My Journey Through Time

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My Journey Through Time

 

An Autobiographical Chronicle

by

Curtis Ray
Jones

 

 

Every
incident described in this account happened to me. This is not a work of
fiction. It is a work of recollection and speculation.

 

 

 

I and my twin sister Joyce Fay Jones were born to Curtis
Clinton (Bill) Jones and Madeleine Proctor Jones on March 3, 1953. The
strangeness of my life started soon after.

It is widely assumed that we cannot remember our infancy.
That may well be true for others. I cannot speak for them, only myself. My
first memory was just that, an infant memory…

Bathed in sunlight, I lay helpless and tightly swaddled in
my crib. My mind was silent. I had no words only feelings. As I lay there
looking up at the ceiling, I grew bored. I could not move. Boredom soon gave
way to frustration. My body was my prison. It would not respond to my will. I
simply wanted to see something different. It did not occur to me to relax my
mind. It simply happened, I suppose, because it was the only thing I could do.
My flesh melted away; got out of my way. I, that is my mind, soul,
consciousness rose like a balloon leaving my little helpless body in my crib.
And like a balloon, stopped when it hit the ceiling. Delighted I looked down.
Everything was beneath me. I had never been so high before. It was a bit
dizzying, but I liked it.

It was then I saw them, winding tendrils of black smoke
entering my room from every crack and crevice. Nastiness radiated from them.
They were evil, terrifying, filthy as if they were spun from raw sewage. It was
as if they had been waiting ‘outside’ and my departure from my body had somehow
released them, certainly revealed them or maybe even baited them. The last
thing I remember seeing is these evil things snaking toward my crib. They wanted
me. Terror stricken, I dropped. Everything went white.

Looking back, I can’t help but think they were some horrific
aspect of this world my childish blunder exposed. Somehow, I knew they came
from this world, a world that I, in that moment of terror, realized was dark,
corrupted and dangerous. Fallen.

I didn’t know I could leave my body. I don’t think I have
since. I know what’s out there now. That was my only infant memory. There were
however many more impossible memories to make, a few wonderful most unbearable,
but all defiantly opposed to what passes for normal down here on Earth.

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1957 Summer

Four years passed, then one summer afternoon my sister Faye
and I were playing in the back yard. The sky darkened as storm clouds gathered.
I looked up just as a gust of wind whipped through the tree limbs sagging over
our heads. We ran inside and stared up at the sky through a back -room window.
The window was made of cheap glass. It was flawed. The sky, the backyard, the
barnyard and my father putting a can over the tractor muffler to keep the rain
out was all twisted out of shape. I knew the glass was flawed, that it
distorted everything but this time it triggered some forgotten knowledge that
had everything to do with this world and its end. In that otherwise innocuous
moment, access to some other place opened in my young mind and I heard
something that did not come from me.

A child’s voice, but not my voice, screamed in my head. Its’
pitiful wail cut through me like a knife. It did not frighten me so much as made
me sorry for it. Then anger shook me free from what I suddenly realized was
misplaced pity. I knew in that moment, that this was no frightened child. It
was not human. It was however doomed and hopeless. It screamed ‘not now, not
already!’ as I watched the dark clouds roil and twist high above as reality
warped before my eyes. I thought it was the end of the world and so did it. My
first thunderstorm was the first time I heard a demon’s voice. It was not what
one might expect. But neither was it a harmless helpless entity. It was a
hopeless creature who, if allowed, could knock the flesh off my bones with a
wayward glance. Don’t know how I knew this, but it rang in my head like an
alarm bell and shook me free, for a while…

Sometime later that year, I awoke before dawn. Of course, it
was dark outside. I however being so young and having just awakened, did not
realize the sun had not yet risen. Running from my bed to the living room I
looked up and saw that all the windows were black. Joy and profound relief
washed over me. I thought, ‘it’s over, we’re going home!’ I was so happy. In
that moment I was convinced we were in our ship, our spaceship, that our time
on this backward primitive world was finally over. In that wonderful moment I
felt like myself, my true self, that I was with my people my kind.

Then reality trickled in. I knew that was not the case, that
it was simply, dark outside. We were not on ship time. Our windows were not
portals. The darkness was simply hiding the front yard. There was no star field
beyond the glass just night shrouded Earth. I was still stuck here. I sucked in
my disappointment and hoped my parents did not see it on my face. Somehow, I
knew then that what I was feeling, and thinking was unacceptable, that, just
like the demon voice and the smoke tendrils, I’d better keep that kind of stuff
to myself.

This was just the beginning. Apparently, my inner self had
made contact and became enmeshed with a greater stranger reality. A reality
that was not constrained by time, logic and devoid of any comforting sense of
what this world calls normalcy. 

Soon after, I would have many more flashes of the past,
glimpses of the future and sightings of things that could not be. And the
thoughts that would occasionally cross my mind were wildly inappropriate and
deeply disturbing. But they would grant me perspective, strength and a higher
more sophisticated point of view. But even as a small child they made me feel
like an amnesiac whose shattered memory and sense of self was constantly being
challenged and triggered by the most harmless of things.

 

3

I often did not feel like a child at all. Once I watched my
parents dancing and being the typical ‘twentysomethings’ they were. The words,
‘they are just silly children I’ll have to put up with for a while’, blossomed
in my mind. They were my words, but they made me feel so old, then so guilty.
Little kids don’t think like that. Somehow, I knew that then. That knowing was
unsettling, as well.

I remember not being afraid of the dark. I used to stand up
in my bed and watch the moonlight shine through the window. Its’ gentle glow
filled the panes with milky whiteness, grayed the darkness and made me happy.
Then one night a figure crossed in front of the window. It did not cast a
shadow. It was a shadow. It was as if the darkness had gathered itself together
and became a man like figure. The darkness was no longer empty and harmless. I
haven’t liked it since.

During this same time, I noticed the moon and stars logo
printed near the bottom of a Comet cleanser container. It snagged my attention,
nagged at my mind until one day I stooped and looked at it closely. Instantly
an image of an ancient alter popped into my head. It was an irregular stone
table, covered with dust and blood and dust; layer after layer of dust and
blood. This was a place of sacrifice, human death, horror and fear. It was so
disgusting so painful to look at I had to push it away and run back to the
present.

I still use that product and learned much later in life that
logo was the subject of a lot of speculation, which I won’t go into here. I don’t
want to be sued by Proctor and Gamble. Proctor by the way, is my mother’s
maiden name.

Another side note concerning my mother. She was bitten by a
poisonous snake when she was pregnant with me and my sister. Maybe that had
everything to do with this high strangeness, maybe nothing, still grasping for
answers.

My mother used to dress me in training pants, which I hated.
They were underwear, not outer clothes. They made me feel naked, didn’t like
that. However, I didn’t make a fuss for fear of giving myself away. Little kids
don’t care about things like that, at least that’s what I thought at the time.
That’s all that I was wearing that hot summer afternoon as I stood in front of
our Airline (a brand name) television set and watched an Atom bomb mushroom
into the sky. I smirked, hid my face from my mother who was in the kitchen but
still able to see me and thought ‘they think that’s’ a bomb.’ It struck me as
quaint archaic and primitive but kind of cute, like a flower blossoming. Like
the underwear thing I dare not let my mother know how I felt. She wouldn’t
understand and I would get into trouble if I stopped acting like a little kid.

More than once during my childhood I had to remind myself to
behave as a child. The thing is, most times I was a little kid. I knew about my
older self, but at those times it was far away, and I could ignore it for a
while. I know this sounds crazy but I’m just trying to be honest and accurate.
To this day I am not at all worried about a nuclear holocaust. I know that sounds
conceited and foolish. But bigger things are coming.

Sometime later that summer, I was watching the Lone Ranger,
an afternoon rerun. The program ended; the titles started rolling up just as
the William Tell Overture began booming out of the fabric covered speaker.
Something gently grasped my shoulders from behind and guided me out of our
small house to

 

4

the back porch then turned me toward the backyard. The
backyard was gone. The porch was now a pier. I smiled with delight as I watched
an old timey sixteenth century sailing ship plow through the ocean.

White caps, sea gulls and deep blue sky filled my field of
vision. To this day I don’t know how, I know I was looking into the past. It
only lasted a short while but it’s one of my favorite memories.

Later that summer more bits of the past flashed in my mind,
internal memories this time, not panoramic visions. Two Roman men dressed in
long white togas were walking down great white and gray marble steps suddenly
appeared in my mind.

They were so engrossed in their debate (using words I could
not understand) that they did not notice the pouring rain drenching them. It
faded as quickly as it came.

Fall came and I found myself standing behind Benjamin
Franklin. He was sitting at a desk looking out a second story window,
silhouetted by afternoon light and apparently lost in thought. Then I was back
in the present. Just a snippet of the past that reached out and touched me.

It was the late fifties; Elvis Presley had just hit the
country like a rock and roll bomb. My father loved him. So far as I knew he was
just some young guy singing on TV, popular and rich or about to be rich. I had
no reason to feel bad or afraid for him. But one night I dreamed little
pictures depicting many different versions of him were fluttering off into
space, oblivion. Some of the pictures was the way he was then others older and
fatter, but all sad. As I watched the little pictures sink out of sight in the
darkness great sadness overwhelmed me. Decades later after his death they came out
with the stamps depicting the way he looked at different times in his career
and I felt sad as I remembered.

Fall came and so did a door to door salesman. He had books.
One book caught my Mother’s attention. It was a book of Bible stories for
children. She bought it. We didn’t go to Church then, unless you count watching
Sunday morning preaching shows on TV. I do faintly remember going to a revival
meeting and holding a Bible. It felt like I was holding reality in my hands.
But I digress.

Mama took me and my sister Fay unto her lap opened the book,
which was filled with beautiful Christian artwork and drawings and read. One
drawing showed a young mother and her two little daughters about to walk down a
long dirt road that led to a city way off in the distance. It came to life. A
man was standing by them. I heard him speak, then I heard my voice in my head
yelling, warning them not to go. The city was about to be destroyed. It was
then I felt the man, the prophet standing by me- a peer, an old friend. That’s
what he felt like. We both began pleading with the mother not to go there not
take her children there, they would all die if she did. They were dressed in
rags, modern rags not ancient robes. The mother insisted. She was determined to
go to the city to buy them new clothes. The city was about to be judged and
incinerated. We told her that. But she would not listen. Apparently, all this
was happening in my head while I sat silent on my mother’s legs.

 l had been
transported. Maybe it was another out of body experience, not sure. All I know
is it was as if I was there.

 

 

5

Then I was back. I looked down at the page. The picture was
just a picture again, but as I looked, a black horizontal line with a shorter
vertical line rising from its center appeared at the bottom of the paper. A
message came from the line. I knew I was looking at the symbol for time.

Something else was trying to form in my mind. It was trying
to tell me something. It took a while, but years later, I finally found the
words, a phrase that most accurately interpreted the message. It was simply
this, ‘Time is incidental’.

Of course, I never told my Mother, in fact this is the first
time I am sharing this with anyone. Who knows maybe, I’m just sharing my
childhood psychosis. That would be far easier than what all this implies.

One day in December I and my sister were taking our
afternoon nap. I woke up. Mama was gone. My sister was still asleep. The house
was empty, quiet. Maybe my mind was still waking up, but for some reason I
thought my mother and a bunch of other people had been taken from the world,
that something dreadful was about to happen to the rest of us. I steeled myself
for what was to come. In that moment I was not a little boy. I was a man
preparing himself for horrors unspeakable. I didn’t know the words rapture or
tribulation, but that is what I thought had happened. Then Mama came in the
back door with a little cedar Christmas tree. That’s where she was, out back,
at the edge of the woods cutting us a little Christmas surprise. She couldn’t
afford to buy one but stealing our neighbors ‘lumber’ well, that didn’t cost a
dime.

The weather turned cold and Christmas came. We got up to see
what Santa brought.

My Daddy loved Christmas. We were poor. He was a
sharecropper so yeah, we were poor. No matter, he always made sure we had a
good Christmas. Lots of gifts on the floor for Christmas morning. That’s where
I was sitting, on the floor, looking down at some plastic toy, can’t remember
what, probably because I became ‘distracted’, deeply so.

The ceiling light was on. The living room was bright, but as
I looked down. Things changed. Sudden blackness everywhere, cold, wet, sticky.
I was face down in muck. I sensed death, carnage-a battlefield maybe. If it
was. We lost. I don’t know why, but I pulled my face up from the muck twisted
my head around and looked up. High above directly over -head a crimson tear
like a red lightning bolt was frozen in the black sky. It was then I realized
the muck was blood -soaked earth and I lay in a field of dead bodies. I quickly
dropped my head back down and tried not to think about what I was sinking my
face into, fearing ‘it’ would realize it missed one and come back down and
finish me off. Then I was back in my living room again. It was Christmas again.
Everything was bright and happy again.

Dizzying, but it ended as quickly as it had begun. Mind
flashes. They became as much a part of my childhood as Saturday morning
cartoons.

Once, like a typical little boy, I climbed atop the kitchen
counter forget what I was after, just remember being near the ceiling. Anyway,
I was out of my normal walking space. Another mind flash, a troop of beings,
couldn’t quite make out their details, foggy out of focus, were marching across
the sky. Linked arm in arm, in the air, in, their air. But they were behind our
air. It is hard to explain. But I could feel them more than see them behind the
air. For some reason I called them underground people. The beings behind the
air.

6

Later I was playing under the kitchen table and saw strange
markings written beneath it. I couldn’t read and had a very limited vocabulary.
But I assumed that was how they, the underground people, communicated with one
another. How I came up with the phrase ‘underground people’ or mistake those
innocent letters and numbers beneath the table for some sort of secret message
drop zone, I don’t know. But the idea that they were operating in secret and
had a specific agenda struck me as obvious and threatening. I did not know the
word for demons or aliens, much less extra dimensional so I