Ruth Montgomery
Leslie Flint
James Van Praagh
Brian E. Hurst
Rosemary Altea
Ruth Montgomery |
Leslie Flint |
James Van Praagh |
Brian E. Hurst |
|
Manchester, Vermont
Rosemary Altea's charitable demonstration of spirit communication at the Elementary Middle School in Manchester, Vermont (on January 19, 2001) was dedicated to the memory of dead children who left behind grieving parents and often survivors burdened by the question "why them and not me?" As the announcement said that the event would be held at a local school, it sounded like a courageous attempt to challenge the established taboo over death matters that molds so many of our values. For instance, every time a well-known persona dies, we hear that a beloved celebrity has "lost the battle." And often an ambiguous smile slips over the TV host's face. It seems to convey the underlying idea -- that one more loser has left this crowded place, but we, the winners, are still hanging in there. But for how long will we stay among the winners? It is only a matter of time when a winner becomes a loser and has to die. In other words, it is a shame to die, and as no one can avoid dying, then it is a shame to live as well. Even worse -- since our first breath, we are burdened with hidden shame, as we believe that at the end we are destined to become losers who "lose the battle?" Will it be a way out if we manage to change the way, how we view death? I came across the announcement of Rosemary Altea's demo accidentally while surfing the net, and knew immediately that it would be my only chance to meet her in an informal atmosphere of a provincial town. I was already writing my next book about various forms of spirit communication and wanted to dedicate a chapter to Rosemary Altea's mediumship. I had read her bestsellers The Eagle and The Rose and Proud Spirit. In my modest home development circle, we successfully used Rosemary Altea's meditation exercises, suggested by her latest book, my favorite, You Own the Power. All her books referre to her work with children and youngsters. The Eagle and the Rose is about her meeting with teenagers at the Hatfield Young Farmers Club back in England at the early stages of her career -- her second public appearance that taught her interaction with the audience and self-confidence. The chapter "Crowning Glory" in Proud Spirit tells a heartbreaking story about children dying from cancer. The concluding chapters of You Own the Power are related by the dead children's spirits. Openness to the dead children's voices and courage to deal with the parents' grief seemed to represent Rosemary Altea's mediumship at its best. There was one more reason why I decided to go to Vermont. Maybe it was the main reason that made me look for an excuse to meet this famous medium. While writing my first book in English, Death the Beginning in the United States, under the pressure of linguistic problems and financial worries, I started to receive messages from the next world on my own. Firstly, the spirit came through only in inspirational writing. Many of these messages were included in Death the Beginning. But lately people who had no money to pay to mediums with established reputations have solicited free readings from me. When I succeeded to produce the evidence of survival, and they acknowledged the contact with their loved ones, I felt inspired. But next to joy, I experienced some problems such as dealing with the energy of doubt and disbelief. I learned that it wasn't unusual that a person, who was looking for help, also exuded energy of doubt that hindered communication. Sometimes it felt like a strong punch in the stomach. Sometimes it felt like being 'beaten up' by a person who was sitting quietly and politely across me, especially if that person disagreed with the message that he or she received. Once, a dead brother of an elderly lady tried to convince her to stop worrying over her diamonds because, as I heard Spirit saying, in the next world poetry and the overall romantic tune was worth more than diamonds on earth. But when I related it to the lady, her disagreement literally "beat me up." It was obvious that she had no idea of the impact that her negative thoughts had. Did I alone experience such negative thought impact? Was there a way to avoid it? I had no one to discuss this with, and I was searching for someone to answer my questions. And there was more. As time passed, I started to receive messages from a certain circle of deceased celebrities. All of them provided me with evidences of their identity, but now it was my turn to be the doubting party. Was it my subconscious as an unemployed film critic (in my country I was a film critic for three decades) that was producing the voices in my head, or what could it be? Was it normal? Did I need some medical attention? I tried to educate myself regarding schizophrenia by reading some medical encyclopedias. As many other avid readers of this kind of literature, I could consider any symptom of any illness described by the encyclopedia. At that point I knew I would better talk to someone who had been in the field longer than me and knew more than I did. Rosemary Altea seemed to be the most knowledgeable and compassionate person who I may be able to approach. In order to get to Manchester, I had to fly from "coast to coast" from LAX to the nearest airport on the East Coast, like in Albany or Hartford. Then to drive some three or four hours across the nearby states to Vermont, and find Manchester, a provincial town, lost in the land of alpine woods, skiing resorts, historic landmarks and romantic getaways. So, armed with a wealth of Internet information, I produced my credit card and clicked the "buy" button. In 20 minutes, my HP printer spit out my airline ticket. And as the announcement stressed that it was a charity event, I also bought three tickets to this event -- one for my use, two for the support of the charity's cause. Still hoping to contact Rosemary Altea personally, I mailed a copy of Death the Beginning to her (or to her team of volunteers). I included also my press kit, a time saver designed for bookstore managers to get at once what my book and its author were all about. In my cover letter I asked for a brief interview. A month later I received a polite answer. It stated that Rosemary Altea couldn't give me a reading because "adding your name to her waiting list is not possible at this time." So, I gathered that my letter, and book and press kit hadn't been opened, much less revived. They still did not know what I wanted from them. As I was running out of time, I e-mailed back that I did not need a reading from Rosemary Altea. All I wanted was a brief talk and permission to record it. As an answer I received again a polite letter stating the same -- Rosemary Altea had no time to give me a reading. The deaf was leading the blind. At this point, I already knew that I wouldn't get to talk to her. When I attempted to return my round trip air ticket, I learned that it was too late for a refund and I decided to fly anyway and take my chances. I e-mailed them again that I would come. Since it was not possible to meet Rosemary Altea this time, I asked if I could attend her upcoming development classes that were announced on the same site of hers. Could I fill out an application? There was no response to my request. A dark thought started to creep in, that this silence had nothing to do with Rosemary Altea's busy schedule and everything with my background. The whole thing had changed color, and became personal. After this one-sided exchange of emails and the refusal to accept my money, I wasn't sure if I need the interview with Rosemary Altea after all. I still had the opportunity to stay home, and continue writing without meeting the renown medium personally. But I bit my lip, packed a few things, and with a bad taste in my mouth caused by the dark premonitions, I hit the road. Snowstorm As planned, in Hartford, Connecticut I rented a Chevy Prism, found the interstate highway I-91, and my drive through the moonless night began. At 3 am I found myself in the middle of Manchester, Vermont. Thick white snowflakes whirled around the light polls and covered car windows and mirrors almost immediately upon any stop in search of a motel. Thank God, the Christmas Lights were still on and it helped my search. The receptionists slept as I drove from motel to motel with "no vacancy," until finally my hand hit a button at a motel entrance that echoed through entire intercom system. A sleepy male voice floated back to me apologetically that in spite of the lit vacancy sign, they don't have any, and suggested to keep going a couple of more blocks to the Equinox. Hotel. The voice added that they always have vacancy there. Around 4 am at the Equinox Hotel I pulled out my credit card for a 3-figure fee for one night and sure enough, I got a room. In the morning, during breakfast, I learned that Lincoln's wife had planned to revisit Equinox in Manchester together with her husband, Abraham Lincoln, and children. A special suite was erected for the president, but regrettably, the vacationing plans were interrupted by Lincoln's assassination shortly before he was expected to arrive. Equinox did not get to host the president, but the owners found a good reason to collect from the public for the honor to stay where Abraham Lincoln intended to spend some time, so many years ago. Miraculously the solemn air of such expectation was still in the air. Was it kept alive by the collective thoughts of all the visitors who had stayed here over the last century? While having my coffee and scrambled eggs - the most ordinary breakfast one can think of -- I still felt that this air of expectations was touching my imagination. I couldn't shake off the impression that I was called to be ready for an encounter with something unusual. Who was calling? Who I was supposed to see? The spirit of expectation was contagious. I paid my bill and already knew that I was going to have a mysterious encounter. In such a snowstorm, anything was possible. Blinded by the wet snowflakes, cars moved slowly along the streets ignoring brightly lighted shop windows and empty parking lots. The snowfall reminded me of Estonia, the country I was from; on the map it could be found in north Europe, on the shore of the Finnish Bay, and west of Saint Petersburg. We were used to having long and snowy winters. Now living in California, I hadn't seen snow in years, almost a decade. Maybe this was why it enlivened a forgotten the spirit of Russian and Estonian poems, folk tales, and beliefs that the souls of the unquiet dead were whirling together with the snowflakes in these storms, luring lonely travelers to their peril by making them lose sight of the road. And there were folktales of survivors suspected of shape shifting to become werewolves, or being lifted high up into the dark skies by the maddening whirlwinds where they picked fights with wild witches and won, becoming ten-fold stronger and dangerously capable to achieve anything they wanted … Was my reverie ominous? Was I being warned to watch my step, and brace myself for an upcoming battle? In spite of the weather conditions the Elementary Middle School's gymnasium was almost full. There were children with their parents, and guests like myself from afar. A young gentleman announced that the event was about to begin and he stressed again that the proceeds -- the money for our tickets, $25 per person, will support the scholarship fund for the local students from underprivileged families. The theme of the evening was also announced -- coping with the loss of children to their death. Suddenly a butterfly flew across the hall towards the stage. Rosemary Altea's diamonds sparkled as she flowed in her elegant black pantsuit through the hall, spreading sweet waves of fresh and positive energy. But the gymnasium hall was designed for students' sport activities -- it was too big for an energy merge that mediums try to accomplish before they start to channel voices of the dead. Instead of focusing energy, the room was dispersing it. It was obvious that the medium would have a hard time working here, and I asked myself, what will the butterfly woman do next, and how will she handle this situation? Rosemary Altea seemed to try to compensate this lack of a focus point by staging one. In the middle of the gymnasium's stage, there was a funny high chair. It looked more like a mock up throne, too high in order to sit in it naturally. If someone would try to climb in it, obviously it would produce a comic effect and sure enough, bring everybody's attention to the climbing action. Rosemary Altea did climb in that mock up throne, and once there, took her time to adjust to that very tall chair, exposing the talent of a comedian. She tried to put her feet down but couldn't reach the floor and made fun of it. This cute childish pantomime made the audience laugh, and she got them on her side. Now their attention was focused, and the energy merge could begin. Exhausting the comic effect, Rosemary Altea jumped off of her "throne," left the stage and ran down the center isle that divided the audience into two separate bodies. The division did not help the energy merge either. During her entire demo Rosemary Altea would "sew" this division together by walking up and down along that middle isle during the entire evening. Now she continued the integration of the audience's energy by soliciting participation. She asked, "Please, raise your hands, who drove one hour?" To my surprise, a lot of hands were raised. "Who drove two hours?" Still a lot of hands swung high. "Who drove three hours?" still some hands were raised. "Who drove four hours?" A couple that sat next to me, came as far as from New Jersey and they drove four hours, like myself from Hartford. If she does it spontaneously, she will stop here and proceed with the demo, flashed through my head. But if she does it consciously, she will speed up the energy fuse by pressing forward with the "we-are-all-one-family" feeling. The easiest way to proceed would be to ask, do they also hear and see spirits. In order to win the audience's sympathy, almost all speakers pull the "you are like me and I am no better than you" gimmick. "This is why you are here," they say. "You are like me, you also hear spirits, or go out of body, or can memorize 5-digit numbers," etc. I realized that I was watching the show as I was used to watch films back in Estonia. Was I back in time, or was the promised encounter with otherworldliness nearing? A young man was coming down the isle. As a ghost, he passed through the Rosemary Altea and was already on the stage, he took the seat in the empty chair, and imitated some funny poses that Rosemary Altea had sported at the beginning at that evening. But this time nobody laughed, because no one seemed to see him. He jumped down the stage and turned into mine row. It was Mister Bunin, my spirit helper, or maybe the invention of my imagination, my alter ego who filled in for my social mask as a film critic. I never really knew who he was, but when a film review, or article, or a story, or a profile wrote itself effortlessly adding some unexpected twists to the stories, I knew that it wasn't me writing but someone else who I barely knew. In order to overcome this alienation, I decided to give him a name, and finally I opted for Mister Bunin. 11 years ago, while arriving to this country, and facing the survival struggles, I said him goodbye. I asked Mister Bunin not to take it personally and agree to be put asleep. I did not expect him back, at least, not in this lifetime. Was he resurrected by the forgotten smell of the melting snow, or the smells in the Equinox breakfast room that called up the memories of the Estonian Film House coffee shop. Its magic door was built into the medieval wall, probably erected six or seven, or who-knows how many centuries ago. Once passing the door, a visitor found himself in a modern interior that imitated the Western standards of luxury. This splendor was funded by our bosses in the Moscow Union of Filmmakers. All over the Soviet Union places were needed to send the packs of foreign visitors who -- as I understand now, came to Moscow to research the new market. At that time, we were blind to this, and drawn to luxury, we gathered in that coffee shop, to share our anticipation of the historic changes. Naïve and idealistic, we believed that the collapse of Communist regime would resolve everything and we, the brothers and sisters in our rebellious mood, were about to enter a paradise on earth… Bunin interrupted my reverie asking me to catch up with the "here" and "now." He whispered in my ear, "A fool-proof script is conveniently securing her heavenly guidance." I reluctantly disagreed with Bunin. I brought to his attention that she was standing alone in front of the crowd that was waiting to be entertained. I asked Bunin, would he like to be in her shoes. Bunin distraughtly and remorsefully refused to comment. I told him that she had more to offer to people than her polished look, and therefore was free to conduct her presentation as it pleased her. Rosemary Altea, still gliding up and down the isle, asked again for a show of hands from those who had met their deceased loved ones in their dreams, heard their voices, seen their images, or felt their presence… And again, a forest of hands swung up immediately, and Rosemary Altea tried to turn her innocent field survey into a joke, commenting that there was nothing normal about seeing or hearing spirits. In her childhood, when she had shared with grownups having seeing them, it caused her a lots of trouble. I could feel now that Bunin got into his element. He sensed a taste of violation and tried to make me see it. "Shut up!" I commanded Bunin. "We are not in Versailles but in a provincial town, and I forbade you to deal with the taste issues." But in spite of my reasoning, Bunin still was bursting to go into action. I again tried to calm him down. I throw straight into his face that in this country, in the United States, nobody cared what he had to say. "You are loosing your cool," I said asking him not to get too excited. Why say things that will sound like the shots of a displaced (fired) postal worker, or some other fired desperado? In the news we hear all the time about the stupid ones who have shot real bullets into real people, and would go straight to the electric chair (to hell)! And there are the smart ones, that kill with words, enjoy it and don't go to jail (but some day they'll go to hell as well)! Bunin, do you want to pave a way to hell for me as well? Better make yourself useful, and help with a hallelujah article that will make everybody happy, Rosemary Altea included. Still flying through the same isle, she arrived to a visible spot in front of her audience, and started stepping, showing how in her past she made her living by flooring and hammering boards into place. She beat her high heels against the floor with the skill and anger of a professional tap dancer. Through the image of an elegant butterfly another image started to emerge -- the image of a creature of strong will and determination. Bunin whispered, "My God, she is tapping a hole into my heart! What a way to disarm audience! Who will judge a petite, thin woman who made her living as a construction worker? She is still a Cinderella, I wish her to find the prince and already to become a Queen!" Rosemary Altea continued her story. Once, before her rise to fame, while flooring, an old woman came through the door and offered a fortune telling in exchange for a silver coin to be put in her palm (In Russia, Gypsies also insisted on placing a coin in their palms. It was called "to silver the hand" (poserebri ruchku), or "to gold the hand" (pozoloti ruchku) which was supposed to secure a successful fortune telling). The story went on and on. Instead of a silver coin, Rosemary Altea offered a cup of tea. As the switch from flooring to talking to the dead on American national television and consulting the cream of New York society had already taken place, it wasn't hard to guess what the Gypsy woman told her. Rosemary Altea added, "Everything came true but one thing that I would be three times married. So far I have been married once, divorced and presently single, but still waiting that this prediction will also come true." Bunin mumbled, "Give me a break! What she is pushing here is a construct of the most predictable Hollywood scenario of a mythical journey that is deeply imbedded in our subconscious. Such a story is the bred and butter of the commercial movie industry." While I was writing this, USA cable network happened to show Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, a film that every American knows by heart. By a coincidence its star Harrison Ford, before his career took off held years his carpenter's sideline. Temple of Doom constitutes a shining example of a movie based on an adventurous fable. It knows how to exaggerate things beyond the limits of boring reality, still pretending to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. It makes these stories irresistibly enjoyable. Actually, this illusion of truthfulness is rigidly structured. Every such story begins with a picture of the ordinary reality that tells us where the hero is coming from. Indiana Jones enters the adventure serial as a teacher in Raiders of a Lost Arc; Temple of Doom starts with a dynamic episode about a shady diamond deal that catapults Indiana Jones to his adventures in the non-ordinary reality, and at the beginning of the third film of this serial Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, we again see him lecturing in a college, in other words, in a role of an ordinary teacher. According to the Hollywood scenario, the next important step is receiving "the call to an adventure." This call interrupts hero's peaceful, or as in Temple of Doom, not so peaceful existence, and invites him or her to embark on the adventure in non ordinary reality in exchange for nothing less but a gift from gods. And "a call to adventure" it was that Rosemary Altea received at her touchy tea party with a mysterious Gypsy woman. A Cinderella was probably invited to follow the path of a medium in exchange for the God's gift to communicate with the spirit world. In Hollywood movies such a "call" is delivered by the archetypal figures of a Wise Old Man, or a Wise Old Woman. When Indiana Jones "falls from the sky" into a remote village of the alpine part of India, he is met by the village's old chief with a halo of silver-white hair around his head. He wears a draped cloak and an ornament around his neck of long beaded strands that reach down to his knees, stressing how bony the man is. The weakness of his ailing body is compensated by the strength of his spirit. He convinces Indiana Jones free the kidnapped children and recover the protective magnetic stone that was stolen by the dark forces inhabiting the Temple of Doom. In other words, the chief invited Indiana Jones to embark on the unusual journey to the dangerous world of non-ordinary reality. Stifling a yawn, Bunin predicted the medium's next step on the floor. If she would follow the structure of a commercial adventure movie, now is time for "crossing the threshold," because the magic world is a step, or "a threshold" away from the magical world. Bunin referred to the episode where Indiana Jones with his retinue crossed the bridge (in the role of a that threshold) to the Temple of Doom, and the gate fell close behind them… What would it be here? Bunin amplified that it was the point of no return. Once the threshold, or a bridge was crossed, there was no way back; now all the hero could do was to proceed. Bunin added that it was ridiculous that he had to tell all this because back in Estonia we wrote about it in the book about the Andrei Tarkovki's films. Here, in the United States, in every film school it is stuffed down the throats of students who eye breaking into the show biz. And giving me that special look of contempt, Bunin also said that my first book in English, Death the Beginning was no better, because it was based on the same foolproof formula that has been exploited mercilessly by the pop culture, especially movie land. He said I had succumbed to this enticing way of story telling because he, the critic, was sent to take a hike. But now he would speak his mind. To say the least, it was tasteless to reduce a life experience to a scheme of 'journey' seeking approval of minds that had stopped developing at the level of a five-year old child. "Shame on you," concluded Bunin, stretching his arthritic joints. "I am disappointed because I had faith in you!" He said that he doubted that he could be of service any more, because he was too good, and too refined and too educated to tolerate all this playing to the gallery. "Good luck, I am out of here," said Bunin disappearing into thin air. At that point I had no time to continue our emotional exchange, because on the floor Rosemary Altea did exactly what Bunin had foreseen -- she was "crossing the threshold." The medium was talking to a small group of people with benign faces and strangely vacant looks. Two of them were brother and sister. Altea introduced them as survivors of an unspeakable tragedy. They had lost to a fire six of their family members -- parents and a baby included, and of course, all they physical possessions. Now there was grave silence in the audience. This introduction had an impact of "crossing the threshold from the space as we know it to the space of unknown ruled rather by myths than logic. The time to tell jokes was over. About 500 people waited for her to bring through the messages from those in the spirit world who lost their lives in that horrible fire. This expectation placed Rosemary Altea at the point of no return. All she could do now was deliver. And she did. She got the survivors' Mother who appeared in the medium's inner eye with a baby -- her grandchild -- on her arm. Rosemary Altea came up with facts that were known only to the family members. For some people in the audience it proved life to be eternal, for the others it proved that the contact has been made and the family reunion has taken place. There were tears, and laughter, and relief and witnessing audience experienced the touch of unworldliness as well. The Mother's spirit who spoke through Rosemary Altea, assured that they did not suffer when they died in fire. The spirit explained, "It was like someone came to be with us, and we simply fell asleep." Rosemary Altea added, " I don't tell you this in order to make you feel better." She said that she was relating the words and sentences that had been spoken to her by the spirit, "I am standing inside of that place, I feel smoke, and I do see how they were taken out. And spirit says that you have already met in your dreams." Rosemary Altea tells the survivors that any time when they want to contact them, all they have to do is to call, and they will come! My seat happened to be on the opposite side of the hall, and as its acoustics weren't the best, I lost some of the details. During the break I approached them. I intended to ask their names for this article. Before I had the chance to utter my first question, Rosemary Altea literally glided through the hall to join us. She smiled politely and cut off my conversation with the group by refocusing their attention on herself. So, I never learned the names of people who went through this terrible tragedy. It was Rosemary Altea's evening and of course, I accepted her wish and backed off. So did she, still guarding me. I concluded that for some reason she was protecting these people from intruders like myself, probably from journalists. I got the feeling that Rosemary Altea knew who I was. Manchester was a quiet place, and it wasn't so hard to spot a stranger. My unique accent -- a mixture of Estonian and Russian languages did the rest -- one didn't have to be a detective to figure out who I was. And as we were standing next to each other in that hall, I decided to seize the moment. I heard myself saying, "May I take advantage of finding myself next to you, and say hello?" But before I was done with my eloquent appeal, Rosemary Altea shouted furiously, "I am talking to no one!" Her anger struck me numb. The unusual force of her emotions catapulted me out of the mount, and before I knew it, Mr. Bunin was back. He hauled on the reigns gaining control over my wounded feelings and switching to a position of an attentive and calm observer. He flashed through my mind an episode from The Temple of Doom where Indiana Jones temporarily lost his will and became part of sheepishly chanting parishioners who didn't mind to be one by one sacrificed to the bloodthirsty goddess Kali. The "chosen ones" were caged and the cage was dipped into boiling white-hot lava in the Temple's crater, an opening in the earth. Indiana Jones' girlfriend was about to be sacrificed, but instead of helping her, vacant-looking Indiana Jones went on chanting. Will Indiana Jones wake up in time? Of course, for the sake of the story, he will be back. But it asks for interference. In movie, his kid friend lets the torch's flame to cleanse Indiana Jone's aura. I was hit by an outburst of an unexpected anger, and thrown out of Rosemary Altea's story (myth, if you like) back into my space. Bunin suppressed his cynical smile, letting me know that in one hour from now, before I return to my ambitious motel, I will thank Rosemary Altea for excluding me from the sheepish crowd of her parishioners. Bunin helped me to turn inward and stay calm. The color of Rosemary Altea's dark shiny eyes shifted to dull grayish blue. The blind gray circles were not centered by the pupils in the middle -- the spots that we count for a gateway to the other person's soul. The medium's fine facial features were ice cold and distant. Bunin ascertained triumphantly, "That's the shift! The beauty and the beast -- elf and monster, angel and demon, sheep and wolf -- all in one! A rose will not survive without thorns in this cruel world!" The demonstration resumed. Rosemary Altea took questions from people and often expanded her answers into a reading. A lady who lost her sister, told that a couple of days ago, while staying home alone, she felt as someone was touching her face, and she asked was it her sister who tried to hug her. (By the way, such questions are not unusual, and they cannot be answered in the situation of a demo for a large audience). Rosemary Altea answered, "I cannot tell you, if it was your sister or not." Rosemary Altea took her time, then she continued, "But I see a young lady next to you. She was very sick before she died. She is tagging your sleeve right now. Her end was difficult. There was nothing that had not been done for her. No medication or treatment could help. When she visits you, she puts her arms around you. She asks me to tell you -- dry your eyes, I am happy now, the suffering is behind me." The stories of the death and happy resurrection in the next world followed one after another. Now Rosemary Altea was asking for a person who might have known a black dog. "I see a dog that is wagging his tale. It says nothing to me. A gentleman in the spirit world who calls himself a dad says that the dog has his tail again. Yes, I can see the tale, but… The gentleman says that he wanted his dog back and he got him back. He says to someone here of being skeptical about his story and that he shouldn't be. The gentleman says that the skeptic is the person who cut off that tale for the fashion purposes. Who is this person?" A middle-aged couple recognizes both the gentleman and their black dog. Rosemary Altea related, now addressing her words to that middle-aged couple, "You don't have children, and therefore you loved that dog too much. The connected feeling of being bonded to that dog is still with you. Let it go." The middle-aged couple confirmed that the dog took the place of a child in their life, indeed. The gentleman in the spirit world, the father, advised his son on earth, "There is a window of opportunity opening up for you right now, but you have doubts and you are afraid to fail. Think, if you fail, what will be the cases' worst scenario? You will face new opportunities, because out there is endless number of opportunities. If you don't try, you will never know, will you win or fail. If you fail, you will try again. It is called living. If you want to fly, and you fail, you will try again." Someone asked about language problem, does Spirit speak English, or in the native language of the deceased person? Rosemary Altea explains that the spirit communicators use telepathic ways of transmission their messages regardless the language their use. And on this side, mediums use a system of signs and symbols in order to "read" their messages, sometimes receiving the information in a form of audio-visual signs that may sound as a real speech. One sees and hears one message at a time. Every medium develops his or her own language of symbols and ways how to decipher them. "There is a man standing next to you," said Rosemary Altea to a lady who was sitting close to the middle isle. We saw her, but we didn't see the man standing next to her. Rosemary Altea continued, "His end was quick; he is saying hello to you. He is irritated and little bit disappointed in you, because you have healing abilities, but you don't concentrate on using and developing your healing abilities. Instead you keep yourself busy by jumping from a thing to thing. He asks you to focus, stay straight in light, and build the center inside of you in order to grow and help others." The messages from children and teenagers who suffered death from fatal illnesses or road accidents were especially moving; young souls asked their parents not to cry for them, and gave assurances that over there they are fine and busy with growing, having fun and studying. As the evening continued, the medium brought through a soul of a teenage girl, lets call her Amanda, who died in a car accident. Rosemary Altea started to relate the pictures of that accident. …Amanda was driving alone, she was blindfolded by… the blow came from the blind side with such a force… Amanda says that suddenly she saw lights from aside, but it was too late, and she couldn't do anything. In less than instant it was over. But it wasn't over. Rosemary asked, "Was there any pain? Was it quick, fast?" … Something wasn't right. Now Rosemary took her time to listen to her inner voice, and watch the pictures in her third eye. Finally she said, "No, it wasn't quick or fast. The girl survived for a little while. She was rushed to the hospital…" A middle class couple confirmed with a sad submissiveness that, yes, their daughter Amanda was rushed to the hospital. Rosemary Altea continued to "read" the spirit message, "And there was a delay…" And again, parents barely being able to contain their grief confirmed the delay. Rosemary Altea related the comment of her guide, The Eagle who said, "No, the delay did not cause the death; the delay or no delay -- the outcome would be the same. It was an awful journey, the road was bumpy, and then came the helicopter ride. In the hospital, they gave her a blood transfusion, and Mother was there. She was praying. Amanda asked to pass her thanks to Mother for her prayers. Rosemary Altea continued to represent Amanda who was saying that she was in the most wonderful place that looked like paradise with so clear water that one could see through. Amanda told that she was with the children, and she was taking care of them being a nurse who duty was to look after the little ones in he next world. The evening seemed to arrive to its eclipse. Amanda's description of the paradise was so sentimental that I almost forgot about the Bunin's presence. But it was still him who was riding the horse! He always contained himself, and never allowed his emotions to cloud his judgment. His riding whip pointed to a big round clock up there, on the wall. "It is ten minutes before ten. The medium is running out of time. Now comes the wrap. According to the formula, the hero has to return home (to the ordinary reality that has been shown us at the beginning of he movie) as a changed man and a master of both worlds, the master of the ordinary world, and the master of the non-ordinary reality). As we remember well, in Temple of Doom Indiana Jones returns as a redeemer who freed the children from slavery and recovered the stolen magic stone of protection. You may ask, how obligatory is this rule of "returning as a master of the two worlds," and how could possibly Rosemary Altea apply this "a must" twist of storytelling to her evening? Bunin was hysterical when he noticed that Rosemary Altea started her wrap by returning to the starting point (back home)… Moving first towards the first row , she approached Harriet and Ryan, sister and brother, the two survivors of the malicious fire. They were the first who she worked with at the beginning of this evening. The fire had taken their entire family, including Harriet's baby boy, Joseph. Rosemary Altea asked them to follow her and sit next to the parents of Amanda, the teenage girl that suffered death in a horrible car accident. "I brought you together because," started Rosemary Altea," because on the other side Amanda is taking care of Joseph…" Bunin shrugged and said ostentatiously "What a touching story! She proves that she "returns" as a master of two worlds by setting up this "white piano in the bushes!" Back in the Soviet Union, the expression "white piano in the bushes" marked backing off from truth and settling for the pictures of life "as it should be" in accordance with the ruling ideological concept. For example, a TV reporter reported from a remote kolhkoze, "By chance, a famous singer also happened to be here, and as luck would have it, we also have a white piano in the bushes as well! Let's sing a song about the happy life under the Kremlin's ruby stars!" Writers, artists, filmmakers fought decades until a footage of a lonely, drunk babushka (grandma) in the midst of an abandoned village could represent "happy life" in Russia instead. (And it was achieved no earlier when Communist regime started to crumble). "I brought you together because … " Rosemary Altea did her best to make this mini-staging work as a wrap up of the event. The survivors, Harriet and Ryan sat in the first row, but the parents of Amanda found a place in a back row. It would look more natural to ask people, who sat far away, to come down the isle and give the audience the chance to embrace the union of both families. Caustic Bunin said, "Of course, the staging isn't going so well. The rich had no intention to move… This is why the medium did not want you to talk to these people, because there was enough tension with the staging, and the last thing that she needed was that you would add to this mess!" Rosemary Altea went on, "I brought you together, because on the other side, Amanda takes care of your Joseph, and they are playing together…" Bunin pointed to a group of youngsters who sat on the side benches as a flock of swallows on a wire. A sigh of uncertainty flew through that flock. "Look at them, they are not happy with this prospect to grow no further in heaven but be a nurse! They want more! I asked Bunin, "Are you trying to say that she is a fraud?" Bunin laughed, "Oh no! It would be a too simple an explanation for what is happening here. She seeks help from the entertainment to get her messages across. She does it because she is cornered by the audience's expectations. She deals with the audience that has been bred on films like "The Temple of Doom, " actually in the constant flow of colorful production of entertainment industry. The pressure of this flow works as the "white piano in the bushes" rule worked back in the Soviet Union. But there is a difference. The Communist regime was based on a hated and despised ideological formula, but in modern Capitalism the power of the entertainment industry is sweet and its consequences are barely realized. Intellectually, it is much easier to fight against the tyranny of Party control than against the tyranny of "Titanic" type sweetness. Rosemary Altea's audience cried their eyes out watching "Titanic." This audience will not read Dante Alighiery or Carl Gustav Jung. Rosemary Altea does the best she can, and the only way she knows how. And maybe today there isn't a better way for conducting the spirit communication demonstrations than Rosemary Altea's way that she had invented for her own use. And meeting a film critic is the last thing that this woman -- a butterfly and a worrier in one -- needs. She has her battle to fight, and you have yours. Do her a favor and leave her alone. It was senseless to continue our discussion. The show was over and the audience dissipated. Outside it was still snowing. My rented car moved slowly through the white fluff of the whirling snowfall with it near zero visibility. The only thing that I could think of was how to get back to Hartford International Airport in one piece and in time for my flight. And then occurred one of life's wonderful little coincidences that lighten up our lives and smooth the sharp edges of unpleasant experiences. At the old fashioned Equinox hotel, the receptionist asked me about my plans. Did I intend to leave or stay? We started to talk and I asked about the weather forecast. Out of nowhere, literally through the heavy curtains emerged a man in his early fifties, probably a handyman. Who would work this late in a place like that? But there he was, and he chipped in, "They say, at four o'clock in the morning, there will be no snowstorm and no ice on the road. In your shoes, I would have a nice sleep first!" And he added, "If you opt for resting now, you will be fine on the road!" Having delivered this message he disappeared. "John is always right about the weather," added the receptionist encouraging me to stop worrying. I asked her to wake me up at 3:30 am, and I proceeded to my room. The room was warm and friendly. At 4 am I learned that the snowstorm was gone, and there was no ice on the road. I arrived to Hartford in time for my flight, safe and sound. At home, writing this story, I was tempted to edit out the unpleasant personal encounter with Rosemary Altea and make the story sound nice as expected! I already deleted the ambiguous paragraph, but then I pasted it back on the page. If things would go differently, and I would get the interview from Rosemary Altea, I knew, I would be bound to be nice and never be able to sense the parallels between the modern mediumship and entertainment. These were not my "wounded feelings" that made me see it, but the need to overcome the consequent limitation. An interview supplies a journalist with the ready point of view of an authority in the field, and usually a journalist goes with it -- I would. But if an authority is not available, you have to judge what you got on your own. This was how I happened to see the changing face of modern mediumship. And a single brief excerpt from an old-fashioned spirit message will show us what we lost and what we gained thanks to this change. Recently Leslie Flint Foundation in London made available some recordings of mediumistic séances conducted by Leslie Flint (1911-1994) the legendary independent voice medium. He literally did not open his mouth during the séances, and consequently, had no chance to speak for the Spirit or misinterpret the Spirit messages. Instead of listening and passing on the messages as the present day mediums do, he exuded ectoplasm in abundance. Spirit formed it into a "voice box," or an artificial throat, and a ghost used it as his temporary vocal cords. There are thousands of testimonies of people who recognized voices and figure of speech of their deceased loved ones (one testimony belongs to James Van Praagh who heard his mother speaking during a séance with Leslie Flint.) Here comes an excerpt from such a tape. The communicator is spirit of Oscar Wilde. Ironically, he is not happy with the "voice box" and finds humiliating to use another person for communicating. Listen how elaborate is the former writer's speech and pay attention to the joke regarding the name "I am colonel Boggy," in other words, Humphrey Boggart, an actor who becomes famous long after Oscar Wilde's death in 1900. "Why are you so concerned with my name, truly? What I say is far more important than my name. My name got me in a great deal in trouble when I was on your side. Tell them, I'm colonel Boggy. I assure you, you are much more pleased to hear me than I am to come. At least, I […] certainly wish that there would be a much more congenial way to converse, to pass through to you my thoughts through this particular method of communication which may or may not be successful… To my part to go, it is irritating business. Here am I, trying talking to you. But the fluctuating thing (voice box -- T.E.) that I have to use, makes it practically an impossibility. What about rights? No one has a medium for a pen, when there is nothing to bar you from clearly putting down on paper your thoughts. But when [instead of a pen] you have to use another human to demonstrate what you feel within yourself, I find it extremely irritating…" And the tapes is going on and going on… Mental mediums are rather passing on the synopses of the spirit communicators' messages than the spirit monologues, limiting the messages from the other side to the evidence of the survival. In other words, the present day mental mediumship focuses on the extraction of the evidence of survival, leaving the sentiment of communication, and too often the reason for communication behind. And mediums and their audiences seem to be mutually satisfied -- the present day audience wouldn't have neither time neither patience to listen what Oscar Wilde has to say… Take it or leave it, but it is the truth. Even if the mediums would be the same, the audience wouldn't In old days, the selected members of society would constitute the audience, today SiFi cabel channel airs John Edwards' facilitated spirit communication rush séances to the millions of viewers evening after evening after evening, month after months. The vertical line of communication had changed into a horizontal line of communication in a format of mass entertainment. Is it good or bad? I don't know. Leslie Flint winded up serving English royalty, James Van Praagh -- in a private reading -- conveyed amazing thoughts of a simple Russian woman, Maria, my son's grandmother, who died far away in a provincial Estonian town that is hard to find on the world's map. While on earth, she paid her karma debts as a cleaning lady, after death she found herself in a garden filled with flowers of indescribable beauty. And she came through to bring a message of love and reconciliation. Who had more rights to be heard -- English royalty or a Russian cleaning woman? Of course, every coin has two sides. When the 20th century made the fine art step down from its stilts onto the field of mass-entertainment, fine art lost its refinement and most of its lasting forms. Think of transition of an art form of Notre Dame Cathedral from its original form as a majestic building on Seine in Paris to another form as a film copy in a Hollywood short-lived movie version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor-Marie Hugo, where Quasimodo and Esmeralda's story unfolds against the backdrop of Notre- Dame Cathedral in Paris. The latter form multiplied the Cathedral's images in millions, these copies flashed through 21st century only to be dispersed in eternity for good. Is the same happening to the spirit communication today? Why is it sent through the crucible of mass entertainment and mass communication devices, such as radio and television programs? Is it helping us to become more spiritual or are we trying to cheat death and deceive ourselves? As my first encounter with a well-known medium brought no answers and only new questions, there is no way to find out but continuing my journey. Our next stop would bring us to the office of the hypnotherapist Albert Marotta who represents a growing movement of so called "reliesementalists" who stem from old-fashioned exorcists, but in a way are trying to reconcile two opposite point of view of spirit communication -- the view of Spiritualists who cherish the need of spirit communication, and the view of traditional churches on the spirit communication as mingling with the forces of evil.