Travel Back to 1776: Tesla, Ike, The Speech of the Unknown, and the TimeQuake

by Former White Hat

Only three of us could go, I was told, something about the triad required for this Arcturian tech we were using. This happened a few days ago, August 2. Dwight (Ike) Eisenhower, who had travelled forward physically from 1958 with old friend P’Taah, Semjase’s father, told me it was necessary to find Nicolas Tesla. Tesla had never died in the New Yorker hotel, that was a double and a ruse; Tesla had gone deep underground to work on Project Rainbow, and instead of being used by the growing shadow government, he disappeared into time, going backwards and forwards, essentially escaping death although he had visited the body his soul was in 2001-onwards (temporal mechanics here).

The Arcturian tech would not send the three of us physically back in time because we were going to attend an event where we would have stuck out, and did not have an invite to; our normal presence would cause a timeline shift.

We were going to the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

The tech allowed our psyches to do a walk-in of a person who was there, that we had some sort of DNA-connection to. Ike walked into the body of Thomas Jefferson, P’Taah walked into the body of  Samuel Adams (who was a Lyran soul) and I went into the body of Francis Lewis from New York, also a Lyran soul but whom was a human ancestor of mine, apparently.

What an experience! There I was with the Continental Congress in Pennsylvania; the document had een approved on July 4 and now it was August 2, 1776, and ready to be signed…

…but a number of the esteemed men there were hesitant to sign the parchment, for fear of retaliation by the Crown. They would be branded traitors against England, their property could be taken, they could be imprisoned or killed, their heads on gibbets.

I was wondering if we had altered the timeline doing the walk-ins. Francis Lewis seemed prepared to sign, as did Adams and Jefferson: while we were in these bodies, and could control them, and see through them, the essence of the souls inside were still over-all in control, with history not at stake.

“GIBBET!” cried a loud, booming voice that echoed throughout the building. All looked up at the balcony, where stood a tall, regal man dressed all in white, holding a white cane and top hat.

“The doctor,” someone mumbled.

“The professor,” uttered Benjamin Franklin with a smile….

Standing up there all in white was none other than Nicholas Tesla. I would know that face anywhere.

The mystery man! I thought. It was Tesla all along, the mysterious Rosicrucian fellow who delivered the famous “Speech of the Unknown,” which Tesla did indeed do.

This spake Tesla/the Doctor:

“Gibbet? They may stretch our necks on all the gibbets in the land–they may turn every rock into a scaffold–every tree into a gallows, every home into a grave, and yet the words on that Parchment can never die!

“They may pour our blood on a thousand scaffolds, and yet from every drop that yes the axe, or drips on the sawdust of the block, a new martyr to Freedom will spring into birth!

“The British King may blot out the Stars of God from His sky, but he cannot blot out His words written on the Parchment there! The works of God may perish–His Word, never!

“These words will go forth to the world when our bones are dust. To the slave in the mines they will speak–hope–to the mechanic in his workshop–freedom–to the coward-kings these words will speak, but not in tones of flattery. No, no! They will speak like the flaming syllables on Belshazzar’s wall–


“Yes, that Parchment will speak to the Kings in a language sad and terrible as the trump of the Archangel. You have trampled on mankind long enough. At last the voice of human woe has pierced the ear of God, and called His Judgment down! You have waded on to thrones over seas of blood–you have trampled on to power over the necks of millions–you have turned the poor man’s sweat and blood into robes for your delicate forms, into crowns for your anointed brows. Now Kings–now purpled Hangmen of the world–for you come the days of axes and gibbets and scaffolds–for you the wrath of man–for you the lightnings of God!–

“Look! How the light of your palaces on fire flashes up into the midnight sky!

“Now Purpled Hangmen of the world–turn and beg for mercy!

“Where will you find it?

“Not from God, for you have blasphemed His laws!

“Not from the People, for you stand baptized in their blood!

“Here you turn, and lo! a gibbet!

“There–and a scaffold looks you in the face.

“All around you–death–and nowhere pity!

“Now executioners of the human race, kneel down, yes, kneel down upon the sawdust of the scaffold–lay your perfumed heads upon the block–bless the axe as it falls–the axe that you sharpened for the poor man’s neck!

“Such is the message of that Declaration to Man, to the Kings of the world! And shall we falter now? And shall we start back appalled when our feet press the very threshold of Freedom? Do I see quailing faces around me, when our wives have been butchered–when the hearthstones of our land are red with the blood of little children?

“What are these shrinking hearts and faltering voices here, when the very Dead of our battlefields arise, and call upon us to sign that Parchment, or be accursed forever?

“Sign! if the next moment the gibbet’s rope is round your neck! Sign! if the next moment this hall rings with the echo of the falling axe! Sign! By all your hopes in life or death, as husbands–as fathers–as men–sign your names to the Parchment or be accursed forever!

“Sign–and not only for yourselves, but for all ages. For that Parchment will be the Text-book of Freedom–the Bible of the Rights of Man forever!

“Sign–for that declaration will go forth to American hearts forever, and speak to those hearts like the voice of God! And its work will not be done, until throughout this wide Continent not a single inch of ground owns the sway of a British King!

“Nay, do not start and whisper with surprise! It is a truth, your own hearts witness it, God proclaims it.–This Continent is the property of a free people, and their property alone.

“God, I say, proclaims it!

“Look at this strange history of a band of exiles and outcasts, suddenly transformed into a people–look at this wonderful Exodus of the oppressed of the Old World into the New, where they came, weak in arms but mighty in Godlike faith–nay, look at this history of your Bunker Hill–your Lexington–where a band of plain farmers mocked and trampled down the panoply of British arms, and then tell me, if you can, that God has not given America to the free?

“It is not given to our poor human intellect to climb the skies, to pierce the councils of the Almighty One. But methinks I stand among the awful clouds which veil the brightness of Jehovah’s throne. Methinks I see the Recording Angel–pale as an angel is pale, weeping as an angel can weep–come trembling up to that Throne, and speak his dread message–

“`Father! the old world is baptized in blood! Father, it is drenched with the blood of millions, butchered in war, in persecution, in slow and grinding oppression! Father–look, with one glance of Thine Eternal eye, look over Europe, Asia, Africa, and behold evermore, that terrible sight, man trodden down beneath the oppressor’s feet–nations lost in blood–Murder and Superstition walking hand in hand over the graves of their victims, and not a single voice to whisper, “Hope to Man!”‘

“He stands there, the Angel, his hands trembling with the black record of human guilt. But hark! The voice of Jehovah speaks out from the awful cloud–`Let there be light again. Let there be a New World. Tell my people–the poor–the trodden down millions, to go out from the Old World. Tell them to go out from wrong, oppression and blood–tell them to go out from this Old World–to build my altar in the New!’

“As God lives, my friends, I believe that to be his voice! Yes, were my soul trembling on the wing for Eternity, were this hand freezing in death, were this voice choking with the last struggle, I would still, with the last impulse of that soul, with the last wave of that hand, with the last gasp of that voice, implore you to remember this truth–God has given America to the free!

“Yes, as I sank down into the gloomy shadows of the grave, with my last gasp, I would beg you to sign that Parchment, in the name of the God, who made the Saviour who redeemed you–in the name of the millions whose very breath is now hushed in intense expectation, as they look up to you for the awful words–`You are free!'”

Amazing. Was this Tesla all along or had he replaced someone and fulfilled this event to ensure the timeline?

 It would require an angel’s pen to picture the magic of that Tesla’s look, the deep, terrible emphasis of his voice, the prophet-like beckoning of his hand, the magnetic flame which shooting from his eyes, soon fired every heart throughout the hall…

But his timeline work was done. A wild murmur thrills through the hall.–Sign? Hah! There is no doubt now.





















Look! How they rush forward–stout-hearted John Hancock has scarcely time to sign his bold name, before the pen is grasped by another–another and another! Look how the names blaze on the Parchment–Adams and Lee and Jefferson and Carroll, and now, Roger Sherman the Shoemaker…

And here comes good old Stephen Hopkins — yes, trembling with palsy, he totters forward, quivering from head to foot, with his shaking hands he seizes the pen, he scratches his patriot-name.

Then comes Benjamin Franklin…

Tesla vanished, leaving these men to wonder and rejoice, but Ike knew where to find him…ore perhaps he found us, for as we were out in the streets, Tesla poked his head out of an alley and said, “You three! You are not who you appear to be.”

When Ike approached him as Jefferson, Tesla said, “Eisenhower? Mr. President, is that you?”

“Call me Ike,” said Ike.

I learned that Tesla had come back to these times when he realized he had been the mysterious “professor”or “doctor” all along, so he had to do what he did: posing as an old buddy of Franklin’s, staying at the printer’s house, it was Tesla who, in fact, urged Franklin to become a publisher Poor Richard’s Almanac and it was Tesla who gave Franklin the idea of the key on the kite string…and the notion of electricity!

Ike and P’Taah explained to Tesla that his help was needed with a coming Timequake in 2012. Tesla understood, and so we went back in time…

But somehow, my psyche got trapped into a time loop, and I experienced a same hour in my life over and over, 1000s times, until Tesla pulled me out of it.

“Fortunately for you it has happened to me as well,” said Tesla, “and I knew what to do, otherwise you may have been trapped in that hour for all of eternity.”

Not a keen thought…

So that is what happened.

And now I know why P’Taah had to bring Ike and Tesla back to August, 2012…

To stop the Wingmakers from creating a Timequake.

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