It's All In the Playing (16 page)

The English production manager, an affable gentleman named Alex de Grunwald, whom I had worked with before, was lovingly dubbed the new president of Weight Watchers. They joked that he carried five weeks’ worth of food for the crew in his briefcase. Alex went to the crew and said Bob Geldof was on the phone wanting the crew to donate their leftover food to Ethiopia. He told them that two “sparks” (lighting technicians) were
taken to the hospital suffering from cuts and abrasions while fighting over a peanut. He added that if Jesus appeared and offered to turn stones into loaves and fishes, he would personally put a stop to it. No one was to preempt his function….

Alex came to us one night to plead with us to work another few hours with the promise of soup as a reward. He then produced spoons with holes in them. His time clock had tape plastered over the face of it. Many times he came to me to forgo my twelve-hour turnaround. (The Screen Actors Guild mandates twelve hours’ rest between working hours for its members.) A crew member yelled that he could offer me another picture after this with four weeks in Moscow, five weeks in Finland—no catering. I remember that Alex had been the production manager on
Gandhi.
I asked him if he wanted us all to look like that.

Show business stories kept us going into the night as cold pizza and warm beer were scavenged from a local restaurant owned by an Italian-German couple. There were war stories about Bob Mitchum, Richard Burton, and even myself. Some of the crew remembered stories about me that I had forgotten long ago. They also remembered stories that never happened. I enjoyed them all—and had a few to tell myself. All in all, we were an excellent working group.

We were supposed to see our English location dailies the first week in Sweden, but they didn’t get there until we were nearly finished. They were put on a plane bound for Tunisia. Instead, we got some interesting dailies called “Wet in Tunisia” while a bunch of Arabs were looking at my spiritual search.

So we were literally shooting in the dark, as the saying goes, not knowing what the footage, makeup, hair, wardrobe, or acting looked like, which led our cameraman, Brad May, to hold up a white Styrofoam coffee cup for a light-meter reading in front of my face.

“I may have to ask you to play your part as a coffee addict,” he said, “just to make sure there’s enough light on the subject.”

The final shooting days in Sweden involved the scene with our Swedish trance medium. Most of the crew was looking forward to it. Others were uneasy. All knew they had a professional job to do regardless of their personal beliefs.

Sturé Johansson, the trance medium, had been my first introduction to spiritual channeling years before, when I had come to Sweden to rendezvous with Gerry. Sturé channeled an ancient spiritual master called Ambres.

The scene was set. The actors were rehearsed, the extras were present as the lights dimmed, and we all prepared for Ambres to come through, using the body of Johansson as an instrument. Three cameras were prepared to shoot simultaneously, and we had a well-stocked tape system for sound recording. Sturé said that Ambres knew his lines and the subjects he should address himself to. The hired actors would ask the rehearsed questions of Ambres and he would answer them as he had answered them ten years previously.

Butler called for quiet and then yelled, “Roll ’em.” All the cameras turned over as Sturé began to go into trance. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was being recorded visually and with audio.

We all sat mesmerized as we waited. Suddenly Sturé’s right hand began to vibrate. It was Ambres’ energy about to make its entrance. I looked over at the sound engineer. He was staring at the dials on his machine in front of him. He turned them in a frenzy. Then he switched on to another auxiliary machine. His hand flew to his earphones as though he was hearing more than what was happening on the set. I looked around at each camera. The operators gave me the high sign. So far so good.

Then Ambres was in. He stood up with a hunched-over posture and immediately pronounced a benediction
on everyone in the room, including the crew. Sture’s right hand ceased vibrating.

The first actor asked a rehearsed question, which was about the nature of creativity in regard to creation itself. Ambres explained that we each create our world with every moment that we live. He said creation is a natural expression, that to be alive is to be creative. He expostulated on that subject for a while, sticking to the script remarkably well, until someone asked about the meaning of the Great Pyramid at Gizeh. Here he diverged from the script somewhat, explaining that the Pyramid is a Bible in stone, that it stands at the epicenter of the earth’s land mass, and that we will learn to read its true message before this century is gone.

As he was explaining the Pyramid, as though on cue, every church bell in the surrounding area began to chime. The church bells continued until he was through with the subject. I could see the sound engineer was still disturbed by what he was hearing through his earphones.

The questions continued, scripted according to our first session together. Ambres was acting the part of himself, just as I was. He was precise, economical, profound, and clear.

The cameras, almost simultaneously, ran out of film. The sound man needed to reload too. Butler yelled “Cut” and then turned to me to ask Ambres to “hold his thoughts” while we prepared for more filming. Ambres had other ideas on his mind. He came straight toward me and began to speak—in Swedish, of course, which was immediately translated by an assistant of Sturé’s. I wondered what his urgency was all about. The translation went something like this:

“You have greatly expanded your knowledge,” said Ambres. “But now your inner wisdom must come into balance with it. You must be doubly careful now because you have seen so much of the hologram of life so quickly.”

“What do you mean ‘so quickly,’ Ambres? And why are you concerned?”

He paused to rejuvenate the energy around Sture’s body.

“In the ancient esoteric schools we used to use the needles, too, when the student desired to see the past and future more quickly. But the swiftness exacts its price.”

“The needles?” I asked.

Ambres nodded.

“Yes, the needles,” he said. “You have written of the needles in your new book in English.”

Then it hit me. He was referring to
Dancing in the Light,
which had just been published in America. I had not mentioned it in Sweden because it hadn’t been translated into Swedish yet. The final chapters of that book dealt with a marathon ten-day psychic acupuncture experience I had undergone in Galisteo, New Mexico, with a superb spiritual acupuncturist named Chris Griscom. Acupuncture can be used to open certain channels that assist in past-life recall. With the acupuncture needles placed in strategic positions, I had “seen” many past lives of mine in conjunction with other people—which helped to clarify some of the conflicts we were experiencing today in this present lifetime. Ambres was referring to the effects of the acupuncture needles.

“The world is a schoolroom,” Ambres continued. “Life is to learn. It is a teacher. But teaching is important to proceed at a balanced pace.”

“Yes,” I said. “I understand.”

“Ah, my child.” He stopped me. “But you have been plagued with sleeping problems, isn’t that true?”

I was surprised that he knew that.

“Yes,” I answered, “I have.”

“Well, my child. You have experienced so much so soon. You see, when you proceed with such haste you alter the energy flow in your system drastically. The
energy required for ‘seeing’ the past and the future, unless integrated steadily into the consciousness, can cause disturbance, manifesting in the inability to fall off to sleep.”

“Really?” I asked. The whole crew was now attempting to understand what was going on.

“Yes,” he continued. “You see, the mind is never asleep. Only the body requires rest. But the body frequency for learning during nighttime hours is quite different from daytime, because it involves the superconscious psychic powers. If those powers are overstimulated, an even frequency for the sleep state is not possible.”

“Well,” I asked, “how does this relate to what I did with the needles?”

“Your desire to feel cosmic union is extremely intense. You proceeded in your intensity at a rapid pace in searching out the past-life relationships with your parents, particularly the mother figure. What you did is not dangerous, but it has been disturbing for you, resulting in an upset of the sleep pattern. Do you understand?”

The past-life conflicts with my parents flashed in front of my mind just as they had done under the influence of the needles. Yes, I could see what Ambres was talking about. There had been violence involved. Violence that was difficult for me to admit had been perpetrated by my mother, who had not been my mother in that lifetime.

“You must resolve the reactions to what you saw,” said Ambres, “with your feelings today. In that resolution the even-frequency sleep state will return. Whenever one rushes, one pays a price. Be careful. You have much inner wisdom to develop now in order to balance your knowledge. Wisdom and knowledge are two separate understandings.”

I could feel the crew behind me prepared to film again.

“Thank you, Ambres,” I said. “I will think about
what you’ve said. It’s good to speak with you again. I’ve missed you. You were my first teacher.”

Ambres smiled.

“You
were your first teacher,” he reminded me.

He walked back to his position in front of the roomful of extras. Now everyone knew of my sleep problems and a past-life conflict with my parents. But, as I had learned years ago, in spiritual circles hardly anyone ever abuses the privilege of knowing more about another individual than even they themselves know.

The room quieted down again. Butler yelled, “Roll ’em,” and Ambres continued his spiritual teaching according to script until the scene ended. Sturé took a seat in his chair and Ambres blessed the group and left the body of Sturé. Sturé’s right arm began vibrating again, signaling Ambres’ exit. Sturé returned to consciousness and walked over to me and said his scripted line.

“I hope you learned something tonight,” he said. “I must rest now. There is another group coming later.”

I thanked him, delivered my final line of astonishment, and Butler yelled, “Cut.”

Everyone began milling about. I went over to David, the soundman.

“What was going on with your instruments during the session?” I asked.

David looked shocked.

“Well, I don’t understand it,” he began. “All my wavelength frequencies fluctuated. And my batteries went dead in half the time. Then I couldn’t believe it, but I picked up Radio Moscow in my earphones! This was weird.”

I shrugged. I remembered that McPherson had predicted there would be unusual activity when we shot the scene with Ambres.

“I don’t know, David,” I said. “I’m just learning about the effect on electromagnetic frequencies myself. I never have been very good with technological phenomena.”

David motioned to me to lean down.

“You know,” he said, “I know you’re going to pick up your American crew for the rest of the shoot, but I want you to know that more than anything I would like to be going on to Peru with you. I feel there is so much I have to learn from this material, but maybe I should be generous and wish the man who’s taking my place a good learning experience too. There’s room for all of us, isn’t there?”

“Thanks, David,” I said. “I’ll let you know how it all goes. I think it’s going to be a lesson for each of us according to what we need to learn.”

The channeling session over, we gathered up our props and belongings. The crew began to break down the set. We were tired and very hungry. I stood for a moment surveying the room for one last time. I heard a banging-clanking noise outside.

“What’s that?” I asked a crew member.

“It’s Alex de Grunwald,” he answered. “He’s groveling in the garbage cans for lunch for the crew tomorrow, except that we’re going to be shooting with a
skeleton
crew.”

Everybody laughed. Alex appeared smiling and mischievous in the doorway.

“Thank you, everybody,” he said, and then he announced, “I’m writing a new book called
How to Work on No Food, or Sweden on One Cent a Day.
I’d be happy to personally autograph it for whoever would like a memento of our time together.”

The crew threw their hats at him.

That was the thing about the English. They were able to create humor out of just about anything, particularly after having been visited by an entity from another world.

Later on that night we were told that at the exact time we were shooting, the regular programming for all the radios in Northern Sweden, in homes and in cars,
had been interrupted by the presentation of a strange spiritual sort of teaching session delivered by someone who was referred to as “Ambres.” No one knew who or what it was exactly.

Chapter 10

   T
he last night in Sweden I walked in the newly falling snow, thinking about the drama and theatricality of life. I walked in the park where Gerry and I had fed the animals. I stood under the tree where Gerry had cried that he couldn’t reconcile me with the rest of his life—while his wife waited in a hotel room. The snow fell as a silent testament to the timelessness of the human drama. We were playing our roles as though our lives depended on the performance. And indeed it was true.

I thought of my mother and father. They had had eighty-two years apiece of their drama, fifty-five of them together. On reflection that seemed overdone and outrageous to me. How could any two people stay together, inseparably, for fifty-five years? What kind of promise to oneself did that take? It had been a polarity dance of refined and colorful extremes, the likes of which I could not imagine for myself. They were hopelessly and profoundly committed to the dramatic comedy of playing opposite each other. Everyone else in their lives was simply a character on their stage.