to pontificate. My apparent destiny of becoming a Great Ruler seems laughably unattainable, considering my lack of political experience, reclusive tendencies and occasional bout of paruresis. As president, any trips outside the White House would be problematical. How would I pee in the restroom of a mall, restaurant, or any other public place if I knew that an armed Secret Service agent was waiting just outside my stall? Perhaps I could just stay at home and let the mountain come to Mohammed.

My mother once told me she had a dream in which she was serving breakfast to President Bill Clinton. As I am the only one she had served breakfast to in several years, the dream suggested the possibility that I would become president.

You woke up this morning

Got yourself a gun,

Mama always said you'd be

The Chosen One. — A3

Person of the Year  In 2005, I replaced the handicapped license plate on my car with a new plate, which include the letters POY. Always alert for coincidences impacting my life, I googled POY but only came up with such listings as "Photos of the Year" and "polyester yarn," which seemed unrelated to my personal mythology. Then, on November 29, 2006, while leafing through a copy of Time after donating blood, I saw the magazine refer to its upcoming Person of the Year as POY. I thought, it's too late for me to be named Person of the Year for 2006.

Well, the joke's on me. I was named TIME Person of the Year for 2006, along with everybody else, for, as TIME stated, "seizing the reins of global media, for founding and framing the new digital democracy, for working for nothing and beating the pros at their own game."

Monk and the ill-fitting suit  As "Re at noon," how much will my reign resemble that of Franklin Roosevelt and Adolph Hitler, the previous incarnations of the falcon god?

A dream I had on August 4, 2004 may provide an answer. In the dream, TV detective Adrian Monk is summoned to court. He doesn't want to go. Nevertheless, he shows up and takes a seat on a bench at the front of the courtroom. I am not sure if he is a witness or defendant; perhaps he is both.

Monk is wearing World War II era clothes: drab green coat and pants. While the suit does not have any medals or stripes, the outfit seems to suggest both a civilian and military role. He is scrunched up and squirming on the bench because the clothes are too tight. There is a rip and/or stain on the front of the pants or the bottom section of the coat.

Monk represents me, an obsessive spiritual detective. The ill-fitting clothes are the 1940s "costumes" worn by Roosevelt and Hitler and the rip and stain are their flaws. Since the clothes are too small for me, I should be playing a larger character than either leader. Indeed, if I can think and act in bigger terms than Roosevelt and Hitler, I might avoid the judgment (courtroom appearance) warranted by small and petty aspirations.

You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one  In September 2008 I received an e-mail that revealed I was not the only person who had experienced both falcon synchronicity and urination issues. This person, who I will refer to as Re2, had come across my website while searching for connections between Hitler and Jesus. “While I don’t agree with all details of your analysis of omens and symbols, I have found a kindred spirit in essence and share many of your personal issues,” he wrote.

Re2 had experienced urination problems, including some degree of paruresis and bladder infections, and had dreamed of “pissing blood in weird places.” He reported, “During the time of bladder difficulties I was also constantly followed by falcons, in particular a white falcon . . . that would follow me on my walk to work everyday. I was also reading lots of [Carlos] Castaneda at the time (Journey to Ixtlan) and doing my own writing about a prophet named Robert!” 

Re2 also read the books of Aleister Crowley, but only those works which delved into Egyptian symbolism (Book of Thoth, 777) seemed to be of any real interest to him.

When he stopped reading other peoples’ works and focused on his own philosophy of the Universe and Life, the falcon visitations and bladder problems ended. He also recommended pissing outside to become “grounded” with the Earth. “I believe now that I broke the curse of Horus or Ra, whichever, but maintain the incarnation of the essence of all his incarnations (Jesus, Hitler, Allah), without the obvious disadvantages of being superhuman, like being persecuted and hunted down by hostile parties . . .”

Unlike this kindred spirit, I have not become “grounded.” Indeed, the persistence of the falcon coincidences has kept me “in the clouds.”

I wonder now about my role as an incarnation of Re. If there are other falcon mystics, am I but one of many Re equals? Or am I the chief Re and prophet, a kind of pharaoh to a class of high priests who have experienced lesser degrees of Re-ness? Perhaps higher beings on the “other side” had lost confidence in my abilities as Re and had tried to recruit Re2 as my replacement. Still, the message that Re2 had been “writing about a prophet named Robert” gives me confidence that I still have a unique place in history.

Filling in the blanks  The Saturday version of the Los Angeles Times Daily Crossword Puzzle is usually the hardest to solve but I was able to breeze through the June 20, 2009 edition without seeking answers on the Internet.

MALTESE FALCON, 1 across, and ASSOCIATE EDITOR, 55 across, were particularly meaningful, as falcons have played a role in my divine awakening, the Bogart film led to an alternative universe, and I served as an associate editor for a former employer. Perhaps these are signs that I am close to solving the puzzle of my life.

If I should encounter Winona Ryder, the star of 14 across, GIRL INTERRUPTED, perhaps I can woo her with 16 across, ROMANCE LANGUAGE, and rise to the occasion with hard wood from 60 across, PETRIFIED FOREST.

Above the crossword puzzle, my sign headlined the Eugenia Last horoscope: “Cancer looks to make changes at home” and the forecast stated, “You can make a powerful impact on others if you are true to yourself and put your experience to the test.”

If life gives you a lemon slice  An important lesson about my mission as Re can be found in a glass of ice water with a slice of lemon. As usual, this revelation came in another set of coincidences, the synchronicity that permeates my life.

In 2009 I was dating a Korean widow who, when we dine out, only orders iced water with a lemon wedge as a beverage. On August 12, while treating her to lunch at a Vacaville Thai restaurant, the waitress wasn’t paying close attention to my companion’s order and returned with a glass of cold water but no ice, lemon or straw. The oversight was corrected.

The next evening I was watching the final episode, “Miracle,” of the Eleventh Hour on a DVD from the library. The British TV series starred Patrick Stewart as a government scientist, Professor Ian Hood, who in this episode was trying todetermine how water in a stream might have “miraculously” cured a boy of cancer.

A running gag is that Hood is repeatedly annoyed when he orders a plain glass of water at a local restaurant but is always served with a glass of water with ice and a lemon slice. He doesn’t want the lemon taste. 

However, this annoyance turns into an epiphany: There is a connection between the lingering lemon taste, the ice and the mystery of the curative waters. Hood creates ice cubes from the stream water then puts them into a glass of tap water from the café. The cubes promptly sink instead of floating as proper ice cubes should.

The abnormal ice cubes contain heavy water, which is used to create plutonium for nuclear weapons. The heavy water is being manufactured secretly inside a hydroelectric dam. Some of the illegal substance leaked out of the dam and downstream to the source of the “miracle” water. As heavy water kills human cells, a small amount apparently eliminated the boy’s tumor before harming him. 

The consecutive ice-water-with-lemon incidents in real life and fictional TV suggest I should find a lesson or message in this coincidence. Like Hood, I am investigating phenomena that seem to be tinged by the paranormal. Hood was accompanied by Special Branch Scottish bodyguard Rachel Young, who is young enough to be his daughter. As an incarnation of Re, I too am accompanied and protected by a female warrior, my “daughter” Sekhmet. 

The incidents at both the Thai restaurant and English café involve not getting what you order. Perhaps the message is that, like Hood, I will find revelations in things or experiences that I did not “order” nor desire. And I should probably stay away from the lemon slice. My doctor advises me that citric acid is not good for my stomach.