MY MOST COLOSSAL WAVE:
A Weekend with Dr. Doom

by Robert Ventresca

Will a suitcase nuke explode in a stadium crammed with baseball fans inNew York City? Will solar flares scorch vast portions of the earth? Will mysterious fungi blight our grass crops-- our barley, our wheat, our oats-- and weed out those of us who eat them, but not before our arms and legs blacken and fall off, rendering us helpless writhing torsos with heads?

If you expected more talk about nuclear catastrophe, deadly solar ejecta, and worldwide famine and pestilence during Remote Viewing for Beginners and Applied RV Skills & Practicum, both featuring Technical Remote Viewing** instructors Major Ed Dames and F. M. Bosall, then you were in for a surprise.

That was far from what Ed had in mind Saturday morning in a hotel conference room inLos Angeles, where we gathered one weekend in August 2002. The peach-colored conference room was small, predictably nondescript, and clear of major distractions. Six beginning remote viewers were seated in hard plastic chairs. Two other beginners would arrive late. The long folding tables we sat behind were draped with white cloth. Black loose-leaf manuals and roller-ball pens lay before us.

These were not, as Ed put it, merely seminars or lectures. They were workshops- workshops in which we would do seven or eight remote-viewing sessions during our weekend together. Ed and F. M. gave us an overview of the curriculum. For emphasis Ed wrote with a squeaky blue or green magic marker on the shiny white board on the front wall. An informative lecture on the basics took three hours or so. Then we took a break and tried to walk the kinks out of our bodies and minds.

By the time we sat back down and dug into our first session our group was comprised of one tardy young woman and six men of various ages and backgrounds. All seemed eager to begin. I dug in without consciously expecting too much of myself. But what I hadn't planned on were my subconscious fears and expectations.

My hands-- my whole body-- trembled when I made my way through Stages One, Two, and Three. When I paused for more than four seconds in Stage Two, Ed's voice urged me to quicken my pace and move on to my Stage Three "Freehand Sketch."

What was my reason for failing to move swiftly on to Stage Three? Why was I edgy and self-conscious? All Stage Three required of me was a freehand drawing or sketch that reflected the information gathered in previous stages. But uncontrollable dread was percolating from my subconscious. Though I knew I had to draw something-- anything, however awkwardly- I also knew I hadn't drawn so much as a stick figure since I was a kid.

During and after our initial sessions our instructors looked over our work and mixed light critique with encouragement. But by the end of the third session Ed was doing a reconnaissance of my work. Then he picked up my "Analytical Sketch," a superimposed composite of the Freehand Sketch I drew earlier. He examined it for a second or two.

"This drawing is anal," he said, holding up the sketch, which could easily have been scribbled by a monkey, for all to see. He wore his stony soldier's face. Then infamous Dr. Doom actually smiled and made it clear he'd pull no punches with any of us.

I wouldn't have had it any other way. Of course I knew what he meant by "anal." So did everyone else. He got it right. I had to let go. I had to stop caring about how I performed. If not, my fear of drawing would compromise the accuracy of my data.

Was my tenseness of mind giving me performance anxiety? Or was my performance anxiety giving me tenseness of mind? I guess it didn't matter. The result was the same either way. Meanwhile, across the aisle to my left, an Alaskan gentleman, whose hair and long beard were white, was coming up with some interesting results. For some reason, regardless of the intended target, he continued to sketch ducks in a pond.

We novices were each seated at two tables set end to end. Four rows lined each side of the room. Plenty of space was between us. Still I wondered. Would that image of ducks in a pond stick with me? I hoped not.

Drawing the most simplistic representation of a target was for me going to be the toughest aspect of remote viewing. But Ed did offer a fact that sounded pretty good to me-- what I lacked in drawing ability I might compensate for with my presumed powers of description. Unfortunately, though, those powers were failing me. So I clung to my "cheat sheet" full of descriptive words. Scanning it desperately, I picked the words that described my sensory perceptions better than I could, cut off as I was from my natural descriptive ability.

Some time after six that evening when the workshop was ending, Ed told us not to read our manuals or even think about remote viewing until the next day. I took a drive out toVenice and tried to relax by strolling along the beach and enjoying the sunset. Back in my hotel room, however, my mind was still racing and tense as if I'd been immersed in writing a piece of fiction or some other work of the imagination.

Imagination is a bane to remote viewers, especially to fledglings like me, just as thinking is. That's why we try to move rapidly yet perceptively through each stage. We take pains to spur the free flow of data from what Carl Jung termed the "collective unconscious"-- or what Ed termed "the matrix"-- without contamination. My access to the matrix, where it's said all information is stored, seems hardly ever obstructed when I'm absorbed in writing. But after I've written I have trouble slowing down my mind and falling asleep.

I may have drifted off once or twice that night and early morning, but I was mostly semi-conscious while my mind dragged me back, over and over, through the entire first day of the workshop. Later, exhausted mentally and physically, I gulped strong coffee and let the caffeine kick in. Only then was I ready for what was certain to be a challenging final day. I was accustomed to tapping the matrix. But that connection was now unintelligible, like the squeak of Ed's magic marker.

Seven years I waited for this opportunity-- impossible as it was for me to spend thousands of dollars on a professional course in remote viewing. I wasn't a doctor or a lawyer or a well-healed computer geek. I was just a truck driver. Still, my desire to attend a course in remote viewing never faltered. So after I heard about Ed's nonprofessional-level workshops, I pulled up his web site, checked out the price, and signed up.

Just as I refused to miss this opportunity to learn from Ed, so too did I refuse to accept defeat on that final day. I concentrated on moving as briskly as I could through each stage. After each session we'd take a break and Ed would move from seat to seat and evaluate our work. From his silence I gathered that my mind was still mostly blocked. But I was too fatigued to care. I cared only that I was doing my best. My mind was finally beginning to relax and I knew it. I was gradually loosening up, gradually shedding my anal tendencies, and gradually not giving a rip about anything.

And that's just what Ed and F. M. were urging me to do all along.

Everyone else seemed to fare well. Even the white-haired fellow, who was still coming up with ducks in a pond now and then, seemed to be making good progress. I myself was fortunate, fortunate I had steered clear of his apparent fixation.

I managed to end my final session with a glimmer of accomplishment. My Analytical Sketch had begun as hesitantly as ever. I drew a slightly concave line slanting down to the left and was moved to draw a circular object, possibly some kind of life form, descending my slanted line, and either the object or what surrounded it was curved and tumbling.

That may not sound like much of an accomplishment to you. But it was to me. For the first time I would detect motion in a target. And quite a few of my other sensory perceptions-- textures, colors, smells, tastes, temperatures, sounds, dimensions-- would be accurate. As usual our instructors asked us an array of questions about our data. Then F. M. pulled from a light gray envelope a large color photograph of the target.

The target was a surfer, a crouching Lilliputian in a wetsuit, riding the most colossal blue-green wave I ever had the pleasure to see.

Our instructors had prepared and encouraged us all to develop further on our own and share our new experience and knowledge with others. "Practice, practice," they said.

So about a week after I flew back toSeattleI asked a friend to help me set up my solo remote-viewing sessions. She printed out twenty color photographs to represent my prospective targets. She wrote two random four-digit numbers (target reference numbers) on each photograph and manila envelope. She put each photograph into an envelope. Then she picked one as my first blind target, which would turn out to be theSaharaDesert.

And after my remote-viewing session, what did my data reveal? Parched sand dunes? An inferno of sunlight and dust? Seemingly endless desolation? No. A flock of ducks on a pond.

This playful twist, I must admit, never happened. Please forgive me my shameless imagination. I could not resist. Grateful for my expanding access to the matrix, I continue to practice remote viewing. And I'm glad to report I've never stumbled over those ducks or fallen into that pond.

THE END