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@james-beck
Thank you for the birthday wishes. I had the best day! I can't believe how happy I am in life. I can't imagine being any happier. via Instagram http://ift.tt/1UBKeJY
ISO in a Holding Pattern
Dear Reader,
This post was created on May 19, 2015.
I will post one post per week, logging the progress on the 432 hertz issue. This feels like 'low hanging fruit' as far as making an positive impact on the world for little time, effort, & money investment.
If it is true, then it is definitely worth the time to write.
Is the pen still mightier than the sword? Can words effect change? Has humanity evolved to that point? Are we good?
Love to read your comments. Until then, I will push it ahead!
Best,
James Beck
www.serfbliss.com
ISO Happy you responded
Begin forwarded message:
From: James Beck <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: frequency change 440 hertz to 432 hertz
Date: May 19, 2015 at 18:19:30 PDT
To: Martine GAILLEN-GUEDY <[email protected]>
Dear Martine,
Thank you for your response and your time.
My name is James Beck. I am a 40 years old writer & adventurer. I enjoy reading, technology, chemistry, mathematics, history, religion, literature, art, anatomy & philosophy. I am a massage therapist and have spent 15 years healing people. I try to be a good person and follow the law – see www.serfbliss.com.
It is my understanding that vibrations change matter on a molecular level. My studies show that the 440-hertz vibration damages molecules and 432-hertz vibration heals molecules — credible information is available to the public via the internet. If this is true, what is the official process to change the 440-hertz tuning standard back to a 432-hertz standard? Perform a split test?
Let me know how I can help serve the process to help resolve this. Thank you again.
Sincerely,
James Beck
www.serfbliss.com
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ISO Response
Dear James,
Thank you for your email. It is difficult to help you on this basis, may I ask you to provide us with more information so that we can help you
Best regards,
Martine GAILLEN-GUEDY
team leader | committee service center | standards department
ISO (International Organization for Standardization)
----Original Message-----
From: James Beck
Sent: 2015-05-01 10:34 PM
To: CENTRAL
Subject: frequency change 1953
Dear ISO,
I learned recently that the ISO, in 1953, altered the frequency standard from 432 hertz to 440.
Who made that decision? Why was that decision made?
Thank you for your time.
Best wishes,
James
www.serfbliss.com
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good boy (pt 11)
Silence.
Trigger-finger motionless, I half expect to become demon possessed and jolt forward, but everything remains still and peaceful. I can’t tell if each passing moment contains more or less courage.
Will my ears ring? Will I even hear the gunshot? How long will it take me to die? Am I supposed to aim at the roof of my mouth or the base of my spine? Is this is why they don’t teach you about suicide, so you don’t know?
The handle adjustment aims the gun towards the roof of my mouth, because that makes the most sense. The site scrapes more skin from my palate. Maneuvering the weapon, I find a comfortable position.
CRUNCH – gravel grumbles under moving tires. A baby blue station wagon cruises up our driveway. My thumb jumps from the trigger.
Oh, shit! I’m not supposed to be here.
In seconds, the weapon is reloaded and lies in its holster. The white plastic Safeway grocery bag slides back in place.
I look down.
I’m still in my underwear.
In a flash, I’m up in my bedroom, pulling on a fresh shirt and jeans. The car rolls to a stop. The new arrival is Mabel, one of my mom’s church friends. Mom said that she might stop by.
Control breath.
Smile.
You have to smile. Mabel can’t think anything is wrong, no one can.
Keeping a Christian smile on your face is a well-developed skill, practiced every Sunday on our way to church. Dad screams on the ride there and then we go off to Sunday School keeping up the illusion that our family is perfect. Walking outside, I paste on a grin.
Mabel asks, “Hey Bubba, is your mother home?”
“No, but she should be back in a couple hours.”
“Oh… okay. She said I could pick some squash from her garden, but I don’t want to do it while she is gone.”
“It’s fine. She told me you might come by. Dad planted a couple packages of seeds so we have plenty.”
Mabel scrunches her face up, thinking. “Squash is a hardy plant. They grow anywhere. You don’t have to plant that many seeds to have a decent crop.”
I reply, “That’s why we have plenty. Would you like some help?”
“Yes, could you be a good boy and fetch a wheelbarrow?”
“Yes ma'am.” I reply with a smile.
Mabel walks beside me as I grab our wheelbarrow and asks, “How are things with the family?” Mabel asks.
“Great.” I reply and follow her to the garden like a good boy is supposed to do.
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good boy (pt 10)
Why does Dad say I’m a stupid? I always try. Maybe he is right. Maybe I am… worthless.
The weapon wobbles. Gripping the handle, it stops shaking. Control.
Everyone thinks he’s the greatest guy in the world. I wish he would die. They would hate him if they were his son. I wish the world knew who my father really is.
My thumb releases the safety.
I’m always wrong, screwing everything up. No one wants me around. Everyone would be better off if I were gone.
The gun slides between my teeth. The sight scrapes against the roof of my mouth as I insert the barrel. My lungs draw in gunpowder residue with each breath. Teeth clench cold steel as I tongue the curved metal against my cheek. Gun oil coats each taste bud, cutting the taste of gunpowder.
No one wants me here. I don’t want to be here. Just pull the trigger and everything will be over.
I sit quietly, waiting. Heart pounding, chest heaving, my hand twitches.
Great, I’ll probably screw this up too and shoot my cheek off.
Another bullet quickly inserts into the neighboring chamber, just in case. Fast. After all, Dad taught me how to use a gun. The weapon slides back in between my teeth. Arm shaking, my thumb cocks the hammer.
All I have to do is pull the trigger and everyone’s problems will be solved. They will be better off when I’m dead.
good boy (pt 9)
My grip tightens around a cold brass handle; the balance of power shifts as wood scraps against wood. The first drawer slides open. It holds an old neck brace, several knee and ankle wraps, and a 60-foot telephone cord. I pull the drawer all the way out and examine the secret hiding space underneath – dusty carpet.
Damn it. Two left.
The second drawer is full of spiritual books and do-it-yourself craftsman manuals.
Come on God, really?
The final drawer slid opens revealing a couple of Better Home and Garden magazines, scattered receipts, and a white plastic Safeway grocery bag. I flick the bag aside. Underneath hides a classic Winchester revolver with an oak handle, sheathed in an oiled leather holster. It is one of many guns in Dad’s collection, here to protect the family. The wood handle feels smooth. I pull it from the holster. Loaded. Dad keeps this gun ‘ready’ in case something bad happens. Handling a weapon without his permission is direct disobedience, the greatest crime. I’ve never touch his guns without permission, until now.
Are these hollow-point bullets?
Releasing the cylinder, the tip of my index finger presses against a round, keeping it in its chamber. Tilting the gun back, the remaining bullets fall to the carpet. Flicking my wrist, the cylinder rotates back into place. The lonely bullet rests four clicks away. I aim the barrel at a picture of my father and pull the trigger.
CLICK.
CLICK.
CLICK.
One more squeeze and the gun fires. Power. Each breath is shorter than the last. Through the window, rays from the sun warm my skin. Sweat rolls down my back and soaks the elastic of my underwear. House sparrows chirp overhead. The wind is absent. Cold sweat leaks from every pour. The bullet is patient. The barrel aims at my face as I stare deep into the revolver.