John David Balla is a corporate dropout, freelance writer, marketer, web designer, business consultant, and volunteer committed to spiritual principles and practices.
Among his current activities, Mr. Balla is an Internet business consultant, strategist, copywriter, web designer and marketer. He services both large and small business alike and assists them in achieving their revenue goals.
Dubbed, Project Eagle/Condor, Mr. Balla is working with the indigenous people of Peru, including shamans, college students and entrepreneurs to better leverage the Internet so that people who are looking for their unique services can indeed find them, all while maintaining the integrity of their heritage.
Mr. Balla also has his own online column and website, dubbed "The Woo Woo Chronicles." He also regularly advises small business and entrepreneurs on marketing strategies and best practices. In addition, he is currently working on a novel/screenplay, entitled, "Beyond the American Dream."
The Mayan Calendar and the Implications of Black Hole Gear Failure... (Peru, June 21, 2010) Pulsating drumming encircles the fire ceremony atop the chiseled features of the most masculine apu in all the Andes, the great Hauyna Picchu. Amela carries a torch to guide her through the narrow crevices of the cave, a cave that shouldn’t be there, for it contradicts the mountain’s energy with a distinctive albeit hidden androgyny.
She enters from the side, due west, at precisely 6,982 feet above sea level. It is quiet and a bit chilly yet the thickness of the dew has a certain warmth to it that blankets Amela with a sense of home. Upon this realization, she stops, spears the torch in between two large rocks and begins to fondle the stones as if attending to her garden, or putting her children to bed. A small smile becomes visible on her face as she oversees their care. They respond with very subtle rhythmic beats of approval that infiltrate her senses through her fingertips.
As her senses further acclimate, the source of the vibration is ascertained along with a more linear, causal reality. Her smile widens with irony as she yanks the torch from its stationary position and resumes her sojourn.
The cave is unusual in that it terminates to the heavens on both ends, the one she entered and now, the other which she must ascend almost completely vertical to reach the mountain’s peak.
The awaiting ceremony is unusually compact and cluttered due to the lack of flat ground atop the
The ease of which losing one’s footing has already claimed many deaths. Plus, it is completely dark, and technically speaking, what the group is doing is illegal, not to mention the ethical issues of trying to manipulate nature, an itch that most every culture, present and primordial, has consistently scratched.
Some believe that “nature” is merely a virgin state for which free will has yet to find a way to embrace. For Amela, this is a good technical definition of what spirituality truly is – the coming together of mankind with its source, or God’s will with free will, or the innate need and character of mankind to create, manipulate and exploit, and nature’s willingness to be the recipient of these measures. All true, but still grossly oversimplified.
In this new paradigm that the researchers are advancing, still admittedly in its incipient phase, the “time-space” dichotomy championed by Einstein, is no longer seen as a giant grid or matrix that literally “bends” to the forces of gravity, but rather, is a circular system of interlocking gears – a time machine – where both “past” and “future” converge.
Where the sprockets of these two wheels actually interlock demarcates the point in space where reality is compressed into existence, where free will rests in between these two predetermined forces, squeezed into a tubular geometry reminiscent of a wormhole created by a black hole.
In fact, Amela and a few maverick astronomers now contend that the Mayan Calendar actually represents two black holes, one representing the past, the other the future; the smaller of the two –- the past – spinning clockwise, and the other and more larger of the two – the future – rotating counterclockwise.
In order to emulate it so precisely, somewhere in the heavens, the Maya must have observed and studied this phenomenon. And despite not having computers or chemistry to aid them, they still managed to forecast – based on some still unknown variable – the expiration date of one of these black holes, or what we can call in machinistic terms, “gear failure.”
As such, the end of time is not mystical nonsense, at least in this instance, but rather is a matter of physics based on the laws of nuclear fusion which fuel all stars, and precipitate their aftermath as black holes.
And when two countervailing black holes grind up against each other, much in the same way the Mayan Calendar is configured, they form a third wormhole that resides precisely where the wheels grind together. This third wormhole comprises linear reality as we know it; the free will domain. And once either one of the black holes expires, so does reality. This indeed is what the Mayan Calendar is measuring, the researchers now contend.
The great experiment for which they are all assembled, is to see whether the researchers, acting as agents of free will, can actually influence the predetermined gears of time, which is nothing short of an attempt to change free will’s status to that of “slave to predeterminism,” to that of its “master.” In other words, to unseat God, some would say. A pretty lofty ambition.
They have settled on the word “fear” as most analogous in vibrational frequency to the number thirteen, one of the most significant numbers in the Mayan Calendar, the number for which represents “the end of time,” among other things. And by invoking it, they are hoping that realistically, there will be a measurable consequence, nothing that will change the current predicament, but something that will serve as a stepping stone to that end.
The fire of the torch emerges atop the great apu, which itself is surrounded very tightly by the sacred fire, furnishing a scene rich in psycho-spiritual allegory when Amela’s person seemingly appears inside the fire, unburned and unencumbered, out of nowhere.
Her long black hair is shrouded with a 19th century hooded poncho. Amela cleanses her hands and face with the flames as she seductively dances herself into a trance. When she speaks, her tonality is chant-ish, but quickly transforms into whispering confession. She looks up to the starlit sky, beckoning it with her outstretched arms.
“Otorongo -- great jaguar of the West, who knows no enemies and has no fear. I offer you my fear for your personal consumption. Indulge in it like you do your prey.” She takes a swig of
One of the agents looks at his monitor. The numbers run very fast in sequence, from 0 to 12, over and over. “We have rollover,” he says very softly into his wireless headset.
The two Rabbis examine the data from another monitor, watching as the program performs an ELS search for “remove fear” in the script of the Torah. The results appear in the matrix with “remove” appearing diagonally, and “fear” vertically.
”Hmm. Interesting,” says the young Rabbi to himself. “Ahh. But the skip length is too long.”
“What is it?” says the first agent, over the wireless network.
The young Rabbi peers into the screen, eyes squinting: “Fourteen.”
“Otorongo -- great jaguar of the West. I give you the fear of the world,” laments Amela with great theatrical flare, spewing
The computer screen that the Rabbis are monitoring now shows the ELS result to have a skip length of 13 characters.
The computer screen that a government agent is monitoring, suddenly stops at the number 12. It blinks.
A cluster of stars begin to spin into a vortex. AMELA’s mouth slowly smiles. Her eyes go heavy. The vortex gains mass until it begins to bend the sky like a piece of thin aluminum until the stress becomes too much and a crease appears.
The shamans continue to drum, staring intensely, albeit calmly at the sky. The drumming gets thunderously wild and loud and erotic, determined to provoke the sky even further.
Amela, again extends her arms to the sky, and seductively beckons… “Sachamama, Sachamama! Wrap your scales around me.”
A thunderous explosion followed by a rainbow of light penetrates through the crease, blanketing AMELA as her body collapses to the ground, and simultaneously extinguishes the fire surrounding her.
“It’s reciprocating,” says the young Rabbi to the second. “Can you believe it? It’s actually responding.”
The second Rabbi, a very elderly man with a long white beard, thick glasses and black fedora, puts his arm around his junior counterpart, wearing a dubious smile: “Behold. The membrane that separates free will from God’s will, from the freely determined to the pre-determined. Look. Look, my friend. The divine handshake!”
The first agent stares at the scene, incredulously, then quickly returns to the task at hand. “Is it holding?” he asks over the wireless.
The second agent types frantically, his eyes piercing the computer screen: “So far.”
The first agent abandons his station and runs over to his colleague, standing behind him, gazing intently at the data. He holds up his right arm, pointing to nothing particular, and says very slowly, as if preparing runners to start a race: “Transfer…” then pauses. His breathing becomes fast with excitement and he struggles to not hyperventilate: “Now!”
The second agent clicks the button “Initiate Facsimile”, but the button does nothing.
“Shit. We missed it sir,” says the second agent.
The first agent shakes his head and starts pacing in circles. “Godammit,” he says as he kicks the ground in frustration. “We were so fucking close. Shit!!”
The shamans walk over to Amela’s body that has folded into the ground. Blood is dripping from her forehead, as well as from both of her palms and feet. She is moaning, unconscious, her neck twisting her head left to right.
“Close to what?” asks the elderly Rabbbi as he walks over to the Quero leader with the government agents. “We don’t even know what we are doing?”
The first agent holds a computer disk…”I know exactly what I am doing. A few more seconds and I could have loaded this sucker.”
don Humberto, the leader of the Quero Nation, the direct descendants of the Inca, raises his arm as the three men approach, bringing the argument to an abrupt halt.
(In Quechua): “Our efforts have changed nothing.”
Translation takes place through the headsets.
“But how can that be?” says the elderly Rabbi. “It responded to us.”
(In Quechua): “Viracocha does not want to talk to us. Only to her.”
The first agent lights up a smoke with a silver reusable lighter, clicks it shut, and looks deviously at the second.
“I must ask that all of you head into the cave at this time,” says the first agent.
“Who do you think you are?” laments the elderly Rabbi. “You’re not in charge here.”
The first agent opens his coat, exposing his revolver. “I must insist.”
Amela is semiconscious when she feels a breeze blow across the skin of her chest. She opens her eyes to see the first agent undoing her blouse. The other is sterilizing a small computer chip, and preparing surgical instruments. She is able to get out a single scream before losing consciousness entirely.
As she does, her clenched fist opens, exposing a small pebble in the palm of her right palm, wading in the blood of her wound. A shiny, cerulean blue stone, a stone of seemingly no real significance, except for the fact that it comes from don Humberto’s mesa, and has undergone the alchemical transformation as a kuya, or shaman’s stone, and is flickering light like miniature lightening bolts.