Anomalous Occurrences in a Psychiatric Hospital Intensive Care Unit

This nonfiction article is a description of the sequence of experiences that I witnessed at a psychiatric hospital of the Los Angeles metropolitan area in 1995.  This account was written around 12 years ago as a chapter for an unpublished autobiography.  The photographs mentioned are presented in an article presenting five photographs with paranormal aspects: one photo shows transparent-looking faces in a window and another is an anomalous photo with what appears to be an image suggestive of a movie camera on a tripod.

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On Friday, August 25 after being transported by ambulance, I was admitted at 1:30 a.m. to Community Psychiatric Center Alhambra Hospital and what I would later find out to be the intensive care unit.  It was explained to me that I would be signing myself into the hospital and could leave whenever I wanted with the ability to specify that no drugs would be administered to me during my stay.  I made it clear that this was a very important condition because it was my belief that one of the reasons for my lifelong good health was due to having avoided drugs.  Later I would find out that everything the hospital staff had said to me were lies but at this time during my visit I had no cause for concern.  My attending physician was a male psychiatrist and the "Medical Consultation/History and Physical" was dictated by an M.D. after his interview with me.  I remember at some point the M.D. thanked someone for having asked him to do the intake. 

The night nurse when I arrived was a long-haired man whose first name was Wolfgang.  Although I spoke about myself to the hospital staff members at the appropriate times, I minimally conversed with other patients (as indicated in this account) and I heard only trifling banter among the other patients beyond what is mentioned in this report.  As my new book project seemed to be the reason for the intervention of my being brought to the hospital after expressing some momentary fearful thoughts to my brother that I quickly realized weren't reasonable, I signed my recently accepted author's pseudonym 'Mark Russell Bell' on the admission forms given to me.  Several months would pass before I would read the file of my treatment and the "History of the Present Illness" would specify the following.

The patient is a 39-year-old male admitted for his first hospitalization for psychosis.  The patient has been having "bizarre" behavior, visual hallucinations, and auditory hallucinations.

The patient has been sleeping well in the last few days.  He has been writing a book on Poltergeist and has been staying with a family and he then experienced the above behavioral changes.

He is admitted here for further psychiatric evaluation and treatment.  He denies a prior history of psychiatric hospitalization or treatment.  He denies a history of alcohol or other recreational drug abuse.

The "Impression" stated is: 

The patient is a 39-year-old male admitted to CPC Alhambra Hospital for major depression with psychosis.

The patient is medically stable at this time for further psychiatric evaluation and treatment.

My reaction to this is that other then the momentary upset mentioned in the preceding article, I was never depressed; if anything, my condition was one of extreme excitement and happiness.  I had decided to leave behind my movie publicity writing career and use savings to finance a period of writing a case study documenting my unexpected paranormal initiation that resulted with a spiritual awakening.

"Progress Notes" made upon my admission to the hospital added "patient has (been) isolating himself and has loose association."

Psychosis, like insanity, is a term that generally conveys a 'great folly' or 'extreme senselessness.'  In my case, I expected it would be extremely difficult to explain my recent experiences to others.  In my circumstances, some of my estimations I knew would seem beyond bizarre to just about everyone.  One such example of this concerned a possible explanation for the unusual warmth that seemed to me to be constantly surrounding me even throughout the night.  I couldn't forget the photo of the transparent beings seen in the window of the Centrahoma house.  The clearest face in the window resembled the faint visage and eyes seen in the dark background of another photograph.  (article)  Whatever they were — 'aliens' being one possible colloquialism; 'they' were evidently involved in a plan of staggering scope.  I felt that being in a mental facility, 'Michael' (my nickname for my ever-present unseen Guide) wanted me to be truthful while also making a memorable introduction—keep in mind that I knew this occasion would become part of the sequence of events to be related in my planned case study book—so I decided to articulate one potential scenario upon being questioned by staff.  In the lobby of CPC Alhambra, I said: "I'm the reincarnation of Jesus Christ and aliens are filming a documentary of my life.  It's a comedy."

Upon hearing this, the rather brusque nurse whom I would soon nickname 'Nurse Ratched' commented, "Well that's a sign of the times."

It was explained that the few things I'd brought with me, including my wallet and some toiletries, would be kept behind the counter, which provided the first clue that unfortunate assumptions were being made about me.  That was the daily procedure at such a place as this.  I certainly knew that nobody had to worry about me trying to take my own life with a toothbrush.  A nurse gave me a blanket and I draped it around myself as I waited to be escorted to a room.  When a nurse attempted to take a reading of my blood pressure, the equipment malfunctioned and this happened repeatedly during my stay.  There had been continuous malfunctions of technology during my interactions with other people recently as mentioned in the preceding article.  In CPC Alhambra, as nurses worked with thermometers and blood pressure monitoring equipment, there were many quizzical looks.  I remember during my first doctor consultation I indicated that I didn't want a blood sample taken.  I shuddered and declared half-kiddingly, "No sharp objects breaking the skin."

When I reached my new room, I found that there were no hangers in the closet and it appalled me to find out that I would be sharing the room with two other men who were both sleeping.  I wondered if I would even be able to go to sleep since I was accustomed to being in my own room but then I reminded myself that 'Michael' would be helping me so I figured there was no need for concern.

I wasn't aware at the time that hospital staff were interacting with me under the assumption that I was having visual and auditory hallucinations — something I'd never indicated to anybody.

The two men sharing my room were both Caucasian.  The bed a few feet across from mine belonged to a mild-mannered unassuming young man.  The other man seemed to be in good physical condition and was quiet and aloof.  During my stay, neither of them would ever show any form of unusual mental distress that I could discern during my fleeting encounters with them.

That first day as a patient, I decided to forego showering in the shared bathroom or seeing about a shave for the time being because I planned on soon leaving the facility.  One of the administrators advised me that it was important for me to participate in group activities.  The only alternative to this was sleeping all day as I hadn't brought anything to read with me and watching TV seemed an inane alternative.  When I spoke to my brother on the telephone, I asked him to bring me something to read and something else to wear.

Things got off to a rousing start during the communal breakfast when a local news broadcast was airing on the large room's television and the traffic reporter shown in a helicopter began making motions with her arms and hands while giving vocalizations — something obviously inspired by the movie "Wayne's World" where Wayne and Garth made a similar maneuver as a dissolve (signifying cutting to a later time in the narrative).  The reporter apparently was experiencing some kind of unexpected difficulty and when the news anchors returned to the telecast, they displayed startled expressions much like my own.  (I'd worked as a publicity writer for the two "Wayne's World" Paramount movies.)

The other patients with whom I spoke included an older, complaisant man whose first words to me were, "Hello, remember me?"  He was somewhat stern yet he was friendly, usually expressing himself with succinct and direct statements.  There did seem something familiar about him.  I wondered if he'd been a possible acquaintance from my first job as a movie theater concession clerk/ticket taker/usher in Pasadena where I often fleetingly encountered a large number of people.  Then I thought, 'No, he's just a mental case.'  One middle-aged woman in a wheelchair seemed interested in me and communicated in short, breathless sentences in a friendly manner but at other times exhibited periods of such severe spasticity that she was unable to speak or show any signs of cognizance whatsoever.

I don't remember what smalltalk was briefly shared with the other patients.  Being in a mental hospital made it seem impractical to attempt to relate my complicated impressions of my recent activities involving a research expedition to investigate a 'talking poltergeist' haunting.  I remember someone encouraged me to express my experience to others as having found myself in a situation that had begun to make me feel a little overwhelmed, which seemed an appropriate way of phrasing it.

During the morning physical therapy session where patients involved themselves with stretching and small limbering-up exercises while seated in a circle around the therapist, an interruption occurred when one of the female staff members appeared in the doorway and said, "Excuse me but I see that we have a celebrity with us today who you might know from his television series 'The Rockford Files' — James Garner."  She meant the friendly middle-aged man who appeared nothing like James Garner (a star of "Fire in the Sky," another Paramount movie I'd helped publicize).  The staff member seemed sincere upon making this identification.  I thought to myself that she was either crazier than the patients or this was this some manner of ludicrous analysis situation to see how group members would respond.  I said nothing.

It soon became clear that there was little else for me to do other than sit and conjecture about what to expect would happen next.  I discovered that I wasn't allowed to leave the building except to venture outside to the patio during short scheduled breaks.  During these intervals, some of the others would smoke cigarettes and the smoke would make me nauseous.  It was now beginning to be obvious that what I'd been told about signing myself out whenever I wanted was just something told to a deranged person to gain cooperation.  Later, I would discover stelazine and cogentin had been prescribed upon my admittance despite the assurances that no drugs would be administered.  Apparently, this had been done on an emergency basis — theirs not mine.  As I began being aware of an uncomfortable medicinal feeling, I realized that drugs were being administered through the water or food provided me.  My basic perceptions, thoughts and understanding of my situation weren't affected by the medication — I just felt somewhat nauseated and woozy.

It was a relief when a diversion was offered for me to occupy my time for a little while as there commenced a group crafts session where I and a few other patients made bracelets with beads in the large room called the day room.  I wondered if we were being observed by unseen staff members intent upon analyzing my actions and comments because it looked as if there was a small security monitoring device mounted just above the television set.  I decided to utilize a bead with a heart symbol in my design while avoiding any chipped beads.  I observed, "It would be interesting to make a bracelet using only the broken beads."

Staff and patients occasionally referred to "the other side" of the hospital such as a patient being transferred from this wing to the one on "the other side" — it was a section I would never be given the opportunity to visit.  When the psychiatrist interviewed me, I was intrigued to find that he was tape recording the session, as had the M.D. who first consulted with me.  I tried to be honest.  I told him some of my impressions although it was difficult to put some of my perceptions into words.  The reason for the Christ Force manifesting in my life in symbolic and metaphoric ways remained an area of conjecture.  I still was intent expressing myself with a simultaneously philosophical and droll sensibility, commenting: "For something like this to happen, a thousand different variables have to come into place.  It only happens twice in history."  I assured him that I had no intention of harming myself or anyone else, for that matter.  I was interested in hearing his comments; however, he just looked shocked and didn't say anything much beyond explaining that I would be at the hospital for an involuntary "72-hour hold."

In the day room, patients could watch television, read from a few dusty Reader's Digest condensed book anthologies, or play board games.  One odd circumstance was that there were black and white two-sided, raggedly cut out and glued together photocopies of dollar bills that could be found scattered around the premises — the pathetic collection of one of the patients.  Upon my observing the small security camera in this 'day room,' I wondered if video was being recorded and began considering if there could be monitoring devices in other rooms, presumably behind mirrors.

I only recollect some characteristics of a few of the other patients who were at CPC Alhambra while I was there that first day.  One patient was an elderly ex-boxer named George.  Due to brain damage, he could no longer walk on his own.  Some of the staff occasionally spoke about him as if he was famous; however, I've never been interested in sports.  One kindly black nurse kiddingly taunted George with lines from an old nursery rhyme — "Georgie Porgie pudding pie kissed the girls and made them cry."

A spontaneous conversation concerning heartbeat irregularities motivated one bystander to ask me if I remembered the movie scene where the demon fibrillated the heart of the character played by Louise Fletcher in "Exorcist II — The Heretic."  I'd seen the movie during the period when I was a cinema major at USC.  This was the first disturbing impromptu comment I'd heard and it was strange enough that now I was beginning to worry about this whole set-up.

In looking for something to occupy myself, I sat in the lobby, a room that I expected was probably monitored, and glanced at the meager selection of magazines.  The young man who was  a roommate was flipping through a magazine with another patient and I was surprised to learn that he was gay as he pointed out which men in the ads he thought were cute.  The two left after a while and I found myself alone in the lobby.  Suddenly I heard a voice that seemed to be coming from a hidden transmitter somewhere in the ceiling: "Mark, why are you here?"

I almost laughed to find myself in such a predicament and wondered if hospital staff thought that I was schizophrenic.  It didn't seem right to answer aloud so I picked up a magazine from the table next to me and held it up.  The caption on the cover was "The Grateful Dead" — a story inspired by the recent death of Jerry Garcia.  I also noticed and turned over a magazine to reveal that a back cover page advertisement had been printed upside down in an apparent printing error.  Then I left the room, pondering the type of ethics that allowed doctors to interact with patients in such a surreptitious manner.

At lunch, I was beginning to feel depressed about having my liberty suddenly in question.  I was surprised when my wheelchair-bound friend with little control of her body suddenly was able to very dexterously reach behind herself to pat me on the shoulder to console me.  This was a more startling change in demeanor than mere words can convey.  I noticed that this happened in plain view of the security monitoring device.

At an afternoon group therapy session, a dignified older man with a gentle demeanor was the group supervisor.  He read to us about walking a tightrope and said this was now expected of each of us.  What this boiled down to was each of us in turn explaining our reason for being in the hospital.  When it was my turn, I admitted that what had gotten me into trouble was saying that I was the reincarnation of Jesus Christ.  I said it humorously with a few additional carefully chosen words about the apparent absurdity of making such an appraisal when this is the last thing anybody wanted to hear.  I knew that their perception of reality was similar to the way mine had been previously.  It seemed to me that my predicament would be more correctly designated as reality having had a break with me and it evidently wasn't ever going to revert back to how it was before.

My impression was that each person constructs their own belief system based upon their experiences and what teachings they've accepted.  I wondered if anyone else had ever undergone such a formal introduction as my Angel had presented to me through a carefully selected succession of occurrences that I could only equate with being a 'paranormal initiation.'

It made me very uneasy at dinnertime as I attempted to avoid any consumables that possibly were medicated.  I mentioned this to my fellow patients and the older male patient said, "You don't have to eat."  I could only speculate about motivated him to say that.  Other patients also offered suggestions to me.  When I found myself encouraged to drink milk, I estimated that the milk provided in small closed cartons couldn't possibly have been drugged so I drank it.  When I took a break to go to the bathroom, I took my glass of water with me.   I poured the water down the sink and replaced it with tap water.

I decided to go to sleep early that night while other patients were watching a video cassette of "Batman" (with Michael Keaton and Jack Nicholson) which I'd already seen only out of curiosity as I usually avoided juvenile movies (unless work-related).  Finding it difficult to fall asleep, I left my bed and stood outside the day room to find out if the movie had ended yet.  Surprisingly, "Batman" was still on and I realized the patients watching the movie were debating about what was wrong with the video.  I thought perhaps it was a faultily recorded tape.  When I glanced at the pay telephone in the hall, I noticed something else that seemed curious.  The hospital was named Alhambra yet the address on the telephone showed Rosemead.

That night, a problem developed with the hospital's plumbing and the water was turned off, which meant the toilet in the bathroom adjoining the bedroom couldn't be flushed with three people needing to use it.  Plumbing was among the amenities of life one usually takes for granted.  Things seemed like they couldn't get any worse as I again tried to go to sleep.  Only two more days to go during the 72-hour hold, I reminded myself.  Although the toilet didn't work, there was still a slight trickle of water from the sink faucet so I would continue replacing the water given to me with water from this sink.

I awoke when a loud noise commenced that can only be described as demonic growling.  Horrified and completely shocked, I realized that this was a stunt beyond the investigative capabilities of the medical staff.  The growl was more convincing than any of the sound effects heard in "The Exorcist" yet definitely extremely similar.  After a few minutes, the growl repeated and I realized it was coming from the throat of the young man in the bed a few feet across from mine.  I couldn't imagine how such a thing as this could be happening.  I didn't remember exactly reading about this in historical possession accounts.  I realized that people throughout the hospital would hear the animalistic growling and probably think it was coming from me.  The next time the growl issued was particularly loud and uncanny so I quickly left my bed and nudged the youth's shoulder.  He awoke and I declared loudly so that our third roommate would be sure to understand from whom the growling was coming, "You were snoring."

After that, there was no more demonic growling. 

On Saturday morning, I was the last one in my room to awaken and the others were not in their beds as I made my way to the bathroom.  Upon glimpsing the unflushed toilet, the sight was enough to make me retch.  In case there was a security camera behind the mirror I remarked loudly with a shrug: "The vomiting scene."  I felt just like Woody Allen.

As I continued throwing up—dismayed that this also was a symptom that could perhaps be equated with demonic possession—the day nurse, Jesus, started calling my name and hurried in to the room to see if I was all right.  I soon regained my composure but decided to avoid the bathroom for the time being.  I felt a little sorry for myself.  I'd never expected to find myself suspected of being a crazed psychotic under lockdown in the Los Angeles equivalent of Bedlam (or at least Bellevue).

As Saturday morning progressed, nobody said anything directly about the unusual goings-on of the previous day and night.  I became more concerned about my being in the hospital at lunchtime when every other patient was permitted to go outside for a barbecue except me.  Consistently throughout my stay at CPC Alhambra, other people were constantly complaining about how hot it was outside when all I could think about was how miserable it was staying inside.  Taking a stroll down the corridor, I noticed that one of the other patients was carrying a paperback novel entitled Aztec.

The maintenance personnel painted over dirty spots on the wall of my room as this was faster and easier than scrubbing them.  The smell of the paint sickened me while no fresh air could be let in since the windows were incapable of being opened.  I was beginning to feel treated like a caged animal. 

On more than one occasion, other patients handed me plastic eating utensils at odd times without explanation.  I first thought they were just trying to be helpful but then it suddenly dawned on me that if a doctor or nurse found me walking around with these things, an ominous interpretation could be the result so I threw all the plastic cutlery away.

One of the staff members invited me to participate in playing a children's board game where the object was to take turns rolling the dice and moving your marker until gaining precisely the correct number that would enable you to reach the finish area at the center of the board.

While these games usually bored me, playing became interesting when I realized the other patients weren't moving their pawns correctly without our supervisor reiterating the rules or interceding.  Amidst the chaotic board movements, when it was my turn to roll the dice and the precise number came up that allowed me to move my pawn to the center area, the supervisor looked befuddled.  "I win," I said happily because I was glad that the drab game was over.

I realized it might be advantageous to see what I could find out about the third man who shared my room.  He never participated in any of the activities required for me; in fact he'd never been in the same room with me during any of the activities whatsoever.  I scrutinized the roster of patients at the nursing station.  By looking at the ages listed with the various names in addition to my own, it seemed that the only possible match for him was a male age 39—the same age as me—designated "Carpenter."  This seemed an odd thing.

My brother showed up to bring me a few books and some spare T-shirts so I was relieved to have something new to wear.  I told him that he had to help me make sure I would be released tomorrow as originally arranged and he seemed amused that I was even considering that this mightn't be the case.  An MTV promotional shirt displayed an artistic rendering of the Earth and another T-shirt was a tie-in to one of the Orion films he'd worked on, "Little Man Tate," with red letters on the back proclaiming "My Mom Thinks I'm A Genius."  Marie also visited and graciously agreed to pick up some more underwear and socks at my condo.  When I expressed anger to her about my brother and friends for having arranged for me to come here, Marie assured me that I could always trust Mike.

At lunchtime there was still a small trickle of water from my bathroom sink due to the ongoing plumbing problem so again I could fill my plastic cup.  At the table where the others were eating, I was sitting next to my usually quiet friend in the wheelchair and always mindful of the monitoring device.  Suddenly she began talking to me with a soft and steady voice about the Great Creator, life "at Home" and crop harvests on some other planet.  

The strange behavior wasn't being staged; upon appraising such a possibility, I considered myself a skillful evaluator of good and bad acting — neither was suggested by the bizarre changes in personality that I'd observed.

A nurse mentioned some of my remarks in the interdisciplinary notes for Saturday during my second day of incarceration.

Upon asking a peer to sign voluntary, Mr. Russell ran over to this nurse and peer and stated "Don't listen to them and don't sign any paper you don't want to sign."  Is also refusing all his meds stating, "The Dr. did not explain to me what or why he prescribed this so I'm not going to take them."

Other notations made by a nurse mention "bipolar disorder" and "paranoid psychosis."  The psychiatrist made some brief handwritten notes.

Patient has refused to take his meds.  Says he has no more delusions and that he is thinking better.  He is more calm and less anxious.  Discussed with him the need for meds — he said he is not yet ready to take them.  Talked with mother who is concerned that he is angry at her.  Will continue to . . . (last few words illegible)

It's obvious the psychiatrist wasn't giving exact quotations because I wasn't planning on ever beginning to take my 'meds.'  In a mental institution, from my own experience there are obvious reasons that a patient might justifiably show signs of paranoia and treat staff with a guarded, suspicious demeanor.  In my case, I felt confident that 'Michael' would soon be able to accomplish his objective for my being at CPC Alhambra and then I'd be able to leave.  A recreational therapist's note for the day is worded (some abbreviations expanded):

Patient actively participated in two groups today; exercise/recreation groups.  Patient anxious, able to follow directives with minimum — moderate prompts.  In small group recreation activity patient engaged minimally and interacted with peers.

The RT had the letter sequence 'BEL' in her name.

I spent some of the afternoon with the reading materials that my brother had brought me.  There was Granta number 47 ( Spring 1994), "a paperback magazine of new writing."  The theme for this issue was "LOSERS" and the cover showed an antique photo of a distressed child sitting in the corner of a room wearing a large, rolled-up paper dunce's cap and smock while two of her playmates seem preoccupied with having their picture taken instead of considering her forlorn predicament.  I guess Mike and James didn't realize that 'losers' was a theme that might upset me in my present circumstances and I vowed not to read the magazine during my stay at Alhambra.  There were a couple poetry books: Poetry for Pleasure (1977) anthologized by Ian Parsons and a paperback of Selected Poetry of W.H. Auden (1971).  The Auden paperback and the edition of Granta had to have come from the bookcase of James.  Also bestowed upon me was the curiously titled book The Kid Stays In The Picture (1994), a biography of Robert Evans.  I was somewhat interested in reading about Evans but didn't expect it to be a frank and unguarded account comparable to the tell-all You'll Never Eat Lunch In This Town Again (1991) by Julia Phillips.   It was evident I would have a lot of time to read this weekend so I decided to alternate between the three acceptable alternatives.

During the breaks when I was allowed to visit the patio, I stood as far away from the smokers, including staff members, as I could.  During one evening break as I was returning back inside with the others, I noticed nobody had remembered to push the elderly boxer in his wheelchair back inside.  I wondered if perhaps I should do that as the wheelchair seemed to be directly in my path.  I decided against helping him as I had enough on my mind and, besides, pushing the wheelchair was something the staff was paid to do.  As I reflected upon the situation, my conscience weighed upon me.  In retrospect, what I understood to be 'my conscience' could also be understood through an awareness of Michael.  When I had another opportunity to push the wheelchair I responded in the more appropriate way.

On Sunday I awoke early. I happened to glance out a bedroom window just as a cat was moving so slowly down the walkway that it seemed to be happening in 'slow-motion.'  I was reminded of how time could give one an impression of being slow or fast and here at the hospital the minutes seemed to be passing at a languorous pace.  I didn't have much else to do other than reflecting about my quandary.

Upon discovering that the plumbing was working again, I went to the nurse's station to get some shampoo to wash my hair but there was nobody at the counter.  I found myself alone in the lobby with the kindly older man and a middle-aged woman patient who'd always previously been congenial toward me.  She told me in her usual cheerful manner, "You can leave anytime you want just by walking out that door."  I reacted by attempting to open the front door and found it locked.  The woman then said with sudden vehemence, "He thinks he's the son of God but he's nothing but a fat slob."  I'd never said to anyone that I thought such a thing about myself or even about the historical Jesus being literally such an individual.  (I would later become familiar with transcendental communication transcripts articulating a universal and omnipresent 'Christ Spirit' and this is a more realistic conception for 'Son of God'; while any human being who accomplishes good works can perhaps be considered a metaphorical 'son of God.'  In 1995 I'd never accomplished anything particularly benevolent other than always just trying to be nice and polite with everybody.)

All the patients were continuing to be similarly unpredictable.  It seemed like whenever I would begin feeling optimistic about going home, I'd hear something said that would make me think it wasn't likely I'd ever be released.  I even had the feeling that some manner of psychic energy source was laughing victoriously at me during my fearful periods.  Those moments were the worst feeling that I could ever recall having experienced throughout my entire life and have never recurred since then.

In the morning exercise session, it seemed that the hospital staff had arranged it so that nobody with whom I'd interacted with before were around me.  The new patients that I met included a young Oriental girl.  I was astonished when she told me she'd been having problems since commencing paranormal studies at an Eastern university.  As strange a coincidence as this seemed, I believed she wasn't making it up because after taking her medication a profound change came over her that would leave her in an almost zombie-like state with her eyelids often fluttering.  She didn't offer many more details about her situation.  During one of the scheduled patio breaks, the girl began practicing karate moves while in her drugged stupor.  When I noticed shimmering sunlight reflecting off the tarp draped along the fence surrounding the patio, it struck me as resembling a soundstage blue screen.  (Much of my life experience revolved around movies, after all.)

When I called my mother, she was indignant about my being institutionalized: "Do you know where you are!?"  As I explained about Mike and my friends accomplishing an 'intervention,' Ellen became incensed that he could've done something so ridiculous.  She volunteered to come and visit but I told her that it wasn't necessary.  I didn't want someone as unstable as my mother to speak on my behalf.  When I told her the name of my hospital psychiatrist, she realized that she personally knew him.  He'd been an internist when they both were coworkers at St. Luke Hospital.

When I asked a nurse what had happened to some of the patients I'd met previously, I was told that they'd gone over to 'the other side' (other ward) of the hospital.  One patient who now seemed to be standing near me much of the time was a laconic young Latino man who didn't say practically anything.  He was yet another patient who didn't seem to be psychologically disturbed in any way.

The temperament of a friendly black man reminded me of my own frame of mind, feeling bewildered to find himself a patient in a mental hospital and dedicating himself to doing whatever was necessary to get out as soon as possible so he could go back to work.  He told me he was an auto mechanic.  After talking with him a while, he gave me a look of bewilderment and said, "How'd you get to be here, anyway?"

"I began telling people that I'm the reincarnation of Jesus Christ."

He was shocked, "Oh man, that's not a good thing to be telling people.  Mark, Mark — why'd you have to go and do something like that for?"

I smiled.

Once when I was getting toothpaste or something at the counter, I was given a red knit shirt with a Frito Lay logo.  I told them I'd never seen it before and it must belong to someone else yet I was told to keep it as maybe my brother or friends had brought it for me.  I thought to myself that it didn't really matter how it came to be among my things, 'Michael' could've materialized it or perhaps a spontaneous subconscious thought expressing divine guidance might have influenced someone to give the shirt to me.  The logo on the shirt had a little pyramid under the 'R' and what looked like a 'G' inside the 'O' — another Egyptian correlation and the 'G' must stand for God I thought.  Previously, I'd first learned about the Centrahoma case from an article in a magazine with a photo of the Sphinx on the cover; and then during my time in Oklahoma there was one night when I heard repeated knocking on my hotel door and eventually discovered that the sounds were caused by a large scarab beetle with wings continuously flinging itself against my hotel door for many minutes.  

I began wondering if myriads of people were brought to places like this 'psychiatric hospital' as a 'safe' situation for the Superconscious Mind of the cosmos to reveal 'Themselves' — or maybe a person was brought to a place like this after experiencing something that induced a reconceptualization about what constituted 'reality.' 

During my meeting with the psychiatrist, I was adamant about being ready to go home.  I remember commenting about the book I was reading.  "I've never met Bob Evans but I have met Roy Radin."  (Roy was the nice bus and truck tour stage producer who was murdered in Los Angeles as he attempted to begin a movie career by becoming a co-producer of "The Cotton Club."  Although I'd worked on several movies produced by Evans, I don't recall ever interacting with him personally.)

The progress notes from the RN for the day designated "Remains guarded/suspicious sitting in lobby watching staff/peers interactions" while my psychiatrist wrote:

Patient continues to be suspicious and will not accept the fact that he needs meds and treatment.  He refuses to sign self in voluntarily - has lapses of attention and remains extremely guarded.  Believe he needs additional treatment and will place on 14 day as danger to self and gravely disabled by his illness.

I wasn't watching the staff in particular.  I was thinking.

I remember sitting in bed trying to read when a nurse brought me my copy of the "Notice of Certification" along with a Handbook of Rights For Mental Health Patients (1993).

Patient has been hearing voices, exhibiting bizarre behavior.  Believes he is the reincarnation of Christ.  Has made a statement that he wants to die.  Denies his illness and refuses medication.

The above-named person has been informed of this evaluation, and has been advised of the need for, but has not been able or willing to accept treatment on a voluntary basis, or to accept referral to, the following services: He at this time is guarded, suspicious and unwilling to accept voluntary treatment.

We, therefore, certify the above-named person to receive intensive treatment related to the mental disorder or impairment by chronic alcoholism beginning this 27th day of August, 1995, in the intensive treatment facility herein named CPC Alhambra Hospital.

The notice was signed by the psychiatrist and an R.N.  The latter also signed the concluding statement at the bottom of the page:

I hereby state that I delivered a copy of this notice this day to the above-named person and that I informed him or her that unless judicial review is requested, a certification review hearing will be held within four days of the date on which the person is certified for a period of intensive treatment and that an attorney or advocate will visit him or her to provide assistance in preparing for the hearing or to answer questions regarding his or her commitment or to provide other assistance.  The court has been notified of this certification on this day.

After reading this, I was in a state of near shock for some time.  Here were people who wanted to keep me institutionalized yet they couldn't understand how I might be suspicious of their intentions?  I didn't read the last paragraph so I never expected any help in preparing for my court appearance.  My response to the Handbook Of Rights For Mental Health Patients was that it was clear that mental health patients had no rights. 

I began considering that maybe I was in much worse trouble than I ever could've realized.

When I was again brought in to see the psychiatrist, I simply told him that I intended to make it clear to the court that when I'd signed myself in voluntarily to the hospital it had been with the understanding that no medication would be given to me and, regardless of this, the hospital had been clandestinely medicating me.

After the brief meeting, it was back to being stuck in a dumpy facility with little to occupy myself.  I imagined what being in court would be like as that was something I'd never before experienced.  I imagined participating in a climactic court scene similar to the one in the dull old movie "Miracle on 34th Street."  I expected that 'Michael' somehow would enable to happen whatever was necessary that would help me to share my story with others and thus enable them to expand their consciousness of the spiritual Force interacting with our world.

Then I thought this was all wishful thinking and it was conceivable that my bizarre circumstances would prevent me from ever being released.  Someone can't be considered delusional if there are specific facts supporting one's perspective.  I'd never been in any manner of hospital overnight before.  Being confined to CPC Alhambra seemed like being trapped in a veritable purgatory — some kind of limbo where you never could guess what progress or setbacks would next occur.

The patient who engendered my greatest concern was the Oriental girl due to the severity of symptoms induced by her medication.  Once she was standing with me in my room in a stupor and I turned to walk into the corridor.  A look of wakeful awareness suddenly came over her and she embraced me to detain me from leaving the room as some staff members passed by who were engaged in conversation.  After they'd passed, my 'friend' let go of me and her stupefied look returned.  I could only theorize that Michael had taken control of her momentarily because He didn't want me to interrupt the men.  Perhaps, I thought, there was a security camera also in the hall and, for some unknown reason, it was important not to disrupt this 'scene.'

Later, there was an even more bizarre outburst from the Oriental girl.  Out of nowhere, she looked at me with a delighted grin and said, "They want to eat your heart."  (Many years later I read in the channeled book The Only Planet of Choice a comment of the "spokesman" for "the Council of Nine": "It is the love from this planet that feeds God" and "If a soul becomes what you call perfect, then it is . . . if we could explain this to you, in your mind you may feel that we are cannibals!"  (article)

Gradually, the alarming series of unfortunate circumstances that had transpired in the hospital began making me feel despondent.  It seemed unendurable for me to remain for the 14 days that the psychiatrist demanded.  I could well understand how if someone who wasn't crazy found oneself in such a place, one could soon go a little mad with the forced medication and socialization with patients like those I'd encountered.  I knew I wasn't "a danger to myself," nor was I "gravely disabled."

I began formulating what I would say during my court appearance about being the 'reincarnation' of Jesus Christ.  I was ready to admit that there was no actual proof of such a thing (or was there?) yet a specific sequence of events had led me to the impression that this was a possibility, such as the many religious metaphors in my life; however, it seemed obvious that such comments could induce others to indeed think me indeed insane.  (One transcendental communicator has lectured about the pertinence of 'verbiage contradictions' that simultaneously can be true.)

Using the pay phone, I called my brother and let him know the news in a conversation that went something like this.

"Now they want to keep me in the hospital for two more weeks.  They've put me on a fourteen-day hold."

"Are you kidding?"

"You've got to help me get out of here.  You got me in here so you have to help me get out."

"Why do they want you to stay so long?"

"For money, what else?  You know I'm not a danger to anyone."

The more I thought about my predicament, the angrier I felt about the methods and practices of the mental health industry.  (I would remember this later when Marie took me to see a screening of the movie "12 Monkeys" in the Hitchcock Theatre at Universal Studios.)  Feeling depressed, I decided to stay in my room and take a nap.  There was nothing worthwhile to do, anyway.

While I was in my room, the nurses would come in periodically to turn on the light and ask me if I was ready to take my medication.  In the evening, I left the room and heard other patients mention a "big girl" that had been brought in under restraint after slashing her wrists.

Encountering the Oriental girl In the hallway outside my room, I told her my impression that perhaps Michael was making a movie at the hospital and if all the clandestine footage was assembled it would be quite remarkable to see.  She instantaneously said, "In the movie you're Jesus.  And he's God."  The person she was indicating happened to be the man whom I knew as 'Mr. Carpenter,' my mysterious roommate.  He was laying upon his bed with his eyes closed.  I approached him and declared, "I want to talk with you."  He opened his eyes and might have been fighting back a smile.  He then quickly put on his clothes and left the room showing a disgruntled expression, hurrying in the direction of the nursing station.

When Monday morning arrived, I was keenly aware that my stay as originally planned should've been over by now.  At breakfast, I continued to eat only items that couldn't be laced with antipsychotic drugs.  At my table was the young woman who'd been admitted the night before, a heavyset teenager accompanied by her doll that she treated as her child.  The nurses also would politely speak to her doll when dealing with the teenager, whose wrists were bandaged.  She was calm now and seemed accustomed to being in this environment, stating plainly what she wanted in terse, insistent sentences.

Another new patient in the hospital was a Latino teenager who told me that she was a channeler.  I don't remember if there was any explanation provided as to the reason she was there but I found this to be quite an astonishing development.  After another cheerful visit from Marie who brought me the underwear and socks, I was amazed to overhear the channeler telling someone that she'd just seen "the new Mary" and then the girl remarked about how beautiful she was.

I discovered that I seemed to have an affinity with Barbara, the nurse who supervised the morning group therapy session.  Sometimes one will happen to meet someone who seems to share some of the same sensibilities and this was the case for me with Barbara.  She asked each person to share something in their life that they felt sorry about never having resolved.  One of the things I was wondering about was whether my brother had mentioned the momentary fear I'd expressed about the possibility of my having been 'possessed' upon initiating this intervention.  I wanted to avoid saying or doing anything that could give such an impression to hospital staff.  When a patient was discussing a love triangle I blurted out "menage a trois" and then realized such a comment might be misconstrued as speaking in foreign languages, which was a known characteristic symptomatic of demonic possession.  I decided to choose my words more cautiously.

When it was my turn to share a personal regret, I admitted that I felt guilty for never having been able to be of more help to my mother during all my years with her.  She'd always concealed her tremendous fears and emotional problems from her co-workers at the hospital but these had always been evident to me.  More preoccupied with making ends meet than finding help for herself, my mother had never sought therapy for her neuroses and anxieties beyond trying to numb her feelings by drinking beer.  Looking back, it seemed that my brother and I should have tried to intervene in some way to help.  Before the group session concluded, Barbara declared to everyone what a big gift I was.

When I spoke to my brother on the telephone, he told me that my psychiatrist had told him that in order for him to consider releasing me it was essential that I arrange to begin therapy on an outpatient basis.  As a result, Mike's own therapist had found a lady who seemed to be the ideal psychiatrist for me.  He gave me her number to call and I left her a message.  When her return call eventually came through, she explained that she was reluctant to take on new patients due to her current busy schedule.  I pleaded how important it was for me and was momentously thrilled when she gave me a 4:15 appointment for Wednesday.

I passed some of the time reflecting about my life.  I noticed that a daytime television talkshow addressed the subject of spouses who refused to have sex with their partner.  Personally, my writing projects in addition to full-time employment hadn't been conducive to the prospect of my sustaining an intimate relationship with another person or maybe I just never had found the 'right' person.  For me, sex has always been more of a fantasy than a reality and conditions noticeable in our popular culture make it evident that this is true for many people. 

I was sitting thoughtfully on the bench near a pay phone when the quiet but friendly Latino youth suddenly asked me what had happened to me to bring me to the hospital.  I told him something like, "Well I was researching a talking poltergeist case and after I came home the phenomena was continuing to happen around me.  My friends began to feel concerned about me and probably thought that I was possessed."

He said: "And were you?"

"Possessed by God," I remarked and was about to further expound on this concept of our shared Superconscious Mind when the youth immediately got up from the bench and began walking quickly to the offices.  I felt alarmed, estimating that he seemed to be some kind of flunky and this—my latest assertion—was all the hospital staff needed to hear while considering whether or not I should be released.

The supervisor at the afternoon group therapy session was again the older soft-spoken man who'd also led the group session on Friday about walking the tightrope.  Now he was going to play music-only versions of popular songs so that patients could sing along.  I pretended to enthusiastically participate so that everyone would know how sociable I am.

During one of Michael Jackson's hits, the singer's voice suddenly was audible and many group participants were perplexed.  "Listen — you can hear him," a patient said emphatically.  The group supervisor looked startled yet didn't make any comment about the apparent surprise.

It was in the early evening and I was in the lobby area when the teenager started channeling 'Michael.'  I was flabbergasted that the Angel was suddenly conversing with me in a more direct manner as I had always wanted; however, He began scolding me for my smug attitude that he said derived from knowing that I was on the winning side.  I remember the precise meaning conveyed if not the exact words as there was no tape recorder.  I felt delighted to suddenly find myself apparently being addressed in direct and coherent terms by the Entity yet I was startled by the irate tone confronting me.  "Take that smirk off your face.  Everyone's got to go sometime.  I can't believe it — rejected in the game of love . . ."

"Wait!" I insisted, frantic that the Angel was considering another Big Bang as an immediate option.  Worst of all, it was somehow partially my fault, presumably because I wasn't any good at playing 'Cybersex Jesus' in the symbolically fraught Los Angeles metropolitan area, domain of the Hollywood entertainment industry and celebrity capital of the world — a place where the Golden idols of ancient times had new incarnations bearing names such as Oscars, Emmys, Grammys and Golden Globes.  In such a beleaguered state as I was in, one is only able to state the simplest truth so I said: "Nothing's easy.  It takes two to reject."  I don't know what the reason was for the Entity thinking that I was rejecting Anyone.  I knew that there was nothing that I conceivably could offer such an advanced Intellect that knew everything that had ever happened as well as everything that ever would happen.  I noticed another break was beginning so took the opportunity to quickly make my way to the patio.  

On the patio, I saw the older woman in the wheelchair who had previously been comforting to me and through whom the alien had spoken.  She was all alone so I expected her to still be in her recurring mute, listless state.  I stood beside her and saw that I was wrong about her awareness level as her eyes were open wide.  She whispered, "You're a genius."  This was all that was said. 

Thinking about these very strange moments, I considered how I myself could be a 'genius.'  The only thing I could think of was that such a sentiment related to my intention of being completely honest when expressing myself and my feelings.  My emotions seemingly were becoming clearer for me to understand.  Something self-evident was that throughout my life I'd been oblivious to 'God.'  I considered how many acts of kindness one receives from other people each day, each one a part of our unlimited Creator.  

"Go with the flow" was among the notes I'd made for myself since my arrival.  I also saw a hopeful prayer on a poster in the corridor.  This was the first line of "The Serenity Prayer" by Reinhold Niebuhr.

GOD, grant me the serenity

to accept the things I cannot change,

Courage to change the things I can,

and the wisdom to know the difference.

I decided to take a quick shower in the bathroom, regardless of whether or not there was monitoring.  Then, I put on the Frito Lay shirt and joined the other patients in the day room.  They all were welcoming to me.

The next time I encountered the channeler, she began explaining that all the credit for her successful channeling should go to her spirit Guide.  I heard encouraging sentiments from patients with whom I'd had little interaction.  They were apologetic about not having understood my intentions and motives.

The interdisciplinary notes for the day consist of the exercise group therapist succinctly commenting about my "depressed mood" and "flat affect" yet observed that I was "able to follow directions."  A nurse's note states: "presents clearer thinking, able to identify what is real and what is not and attended a.m. group and showed good, clear understanding of peers' sadness — RN pointed out what a big gift he was."

My brother came to the hospital to accompany me to my meeting with my psychiatrist to discuss my present condition and needs.  One of the pertinent facts was that I had the first appointment with my new psychiatrist for Wednesday to begin psychotherapy.  My psychiatrist wrote:

Met today — Mark and his brother.  We discussed his present condition and what his current needs are.  Mark appears rational today.  He has continued to refused meds and as of now probably can be fit.  Discussed with him the possibility of reconsidering meds.  Also the plans for him to see an outpatient for therapy and to be on meds on a later date if needed.  If all is set up and he continues, I will discharge him.  

This seemed like good news yet the previous setbacks were still vivid in my mind.

In the evening, my brother again visited me at the hospital and this time brought along James.

James went into my room to see what it was like and when he returned to the hall he had a wide-eyed expression as he said, "That guy's masturbating in there!"

"Which one?" I asked.  He didn't answer as apparently his orientation to the room had just been momentary.  I certainly wouldn't ever have expected something like that to happen.

When I told my brother about the incident, Mike responded by saying that what James had just witnessed was something that could only have happened to him. 

After Mike and James left, dinner was served in the day room.  The television was on and I don't remember what program was selected but every few minutes a commercial would be presented for an upcoming new series with an outer space setting.  It was a repeating countdown that seemed not only weird yet prophetic somehow.

While I was aware that 'Michael' could provide advice by occasionally transmitting advantageous thoughts to the people around me, it was obvious that some of them were still giving me bad advice as well.  For example, I remember one of the patients explaining that by agreeing to take my meds it could show that I was cooperative and this would help me get released — I wouldn't need to actually take them but just pretend.  Would this work?

I told one of the nurses that I would begin taking my meds yet after thinking about this some more, I decided that this was a terrible idea.  I went back and told the nurse that I'd changed my mind again and wouldn't start taking the meds. 

On Tuesday morning, I didn't want to get my hopes up about leaving the hospital yet this remained my only objective.  In the morning, I visited the room of the woman in the wheelchair who'd become a reassuring presence again after the "You're a genius" comment.  I was again wondering if there was ongoing monitoring throughout the hospital.  I remember conveying that I considered her as a friend.  She had difficulty responding yet then blurted out that whenever I was ready I could "climb on top and start plowing."  I told her that wasn't exactly what I'd meant.  Moments later, a nurse hurried in and told me to leave because patients weren't allowed to be in other patients' rooms.

When I met again with the psychiatrist, although other patients had encouraged me to tell him whatever needed to be said in order to be released, I remember again choosing my words carefully while being truthful.  The psychiatrist's impression is preserved in the progress notes:

Mark today continues to . . . (illegible) . . . improve.  He is focusing better and he is able to look back at his activities and how he became out of touch with reality.  He denies any hallucinations today and does not seem delusional.  Will be discharged today to home.  He will be living for a while with his brother.  Has appointment with a psychiatrist [is] set up for Wednesday.

It was recommended that I begin regularly going to the gym and make sure to eat nutritiously.  Fiona agreed to pick me up and take me to my brother’s house where it had been arranged for me to stay in James’s room while he was out of town.  I was still considering if something unforeseen might happen that would prevent me from being released at the last second.  The following is the final MD "Discharge Note."  Some words are difficult to decipher. 

People at the hospital were still interacting with me in a puzzling way.  I remember a hospital visitor furtively directed my attention to the title of the book he was carrying: Christianity Continues.  I think he was the channeler's brother and I appreciated his interest in me.

I tried to impress upon the Oriental girl how important it was for her to gain control of her life in any way that would allow her to avoid the extreme dosage of medication being administered to her.  I gave her my phone number and offered to let her stay at my condo for a while if necessary yet I never did hear from her again.

Barbara—the nurse who seemed to perceive my finer qualities—took a somewhat stricter tone with me in my discharge interview.  She asked me about some of my writing projects and how they might have touched upon the dark side.  I told her, "Well I didn't really see that there was a dark side."  One of her comments was that it seemed that I'd never achieved the success I desired and I replied, "Well, I think the simple act of creating and writing was reward enough."  Barbara advised me to forget the past and embrace her version of sane reality that included getting married and having children.

When the nurse at the counter returned to me my wallet, she indicated my being fortunate to have so many credit cards — apparently this wasn't the case for many of the patients who came to the hospital.  I was wondering if any of the staff or patients had told anybody outside the hospital about some of the things that had happened and, as if in answer to this thought, the pay telephone began to ring.  I picked up the receiver, "Hello?"

"This is the Star News," said the voice on the line.

I didn't wait to learn if this was a reporter or a subscription salesman and said, "This isn't a residence" and hung up, uncertain if I was ready to deal with media interest in my case.  (Today in 2019 looking back over the years I've almost always been willing to participate in media interviews and occasionally have even published news releases.)

I noticed that my enigmatic roommate, Mr. Carpenter, was being released at precisely the same time as me.  He glanced at me with a bewildered and wary look of unease, which was an expression unlike any of the demeanor I'd previously seen.  I'll never forget that look on his face. 

As I was passing in the hall to retrieve my few belongings before leaving with Fiona, the buxom teenager with the bandaged wrists and doll bid me farewell from her room.  She was listening to the radio and turned the volume up.  The song playing was "Don't You (Forget About Me)" performed by Simple Minds.

On the way home, I told Fiona how starved I was and she stopped at a fast food drive-thru.  Considering some of the things that had happened at the psychiatric hospital, it was good to know that I wouldn't be alone while staying at my brother's home for a few days.  We soon arrived at my brother's house on Lyric Avenue (the same street where Walt Disney resided early in his career). 

Going downstairs to put my things away, I turned on a radio.  As I went into the hall, I realized that the song was a familiar one and the lyrics communicated such an expression of love that tears came into my eyes as I paused in the bathroom to find a place for my toothbrush and other grooming objects.  The song was "Can You Feel The Love Tonight" performed by Elton John.  I saw my brother's cat Dickens jump into the bathtub and recline against the cool white surface.  Although the feline's head was raised and her eyes were alert, the cat's mouth abruptly opened and closed in a movement seemingly meant to imitate a yawn. 

I hadn't realized that Fiona had come downstairs yet she began asking if I was all right so I quickly tried to compose myself and told her how good it felt to be away from the hospital as she gave me a consoling hug.  She'd agreed to stay with me until Mike arrived home despite her having much to do to prepare for her upcoming trip to Hawaii.

There was little opportunity to discuss my hospital experience with my brother when he came home.  He typically worked late at Rogers and Cowan Public Relations in Century City.  After driving home and having dinner, he seemed tired as he went to his bedroom and made a few telephone calls before going to sleep.

I was amazed at the decor in James's room, where I would be staying while he was overseas covering a film festival for The Hollywood Reporter.  Framed photographs from around the world filled the walls along with small religious relics that had been collected as souvenirs and placed on a shelf above the bed.  The dazzling assortment of images included photos of smiling children in Guatemala, a farmer guiding his team of oxen in India, and Fellini's casket from a memorial at Cinecittà.

I had mixed feelings about whether or not staying at my brother's house was necessary yet the night when Mike dropped me off to pick up my car, as I used my clicker to open the gate to let me pass to the garage area, an unfamiliar large black van I'd never seen before abruptly pulled into the driveway right beside me.  It was too dark to see who was inside.  I decided it might be best not to be alone for a few nights after all.

As I was preparing to go to sleep that first night I stayed at my brother's house, I remember walking down the hall and seeing something fall upon the floor in front of me.  I studied it and thought at first it resembled a tiny bit of vein like you find in cooked poultry but the object had an unfamiliar constituency.  I surmised that it might've been a small sample of what had once been called 'ectoplasm' in some cases involving spirit mediums.  It seemed my Guide 'Michael' was continuing my paranormal initiation.

I remember laying on the bed for a while with the light on.  That first night sleeping in James's room, I found that the overhead light operated in a pulsating manner expanding or decreasing in brightness after pushing the on/off control.  As soon as the light would go off, a group of tiny gnat-like insects would suddenly come from everywhere to alight directly upon my somewhat chapped lips.  Usually, such a circumstance would keep me up to deal with the problem yet now I considered how this occurrence might express the Superconsciousness connecting all creatures.

In the morning the insects were gone and when I glanced into a mirror my lips didn't look chapped anymore.  After Mike showered and ate a quick breakfast, he began his commute to Century City and I was left alone to plan the new course of my life.  I hoped to continue working on the book of interviews that had commenced with my trip to Oklahoma.  Considering a Superconsciousness involved with each individual's thoughts and experiences now allowed for many mysterious things assigned to the 'supernatural,'  creativity and 'inspiration' to become feasible.  

That first morning alone in my brother's house, I decided to conduct an experiment and turned on the television to see what would happen.  The morning show being telecast was "Live! With Regis and Kathie Lee."  Soon, without any explanation a cameraman zoomed in for a close-up of an object that apparently had just landed on the floor — it looked like the top of a water pitcher or something like that.  Kathie Lee Gifford showed a startled expression but neither her nor Regis Philbin made any comment about what had just occurred.  What could they have said? 

Personally, soon after becoming a metaphysical author I decided not to devote any of my time to watching fictional movies or TV shows, instead dedicating myself to helping people expand their spiritual and metaphysical understanding.  For decades encompassing the Spiritualism Movement and contemporary 'channeling' cases, the dispensations and phenomenal manifestations of God have been overlooked or misunderstood by countless people.  Beyond reporting about government and politics, entertainment topics are predominant throughout news media while coverage of spiritual, metaphysical and philosophical subjects is scant — sometimes these topics being incorrectly equated merely with subjective opinions and so deemed as being unnewsworthy.  What has resulted is a lack of compelling aspects of news, movies, TV shows, etc. with people's disinterest and dissatisfaction ever increasing.