R. Neville Johnston - Hidden Language Codes: Reprogram Your Life by Reengineering Your Vocabulary

First published in 2005 by

Red Wheel/Weiser, LLC

York Beach, ME

With offices at:

368 Congress Street

Boston, MA 02210

www.redwheelweiser.com

Copyright 2005 R. Neville Johnston

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from Red Wheel/Weiser, LLC. Reviewers may quote brief passages.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Johnston, R. Neville.

Hidden language codes / R. Neville Johnston.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references.

ISBN 1-57863-362-1

1. Self-actualization (Psychology)Miscellanea. 2. Language and languagesMiscellanea. I. Title.

BF1045.S44J64 2005

131dc22

2005018867

Typeset in Berkeley by Kathryn Sky-Peck

Printed in Canada

TCP

12 11 10 09 08 07 06 05

8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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LOVE IS THE SINGLE MOTIVATION THERE IS. No matter what happens to a child, the child regards the experience as love. If it is sweet care, then this is love. If it is abuse, then abuse is love. No matter what any adult is doing, they are acting out what they have been taught is love. Imagine understanding that no matter what anyone is doing, it is an act of love. The object then becomes to choose the higher expression of love.

There is no human being on this planet to whom you are not directly related. Wherever you walk, walk among your family. It is in the spirit of dedication that I ask that you give this book to the person you love, or the person who is playing the part of your worthy opponent. Either way, in sharing this book, you get to live on a planet that is more evolved.

Many have assisted me in the commitment to ignite this book. For this there is surely gratitude, and so this is dedicated to: us, our family of humanity. To my daughters, Grace and Caramai, and their mother Ariane. Mary Phelan is adored for the support she has given me both as editor and companion. Thank you, dear reader, for the self-love involved in the reading of this volume. It is to the all, that I'm dedicated in service.

QUADRANT 1
OBSOLETE LANGUAGE

QUADRANT 2
WORDS AS POWER

QUADRANT 3
LANGUAGE ANOMALIES

QUADRANT 4
ARCHETYPE UPGRADE

O ur movement forward, our evolution, is designed as the buddy system. As we become more enlightened, we awaken those around us. There are none among us who don't stand on the shoulders of our ancestors.

I acknowledge and thank my teachers, everyone I have ever met, throughout all the sands of time. Know that I hold each of us dear!

O ne day in late spring of 1977 I am with a beautiful actress. We are leaving the theater where we are thespians. Then suddenly...

I am shot to death. A man, a total stranger, appears right in front of us with a gun. He shoots me three times. I'll hear those shots for the rest of my life. It is the one that hits my head that turns out to be fatal.

Earlier I am feeling very good, looking forward to the next adventure the evening will hold. The night air is very warm and (pardon the pun) muggy. As we approach the top steps of this literally underground theater, a man comes straight toward us, a chrome pistol in his hand.

Thinking it is a robbery, I begin to reach for my wallet. The next thing I know I am looking at a hole in my new silk shirt. Time stops. Looking at the wound, my brain is saying Look, that's the dermas, epidermis. Yuck, a fatty layer, muscle. Wow, I have a muscle! That dark hole must be the inside of my stomach. Wow, that hole is in me...

Time starts again. I look up to see what is happening. A second bullet hits my hip, and ricochets down inside my left leg. It is still there today. Where is this coming from? As I look in the direction that the first two bullets have come from, I see hairs from my head falling in front of my eyes.

The bullet that impacts my cranium cuts the follicles as it passes through the skull. I feel the warm gush of blood flooding down my forehead. I feel zero pain.

This stranger is running away. I am standing there watching him disappear into the crowd by the entrance to the theater. I look down to see a body lying there. It is wearing my clothes, lying in a puddle of blood, no breath, no discernable eye movement. Hmm...

It's me! I am thinking to my self, Gee, this is the best astral projection that I've ever done. Ah... this may not be the best time to be astrally projecting; there may be some restriction on getting back into my body.

I realize that there is an alarm bell sounding. In fact, very loudly. Hmm... That's my old high school fire drill alarm... Ringing here? As if this theater has an employee who's job is to ring bells whenever anyone gets shot. Upon my realization the bell stops.

The next thought is, dust collects up. I never realized that dust collects on the ceiling. I know this because it tickles my nose as I rise through it. The next thing I know, I'm in a room filled with light.

During the entire experience, my stream of conscious thought never stops. Not once; it remains unbroken. People associate death with this big off switch... Ah, not so much.

Because there is a brain between me and the white light, the light becomes an angel. Over the years I have done a lot of research into near death experiences. I never experience the tunnel that people talk about. The tunnel is an illusion that is created by looking at the light and then looking all around. What are ya looking for, a brighter light? I am just there, in the light as an automatic process.

Which being we meet after death has to do with our individual belief system. It might be Charon with the ferry across the River Styx if you were an ancient Greek. Grandpa or an elder clan member if you worshiped ancestors in the Chinese or Native American traditions. Shamans who have passed over will take on the role of next-world greeter in many tribal cultures. Whomever you meet, it will be someone with whom you feel perfectly safe.

The being that is greeting me has the clearest blue eyes I've ever seen. Let's call him St. Peter. He is literally looking through a book. The book is the story of my life. You can throw out the expression permanent recordthe concept that is used to threaten school childrenthere is no such thing. Yet we do indeed register our signature in the universe with everything we do.

I immediately begin the guilty dance saying, I may not have done the best possible job down there, given my talents and the circumstances. Besides, I'm an only child and if my mother hears that I've been shot down this way, it could kill her. Is there something that can be done?

He holds up his hand in the classic stop, and says, Chill, Dude. My angels speak to me in street vernacular. I immediately cease the guilty dance and am silent. A great calm comes over me. It starts in my heart and radiates out through my body/being. Even to this very day I remain chillin'.

He explains that the life I have just lived was like a suit of clothes. It could easily be laid aside, meaning that this is just one facet in the crystal of my central soul, one aspect of the wonderfulness of myself.

He says something that at that time totally exceeds my belief system. He says that they in heaven love many things about me. I could understand that they might like one thing, but love many things? I am amazed! What could they possibly love about me?

When the other soul shoots me, I forgive him, on the spot. As the bullets are entering my body, I am thinking: If this person has a father, he is an abusive alcoholic. I cannot believe he has ever experienced being loved, and certainly not as a child. I can only feel sorry for that other soul because he has chosen such a path.