Solphia

Raana’u doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that her cage is made of gold. In the mornings, she collects the berries that fall to the bottom. And then, parched from the sweetness and bitterness, she drinks from the little dish where the water drops, filling the void to let her live another day. Raana’u doesn’t know what it’s like to be alone. They arrive after breakfast. They float or crawl or glide to her cage. A snake named An sticks his tongue between the bars, to see if she is there. She is. “What do you have left?” he asks. Raana’u offers him berries and today, like every day, he snorts at the idea of a fantastic beast such as himself eating such a thing with little character. “But An,” she protests, “I have it figured out. This thing, this red bulbous thing contains the waters of life. A nucleus of the ingredients that burst inside you.” But An isn’t convinced. He is bored, actually, and longs to move on from this tragic conversation. Ah, but the little bird is a good bird. The sad situation of her existence is the only reason he hasn’t sampled her. But maybe one day. Maybe one day the little red bird and the snake will become one. An leaves, lacking a proper goodbye. And for a moment, the sun hides behind a cluster of trees. It’s at this same time every day that the forest stills in anticipation. This is the only time  Raana’u is alone. But here it comes, that moment when the sun peeks beyond the cluster and hits her directly, the beam tentacles caressing the bars. And for a moment, the light springs back to the world. The little red bird is now the sun.  Raana’u stills in her cage and sings a song that was before her time. And the other animals come from the trees, from the dirt and the sky to enjoy the song of  Raana’u. “There you are!” Raana’u is startled. She looks for the owner of the voice that wakes her from her meditation. On a branch just above the cage, another creature such as herself is perched. But he’s not exactly like her. His glossy feathers are blue and cover a husky body. His eyes are black and have a hint of mischief. But not like An. More like the drops of water in Spring. “You startled me.” He flies down, closer to her. “I’ve been looking for you.” She feels exposed as she peers through the bars at this creature. “What is that?” she asks. And he knows exactly what she means. “I know. I feel it too. I was listening to your call. It’s for me, you know.” She sighs. “I suppose it is.” He flies down and lands on a branch close to her. “My name…” “I know your name,” she says. He looks at her with such sadness. “Why are you in there? Why don’t you come out.” She doesn’t understand the question. The silence sends him away. And she is left wondering if she dreamed him up. The evening arrives and her eyelids clamp shut. The morning drums and coaxes the sun to come out. One more time. Raana’u must live another day. The leaves gather the mist. The forest stirs with the vibrations of wings and birth and caution and hunger. They dance in harmony. They dance in violence. They dance to death.

My father, Sergio, died in 2015 but not before leaving his wisdom for us, via an interview my brother-in-law did back in the early 2000s. But my sister found a clip of that interview, and the message I heard was a gift from the other side.  He said, 'no one is worth my hate. They are worth my love.' This got me thinking about these past 18 months, how the world has radically changed, and how people are taking this opportunity to grow. Is 'let's just get back to normal' good enough? This is what I question in this podcast.  CREDITS: Music: Del Rio Bravo by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/5706-del-rio-bravo License: https://filmmusic.io/extended-license Anamalie by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4980-anamalie License: https://filmmusic.io/extended-license

My father, Sergio, died in 2015 but not before leaving his wisdom for us, via an interview my brother-in-law did back in the early 2000s. From the 'Silent Generation' Sergio provides insight on what life was like post WWII. Spectacular ballrooms in Chicago, homemade tortillas made by his grandmother, listening to classical music with an uncle who helped raise him, there were no smart phones to keep a mind occupied. Credits: Recorded and interviewed by - Eric Hernandez Edited by - Liz Casanova Music: 'Maria Elena' performed by Juanita y Maria Mendoza (Internet Archives) https://archive.org/details/78_maria-... 'Las Campanas de San Raquel' performed by Xavier Cougar y su Orchestra (Internet Archives) https://archive.org/details/78_las-ca...

Dimethyltryptamine, also known as DMT, is a fascinating mystery. A chemical substance that has been known to make one see the universe, some even say, God. It is found in various plants and animals, including humans. Indigenous tribes around the world, use these plant medicines in ceremony, including Matses in Peru, with the brew called ayahuasca. In this episode, I interview author Dick Khan, and we talk about his experience with DMT, which is also the subject of his book, DMT & My Occult Mind. He documented his personal research with DMT, spending a year investigating by using himself as the test subject. Please enjoy this interview with Graham Hancock’s author of the month, Dick Khan.

On the 18th July 2017, there was a round-table discussion at Westminster Abbey, London, England. The topic was organ harvesting in China. The crimes against humanity that were described at this forum, were almost impossible to believe, as I myself did not have the imagination before to think that this level of evil exits. As a journalist, my instinct is to be skeptical. And I invite you to listen and decide for yourself. The world is changing. We live in modern times. Enslaved by technology. Floating away from what it is to be human. I digress. Because I want you to listen and think and decide for yourself your own fate. I can only give you the information. In this clip, you’ll hear the Nobel peace prize-nominated writer, Ethan Gutmann, who went to the People’s Republic of China to investigate organ harvesting. He thought maybe it was an exaggerated tale. But what he found was more horrifying.  

Hello all, Thank you for joining me again. This has been an incredibly difficult year and it seems like the vibrations of our planet have plummeted. I feel distressed really. Where I live we are going to go back into a lockdown for Christmas. And speaking with colleagues, friends and family, pretty much everyone I know is fatigued. This has taken a toll on our mental health. And the first step to having solid physical health is to have good mental health. Eastern medicine knows this. But the west has some catching up to do. The purpose of Solphia is not to get political. I don’t subscribe to any political ideology. I don’t support any politicians or, so-called leaders. And the reason, I think is because I was trained as a journalist. My instinct at this point is to be skeptical. To distrust. Which is difficult to reconcile that with my new spiritual self. I don’t want to think that everyone out there is an evil blood-sucking entity. I don’t want to think that all the people at the top of the food chain want our demise. That is why I debated about posting this audio that I found. But I feel that part of being a new spiritual person is to take the experiences that are given to you, little clues along the way, and share them because they are important and necessary. They are messages from the beyond. Part of the destiny that you actually chose before being born. I know for some of you listening to this, it sounds crazy. And it is if you haven’t seen the other side. I’ve seen the other side. I’ve communicated. And I want to talk about that in later episodes. Going back to the audio that I found, I have to tell you about London. In July of 2017, I went on holiday to Ireland and London with a friend. And while we were walking around Westminster Abby, we saw a group of Chinese people practicing Falun Gong meditation. Falun Gong is also a religion. We stopped by to ask what was going on, and a lovely woman explained to us that they were protesting. The woman, and I’m sorry I don’t remember her name, she explained to us that they were protesting the organ harvesting and there was to be a talk about this issue. I told the woman that I was a journalist and asked her more questions. She then asked me if I wanted to participate, in which, of course, I said yes. She put me on the press list. I am embarrassed to say that I never really heard of organ harvesting. I mean, I kind of knew what it was. You hear about organs being sold on the black market. But honestly, I never even thought of it. Let alone know that it is something that the Chinese government is heavily involved in, amongst other crimes against humanity. Later that evening, I went back to Westminster and was given a badge and access to the spectacular building. I mean, yes it was surreal. Walking through and seeing the entrance and then walking up the steps. I wasn’t allowed in the parliament area. I had to ask several people where the room was. It was like being in a film or book. I finally found the room and it was a small group of people. There were a few MPs, one from Northern Ireland, in fact. There was a writer named Ethan Gutmann who went to China undercover as a tourist to investigate to see if these horrors were real. And they were. He wrote a book about it called The Slaughter. There was also an older Chinese woman who was imprisoned for practicing Fǎlún Gōng. I mean, she did hard time. And, as you can imagine,

In this first episode, I have a free-flowing conversation with Terraell Hazlett, a friend with incredible knowledge. We talk about everything from tarot cards to how to keep the vibrations high during these troubled times. There is also some reading recommendations that you will find useful.

Solphia podcast featuring interviews to harness the wisdom of the universe. (Music by Alexander Nakarada) Hello. I hope you are all well today and living your best life. I know that may be hard to do in these times. But don’t give up hope. We must keep our vibrations high. How do we do that? Well, that’s why I am here and have created this podcast. You have heard my ramblings and poetry. But I am adding a new element, a conversation that will spark a light in us. That is what I am hoping for anyway.  My name is Liz, but when I am writing and when I am connected to you, I am Solphia, harnessing wisdom from the universe. I don’t pretend to know the answers. In fact, when I research a query, I seem to find that I don’t know anything at all. The rabbit holes are deep and mysterious. But at least I can use all the human training I have had throughout my life. I was a journalist for over 15 years and they consider me an expert in my field. I have had an incredible journey in hard news and entertainment news, interviewing fascinating people.  But I want to focus on talking to people who are going through their own spiritual journeys.  After my dad passed away in 2015, I started to question my purpose here. I think they call it the mid-life crisis. And an extraordinary thing happened. People started coming into my life dropping little hints. One of the first was a high school friend who encouraged me to read the Nag Hammadi. I plan to interview him. I’ve also done Ayahuasca, as some of you may have gathered from my writings. I have a friend who did a wonderful documentary on Peru and why that is such a sacred and special place.  So many things I want to explore with you. We can uncover the mysteries together, or simply learn how to read the signs. If you would like to be on the show and share your knowledge, please visit the site, Sophia.com for contact information.  You can also follow me on Twitter at realSolphia Thank you for listening and visiting my site. 

‘What They Said’ by Liz Casanova We’re here today as an experiment. A school to sharpen the soul. I was told things that I didn’t understand then. They said ‘you are the butterfly’ and they kept telling me that I have a purpose here and I need to keep going. When I say ‘said’, it wasn’t verbal. It was telepathic communication. Communication. Funny that it was what I studied in college. It was four years of a barely sober existence. I could have graduated with honors if it were not for my preference for long afternoon naps, house parties, and club craws. I did not begin to understand communication until I reached middle age. It might be a little unexciting to say, ‘I was asleep and then I woke up.’ But that’s what it was. One day I was a mother, wife and upstanding citizen…the next, I was drinking whiskey for breakfast in Paris. The communication was through everything. Communication through experience. Once you know that the world is not just the one you see with your eyes, you understand that there are forces manifesting themselves in ordinary things. When my eye was open, I trembled with wonder at the revelations. How can I explain in human words that I saw how the universe was created? That there are codes that make up the fabric of our existence, that make up our past and our future. But that the past and the future do not exist. They co-exist. I see a bird and I know it’s a spirit guide rendering a message. I am no shaman. I am no preacher. I do not know what it all means. Sometimes I know what it means when the thing happens. If I write it down, my history and the symbols, I may be able to catch a glimpse. And in this world we live in now, the virus world, I feel less and less like someone who exists in this world. My detachment is palatable. That feeling of unconditional love for myself and the humans in the world is like a piece of sheetrock being scratched by a lion. The sheet is getting thinner and thinner and pretty soon, the wall will crumble and it will be all gone. I could hire a contractor to put up a new one. But what would be the point if the lion is still there?

“The Reoccurring” by Liz CasanovaMusic – “Nightdreams” by Kevin McLeod The places I have gone and not moved a foot. Awake, constantly distracted by the slavery I have been put in. Not love. Love is not slavery if you know how to do it right. The slavery comes in the hustle just to pretend you are living. I used to think that the escape came in dreams. That once I was tucked away into myself, I could hit the ‘exit’ button and proceed to another realm. That, I discovered, is not the case. Dreams are also traps. The leftover junk of the day, or the regression to a past life that you thought you evolved from. It’s the bin of the mind. The world is wrapping around itself and the vibrations of it reverberate in my conscience mind. I see my dad, who passed away five years ago. He’s agitated and concerned. When he was alive, he knew that his children and grandchildren were going to suffer the consequences of the darkness. So he comes to watch. I see smooth skin and his eyebrows shift. But he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. Dad, all I can do is not be swallowed into the dark. My sister and my mom, who are alive, also show up. Mom is hysterical. I can’t catch a break from her judgement. Her other daughter, the young one, is angry. I try to reason with her but the dark storms in her eyes tell me to ‘fuck off.’ I’m not offended, I know our history and there is a price to pay for growing up the way we did. Another dream, the people who were once my heroes and have crumbled from their Hollywood palaces, unmasked and their true nature revealed. I am angry. The three of them. The Tequila Man who fled to Italy, the Club Fighter with ex witch wife, and the one who wore the Red Shoes and became a Greek. I manifest my anger in accusations, but they smile. They assure me that the cycle of devouring innocent blood and flesh will never end. The places I go. The cities that only exist in a dimension I create when my body gives in and I am taken deep inside. Deep inside myself. That is where the universe exists. I have been everywhere. A mountain too big to fit on this planet. A canal city with flying machines. Roads that were on fire and we managed to barely escape. I have died in my dreams. I have talked to the shamans. I have stared the devil in the face. I have friends there. But there are also unpleasant faces that want to take what I have fought for. I see my child and perhaps children that I have borne in my past lives. It’s a difficult thing. Dreaming. It’s too much responsibility. It makes me anxious about death and her adventures. Why can’t the soul rest? Is it too much to ask for? Happiness without worry?

“Museum Woman” by Liz CasanovaMusic – “Leaving Home” by Kevin McLeod I am a woman, who should be in a museum, A relic for you to look at. I should be packaged in plastic, So when the world ends, and the fire consumes, The smell of one thousand years of petrol, Will escape back to the firmament. Encapsulate and preserve me, Make sure the acumen is tightly sealed. So that when I am touched by the hands of the curator, My secret knowledge will be revealed. Keep me safe, Let them look at the last frame of my existence. They will make up stories, That will point out the stains. They will say I was a great woman, And they will say I was a fraud. A little flame, Before the detachment. And an expert will come along, With little imagination, To judge a life, Reducing me to numbers. A woman, they will say, void of physical truth, But a metaphysical marvel. “Museum Woman” by Liz CasanovaDownload

“Functioning” by Liz CasanovaMusic by Kevin McLeod I repeat the decisions made by my ancestors, I walk with no confidence, Hiding behind Ray Ban, Smoking too much and drinking from Croesus' coffer. I build enemies because I know too much, And give no proof of their asininity, The crowd was never my friend, But loneliness does not offend me. I like words when they are clipped, I eat once a day, I look out a window only when it rains, It's not always joyless, but it's palatable. Who molded me? With an affinity to my soul's incarceration? Enjoying activities that are counterfeit was never my thing, Raising a glass to what they call 'functioning'. “Functioning” by Liz CasanovaDownload

I want to heal I want my ancestors to visit me before I fall in my grave Their smiling faces Their knowing faces Some look Vietnamese Where did they come from? The colors swirl connected to magnets in the sky The sacred geometry dancing by the custard moon Let’s reconcile Let’s tear a hole in the britches of divinity I smell the incense that cleanse the patches of earth that belong to us I don’t want to fade I don’t want to be less than a shadow I want them to see me I bleed for them All of them A thousand journeys and a thousand more Until I get it right Until my soul is at ease The crickets, the frogs, the breeze that is my father The distant thunder knocking in the sky A whistle of a bird that does not have a name I know this, do not be afraid I only fear myself And where do I leave her behind? I fail if I don’t fail I succeed if I accept I take too many steps And sometimes not enough They are here now In the trees I see their faces The divinity of the spaces between It is a resting place I am face down on the dried leaves My fingers caress the damp earth I don’t know where it starts and where I end There is no end Only the eternal loop Back to the sky And fall to the dirt Sophia and God and the Oneness Inside Close your eyes So you can see

A week after our first kiss, You take me to Paris, Because that's what the mad ones do, True story. We drink at the airport, Smoke until they call us, I don't sit with you on the plane, I lose my phone. The bus driver drops us in the city, I realized I don't speak French, But we find a place to eat, Burgers and Parisian salad, carnal sin. We walk our luggage, like two little dogs, The tube, quiet and rustic, Towards the flat, The Tardis elevator takes us to paradise. Who does this? Goes to Paris with a stranger? And orders vin rouge and eats mandarins? People like us, and Hemingway. We spend the day in sunshine, But it's not offensive, The streets are like soundless music, Dreams and alternate universes. Where did he go? What did he eat? Where did his typewriter rest? When it was cranking out perfection? The evening comes, the cafe is closed, The barman yells "San Michelle!", He points us to the bus, And it takes us there. To meet Paris Pete, Who has hair that is screaming, Drinks, laughs and a taxi later, He gives us a real tour. The place where the men came, And shot them to death, The girl in the cafe, Pete says, Can't get her out of my head. Back at the flat, drunk and nude, Love was made to be made in Paris, The night joins us for a ménage à trois, And we sleep cocooned in our own fantasies. The Eiffel Tower is there, But he's a tease, Like a skillful harlot, He hides and we seek. Finally, the fallacy, I try to mount him unsuccessfully, But no matter, more wine at the cafe, Hemingway's ambulance provides a concert. We found him, that other day, Walking through le Rue de Mouffetard, Planted ourselves at that cafe, Where you wrote poetry on envelopes. Watching the theater, The young women drawing by the fountain, The ancient lady drinking a pint, The children philosophers holding hands. The pain one feels, Saying au revoir to you, When your streets feel like home, And your scent arousing, like war. It has to be done, Eventually, we all go back, And the memory of your existence, Makes me forget.

“You never seem depressed.” That’s what my boyfriend said when I told him about Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade’s apparent suicides. I confronted him with the fear that one day that would be me. Yeah, I never seem depressed because I learned to pretend like it’s all good. Like I have my shit together. Like I’m strong. Whenever I read about a celebrity or local, suicide it brushes its hand against my soul recalling the times, since I was 16, that I wanted to be part of that club. There are people who, or have been, in my circle that have either witnessed my attempts or have heard about them. And the responses vary. My family responds with insults about being selfish. “How could you even think about killing yourself?! You have a family. You have a daughter who needs you.” True. But the thing about suicide is that thinking about the people you love and the shit damage you’ve caused them is further evidence that you’re better off dead. On the other hand, my friends try to help me. A woman who was a close friend of mine would let me spend the night at her house and we’d watch romcoms and drink wine. She’d make me vegan food and she showed me how to be mindful. That did help. I have another friend who I’d call whenever I felt the dark thoughts looming. He was a lifeline for sure. I can only speak for my experience. I have no idea what Ms Spade or Mr Bourdain were feeling when they decided to remove themselves from this world, but if it’s anything like what I have felt in my darkest hours, well, then I know. I know that pain. Perhaps the reason treatment of clinical depression is a challenge is because there is not really a one-size-fits-all cure. Sure, there are the medical terms psychologists know. The years of studies that can identify someone who has issues. I can’t pinpoint where these thoughts started for me. I only remember being a lonely kid. From the time I was five up until about middle school the whole town was pretty white, Baptist and not very inviting to outsiders. My parents are from Mexico. I wasn’t the standard of beauty. I’m dark. The pretty ones were blonde and blue-eyed. I was bullied. I was harassed. In junior high, I escaped with the black kids. They understood the struggle. High school was stressful. I was too smart. Too skinny (in a time when skinny or Latin wasn’t cool). It was a health class that seriously introduced me to the possibility of suicide. The teacher, who was a part-time coach, talked about the signs. You know, like giving away your possessions and withdrawing from friends and family. We were put in groups and had to do a scene. A week later, I found my mother’s pain pills and took as many as I could. My dad found me crying on the bathroom floor. But he thought I was drunk or ‘doing drugs’. I got yelled at and sent to my room where I slept it off. This happened a lot until I ran away to Mexico my senior year (that’s another story). The reality is, I was actually a good kid. I made really good grades. All my teachers loved me and I was known as a polite and sweet kid. But inside there was this little monster, this little voice that said, “Hey, you totally suck and should die”. I kept feeding that voice. Agreeing with it. Taking it out to lunch. I got married, had various careers and a beautiful daughter. I should have been happy. But my marriage was difficult until my ex decided to run off with his high school sweetheart and take my daughter with him. I lost it all. Hit rock bottom. Did things I didn’t think I would ever do to survive. And now I am here. Last October I was in West Cork,

The rain soaks through my pores, And covers my bones, I am lost in this town, That's all I know. He steps out from the shadows, With the perfectly coiffed hair, And the cat eyes, What an elegant affair. That sexy leather jacket, That looks like James Dean, I am taken aback, By the magic within. Not a connection, Not love at first sight, I'm just taken away, By the loneliness of the night. Pub life is for friends, For people you know, Or strangers who yearn, It's a story, not a show. He buys me a pint, Doesn't bother to charm me, He looks bored and unafraid, He is the ship, I am the sea. And the next moment in his car, Driving away from the city, Not going too far, He's not you, what a pity. I kiss him, un-enthused, Who does he look like? With a warm cold smile? David Bowie, the enigma, I'll take this for a while.