MEETING MR. LINCOLN
Back in the early 1980s, while I was still figuring out what can and cannot be done with my equipment, I decided to do what we now call remote viewing on the White House. It was, of course, natural that I would think of doing that as I had already done a similar experiment on the Kremlin, which proved to be a waste of time because I am not sufficiently fluent in Russian to follow what was being said.
The White House proved to be a more interesting target location, if only because everyone in it was speaking American, with the exception of George Schultz who had a habit of speaking academese on occasion. Any, on one of these little mental expeditions I found myself wandering through the residential wing and landed, of all places, in the Lincoln Bedroom, which is aptly named because its occupant is still there!
There is no mistaking Honest Abe! Every schoolchild in Illinois, where I grew up, knows his face by heart and while I knew of the stories, I was amazed to find myself looking at the back of a very tall, skinny gentlemen in a frock coat of the Civil War era, and that could only be one man.
"Mr. President!" I blurted out with my astral voice and the figure turned and looked at me and yes, there is no question of whom it was. The face was exactly as in the last photograph taken before his assassination.
"Who are you?" it asked in a deep, Southern voice, the accent still heard in Southern Illinois.
"A man from Illinois, Mr. President." I responded, out of what must have been some instinct as I certainly had not rehearsed it.
"Illinois. I have not seen Illinois in many years..."
And then he motioned for me to sit with him at a small table that probably had not physically been there in ages and we talked. And talked. Objectively, clock time, it was only about fifteen minutes but subjectively, astral time, it lasted the better part of an afternoon. We talked of the Civil War, and the small role my great great great grandfather played in one of the Illinois regiments under General Sherman. I remember him laughing and saying that he was always proud of the Illinois men, how they stood up under fire and did not run away at the first screech of the Confederates like the "cowards from New York." We talked about foreign policy and he laughed when he told of how he managed to terrify the poor British and how frightened they were at the end of the war thinking that the Union Navy was going to come after them next, and how when he met with some commissioner of the Confederacy near the end of the war when they tried to sue for peace the southerners suggested a war with England would be a quick way to reunite the country, but he told them that France would have to be dealt with first and he had plans to invade Mexico with 100,000 men under General Sherman to throw them out, while the navy would seize the Mexican ports to prevent any reinforcements from landing from France.
His opinion of politics was not pleasant, nor that of politicians. He was not sure of Reagan but it is probably best not to write what I remember of his opinion of Carter.
And then, as quickly as it began, the meeting was over. I looked and he was gone.
I've never repeated the experiment, but lately I've been tempted.
Back in the early 1980s, while I was still figuring out what can and cannot be done with my equipment, I decided to do what we now call remote viewing on the White House. It was, of course, natural that I would think of doing that as I had already done a similar experiment on the Kremlin, which proved to be a waste of time because I am not sufficiently fluent in Russian to follow what was being said.
The White House proved to be a more interesting target location, if only because everyone in it was speaking American, with the exception of George Schultz who had a habit of speaking academese on occasion. Any, on one of these little mental expeditions I found myself wandering through the residential wing and landed, of all places, in the Lincoln Bedroom, which is aptly named because its occupant is still there!
There is no mistaking Honest Abe! Every schoolchild in Illinois, where I grew up, knows his face by heart and while I knew of the stories, I was amazed to find myself looking at the back of a very tall, skinny gentlemen in a frock coat of the Civil War era, and that could only be one man.
"Mr. President!" I blurted out with my astral voice and the figure turned and looked at me and yes, there is no question of whom it was. The face was exactly as in the last photograph taken before his assassination.
"Who are you?" it asked in a deep, Southern voice, the accent still heard in Southern Illinois.
"A man from Illinois, Mr. President." I responded, out of what must have been some instinct as I certainly had not rehearsed it.
"Illinois. I have not seen Illinois in many years..."
And then he motioned for me to sit with him at a small table that probably had not physically been there in ages and we talked. And talked. Objectively, clock time, it was only about fifteen minutes but subjectively, astral time, it lasted the better part of an afternoon. We talked of the Civil War, and the small role my great great great grandfather played in one of the Illinois regiments under General Sherman. I remember him laughing and saying that he was always proud of the Illinois men, how they stood up under fire and did not run away at the first screech of the Confederates like the "cowards from New York." We talked about foreign policy and he laughed when he told of how he managed to terrify the poor British and how frightened they were at the end of the war thinking that the Union Navy was going to come after them next, and how when he met with some commissioner of the Confederacy near the end of the war when they tried to sue for peace the southerners suggested a war with England would be a quick way to reunite the country, but he told them that France would have to be dealt with first and he had plans to invade Mexico with 100,000 men under General Sherman to throw them out, while the navy would seize the Mexican ports to prevent any reinforcements from landing from France.
His opinion of politics was not pleasant, nor that of politicians. He was not sure of Reagan but it is probably best not to write what I remember of his opinion of Carter.
And then, as quickly as it began, the meeting was over. I looked and he was gone.
I've never repeated the experiment, but lately I've been tempted.