Friday 29 August 2014

Fletcher Prouty and the Origin of Oil




Letter of the Month - July 1999 



The Origins of Oil and Petroleum

-- -- -- -- --
Date: Mon, 29 Jul 1996 17:54:57 PDT
From: "Daniel E. Reynolds"
Subject: Oil - A REWEWABLE and ABIOTIC FUEL?



On June 20th, 1996 Col. Prouty stated...
"Oil is often called a 'fossil' fuel; the idea being that it comes from formerly living organisms. This may have been plausible back when oil wells were drilled into the fossil layers of the earth's crust; but today, great quantities of oil are found in deeper wells that are found below the level of any fossils. How could then oil have come from fossils, or decomposed former living matter, if it exists in rock formations far below layers of fossils - the evidence of formerly living organisms? It must not come from living matter at all!"


Two days after I read his statement I encountered the following statement in a newspaper I deeply respect:

"Any geologist will tell you, well, most geologists will tell you that OIL IS CREATED BY THE MAGMA OF THE EARTH. The oil wells in Pennsylvania that were pumped out dry at the turn of the century and capped are now filled with oil again."

Say what?

-------------------------------------------------

I would be honored if Col Prouty could provide me with just a few additional leads to MORE DOCUMENTATION BACKING UP HIS ASSERTION. A search of the US libraries (via computer) has turned up the name of Professor Thomas Gold who wrote a book entitled:

"Power from the Earth".

I tried to contact Marc J. Defant, a Volcanologist who teaches at the University of Southern Florida, but he is in Russia -- probably drilling for OIL PRODUCED BY MAGMA!!!

Professor Gold's book has been requested via interlibrary loan.

I certainly believe Col Prouty is telling the truth -- as he knows it -- personally! Well, I seek the TRUTH -- and when I find it -- I teach it to all who desire to hear it -- as best I can.

Thank you for taking time to read my request. If, Col Prouty can find the time to read it too -- and he chooses to share additional information with me -- I shall be most grateful.

Sincerely,

Daniel E. Reynolds July 29, 1996

-- -- -- -- -- - -- --

Here is Col. Prouty's response.

-- -- -- --

Date: Wed, 31 Jul 1996 21:16:04 -0400 From: Col. L. Fletcher Prouty To: len_osanic@mindlink.bc.ca Subject: RE: Reynolds letter

This response is for Daniel E. Reynolds, 29 July 1996 on the subject of "Oil - A renewable and abiotic Fuel?"

Dan, your use of the word "abiotic" is good. As a non-fossil fuel, petroleum has no living antecedent. It contains chemical elements found in living matter; but it is not "formerly living matter." There has not been enough true "formerly living matter"through all of creation to account for the volume of petroleumthat has been consumed to date.

My background in this subject goes back to 1943. I was the pilot who flew a U.S. Geological Survey Team from Casablanca to Dhahran, Saudi Arabia. We met the Cal. Standard Oil team holding down that lease. Then we went back to Cairo to meet President Roosevelt during the Nov. 1943 "Cairo Conference" with Churchill and Chiang Kai Shek. FDR ordered the immediate construction of an oil refinery there for WW II use. This led to ARAMCO.

During the "Energy Crisis" of the 1970's I was detailed to represent the U.S. Railroad industry as a member of the "Federal Staff Energy Seminar" program started by the Center for Strategic and International Studies, sponsored by Georgetown University. That began in Jan 1974 and continued for four years. It was designed to discuss "the working of the United States national energy system, and new horizons of energy research." Among the regular attendees were such men as Henry Kissinger and James Schlesinger...most valuable meetings.

During one meeting we took a "Buffet Break" and I was seated with Arthur Kantrowitz of the AVCO Company..."Kantrowitz Labs" nearBoston. At the table with us were four young geologists busily talking about Petroleum. At one point one of them made reference to "Petroleum as organic matter, and a fossil fuel." Right out of the Rockefeller bible.

Kantrowitz turned to the geologist beside him and asked, "Do you really believe that petroleum is a fossil fuel?" The man said,"Certainly" and all four of them joined in. Kantrowitz listened quietly and then said, "The deepest fossil ever found has been at about 16,000 feet below sea level; yet we are getting oil from wells drilled to 30,000 and more. How could fossil fuel get down there? If it was once living matter, it had to be on the surface. If it did turn into petroleum, at or near the surface,how could it ever get to such depths? What is heavier Oil or Water?" Water: so it would go down, not oil. Oil would be on top, if it were "organic" and "lighter."

"Oil is neither."

They all agreed water was heavier, and therefore if there was some crack or other open area for this "Organic matter" to go deep into the magma of Earth, water would have to go first and oil would be left nearer the surface. This is reasonable. Even if we do agree that "magma" is a "crude mixture of minerals or organic matters, in a thin pasty state" this does not make it petroleum, and if it were petroleum it would have stayed near the surface as heavier items, i.e. water seeped below.

My D. Van Nostrand "Scientific Encyclopedia" says "Magma is the term for molten material. A natural, complex, liquid, high temperature, silicate solution ancestral to all igneous rocks,both intrusive and effusive. The origin of Magma is not known." My "Oxford English Dictionary" does not even have the word "Magma."

Some years ago I wrote two or three pages that appeared in theMcGraw Hill Yearbook of Science and Technology, i.e. "Railroad Engineering." Even that source is a bit uncertain about the"origin of petroleum" to wit:

"Less than 1% of the organic matter that originates in or is transported to the marine environment is eventually incorporated into ocean sediment," and

"Most petroleum is formed during catagenesis (undefined anywhere). If sufficient organic matter is present oceanic sediments that undergo this process are potential petroleum sources. Deeply buried marine organic matter yields mainly oil, whereas land plant material yields mainly gas." (Their idea of "deeply buried" is the "out.")

All this leaves us no where. I still go with Kantrowitz. Since oil is lighter than water, everywhere on Earth, there is no way that petroleum could be an organic, fossil fuel that is created on or near the surface, and penetrate Earth ahead of water. Oil must originate far below and gradually work its way up into well-depth areas accessable to surface drilling. It comes from far below. Therefore, petroleum is not a "Fossil" fuel with a surface or near surface origin.

It was made to be thought a "Fossil" fuel by the Nineteenth oil producers to create the concept that it was of limited supply and therefore extremely valuable. This fits with the "Depletion"allowance philosophical scam.

During one of our C.S.I.S. "International Nights" (1978) the Common Market Energy boss, M. Montibrial of France, told us that while petroleum was being marketed then for $20.00 per barrel or more, it cost no more than 25 cents per barrel at the well-head. There is our petroleum problem! We were paying more than $1.50-$1.60 per gallon, one 42nd of a barrel, at that time. Interested folks need to learn more about the Chartered Institute of Transport, and not waste their time with OPEC, the "Cover" story.

Those who pumped the Pennsylvania wells "dry" during the late eighteen hundreds saved what they had for those better days.

L. Fletcher Prouty

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- FOLLOW-UP-LETTER-- -- -- --

Subject: FACTS, FACTS, and MORE FACTS! To: Col Prouty 
Priority: Normal

Dear Len (and Col Prouty)

Stimulated by Col Prouty's assertion that OIL IS A NON-FOSSIL FUEL -- I put my roadster in high gear -- and went prospecting for some SOLID support! Well, I'm hear to tell you both, I DO BELIEVE I've FOUND IT - in spades!

Item #1: A MAGNIFICENT BOOK!!!!

TITLE: Power from the Earth Deep Earth Gas -- Energy for the Future by Thomas Gold [J.M. Dent & Sons, Ltd, London, 1987] ISBN 0-460-04462-1

May I quote a few lines from from the front cover of the book ... a few words ... on

JUST WHO THIS GUY THOMAS GOLD AND WHAT HE HAS TO SAY ON THIS SUBJECT!

"Professor Thomas Gold is one of the great scientific thinkers of our time and in Power from the Earth he puts forward a highly revolutionary and controversial theory.

According to Gold, there are within the Earth virtually limitless stores of energy in the form of gas and oil as yet untapped. This energy is of non-biological origin and there is far more of it in the Earth than geologists have ever imagined -- and IT IS ACCESSIBLE!

--- Score 1 for Col Prouty!

At a time when the future supply of traditional fossil fuels is said to be seriously limited and nuclear energy is becoming ever more suspect, Gold's theory has vast implications for the future of the Earth's energy supplies and is crucial to our understanding of the deep processes that cause earthquakes and volcanoes. His view also clearly has far reaching consequences for the economic and political shape of the world.

--- Score 2 for Col Prouty!

In the past Professor Gold has explained the nature of pulsars and solar flares, proved that the Earth's poles change position over time, made new discoveries about the workings of the human inner ear, and was the only scientist to predict that Moon's surface consists of dust. His new theory has already been grabbing the attention of the international press and a drilling operation has been started in Sweden on the basis of his idea.

In Power from the Earth Professor Gold puts forward one of the most important scientific ideas of our age."

--- Well, having read the book, I can say I certainly concur with THAT OPINION. And guess what -- Dr. Gold is a friend of Arthur K. of AVCO LABS, etc....! BULLSEYE!

--- Score 3 for Col Prouty!

WHO IS THIS MAN....well listen up...

"Professor Thomas Gold, FRS, was born in Austria and educated in Switzerland and England, where he became famous as an astronomer at Cambridge in the post-war years. In 1956 he moved to the United States to become a professor at Harvard. He later became Professor of Astronomy at Cornell University, where he founded and directed the world-famous Center for Radiophysics and Space Research. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society and of the United States National Academy of Sciences, and in 1985 was awarded the Gold Medal by the Royal Astronomical Scoiety. He now lives in Cambridge, England and is an Honorary Fellow of Trinity College."

Not bad. Not bad at all.

In fact, I'm honored to have made his acquaintance.

---- Score 4 for Col Prouty

& a Hearty THANK YOU TO DR. GOLD.

They say -- he coined the term magnetosphere in '59! I wonder what HE THINKS is causing those black outs out West??? Falling tree limbs? Now THAT's an interesting hypothesis! Maybe a bird took out the TWA? Hey, it's just a theory, just a theory...
-----------------

Ok ... now ... I hear some one murmuring

... "Well, if his Ideas are so good, so right, so profound -- SURELY THEY'VE MADE THE SCIENTIFIC LITERATURE ...REFEREED JOURNAL ARTICLES ... you know ... and all that. I mean ... if it's REEEEEEAL SCIENCE surely it's been recognized around the world!"

As a matter of fact, it has!

My I introduce you both (if you have not been so introduced prior to this letter) to the work and writings of P.N. Kropotkin...
Ref: Kropotkin, P. N. (1985) Degassing of the Earth and the Origin of Hydrocarbons, published in the International Geology Review, 27, 1261-1275

P.N. Kroptkin -- who is with the Geological Institute of the USSR Academy of Sciences, Moscow, it says in the header "has long been a leading proponent of the INORGANIC ORIGIN OF PETROLEUM, a THEORY which has had a continuous tradition of support in Russia and the Soviet Union and a recent revival in the United States and Western Europe."

Oh, well, better late than never!
------------------------------------------------------------
THIS PAPER IS LOADED WITH FACTS! Anyone who thinks that Col Prouty or Dr. Gold are spinning some kind of yarn ... HAD BEST READ IT -- ASAP. WE ARE BEING OFFERED AN IMMORTAL SYMPHONY BY THESE MEN -- and I for one LOVE the Sound of THIS MUSIC!

May I share just one quote from the work of P.N. Kroptkin... from page 1265 ... just one of many many AWESOME FACTS IN THIS SCIENTIFIC DOCUMENT...

"Commerical oil pools in the basement rocks have been recorded in 267 oil and gas deposits on different continents. In some, oil is present at a depth of several hundred meters from its surface; in the USSR, such pools are known in a number of areas. A detailed analysis of the geological environment suggests that in some of these deposits, OIL COULD NOT HAVE ENTERED THE POOLS FROM THE OIL-BEARING STRATA OF THE SEDIMENTARY COVER AND, CONSEQUENTLY, PENETRATED FROM BELOW ALONG FAULTS.

---Score a HOME RUN for Col Prouty and Dr. Gold!!!!

Such is the Borolla deposit with pools in the Precambrian granites of the Shillong plateau (eastern India), the Peace River deposit in Western Canada associated with faults in the basin of the Athabasca River which border the zone of the pericratonic tough of the Canadian Shied, and the giganitc deposits of the Hugoton-Panhandle region of the USA and the Augila-Nafoora-Amal deposit in Libya. In the Hugoton-Panhandle deposit, the upper Paleozoic sediments and the basement rocks contain, in addition to oil, 2000 billion m^3 of fuel gases and 10 billion m^3 of helium and its concentration in such vast amounts over a small area may be explained, as earlier noted by V. I. Vernadskiy, solely by the migration of gas from a great depth, where faults drain huge volumes of rocks of the lithosphere."
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May I make a simple REQUEST TO COL PROUTY...

Sir. Please continue to provide YOUR PROVOCATIVE MATERIAL...and OFFER US THE FACTS, as YOU KNOW THEM. Those of us out in this media-blitzed wilderness LOVE TO DO RESEARCH. WE WILL EFFORT to track down the details and WE WILL DO OUR PART but KNOW WE NEED GUIDANCE and we beg you to continue to shine YOUR VERY BRIGHT AND WISDOM FILLED LIGHT on the ROAD A AHEAD FOR US, OFFERING JUST A LITTLE DIRECTION, NOW AND THEN! We are OVER-UNITY 'MACHINES' ... and WE SHALL NOT FAIL YOU!

THANK YOU.

My very BEST to you both of you & Len!

SALU.

Daniel Reynolds Joyously Walking the grounds on which the Wright Brothers grew to fame, and VERY HAPPLY to be able to say so -- this day!


Petroleum Disscussion Update for March 1997
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FOSSIL-FUEL THEORY DEBUNKED: OIL, GAS DEPOSITS CALLED PRIMORDIAL by Toldedo Blade

SEATTLE - The public's most widely known piece of geological knowledge--how petroleum and natual-gas deposts formed on Earth---is false, a noted scientist says. Surprisingly, his campaign to rewrite school textbooks and encyclopedias is getting grudging support from some geologists, who acknowledge that petroleum's origins may be dramatically different than what people believe.

Millions of Americans learned in grade school that oil deposits originated in the age of dinosaurs, when vegetation in lush forests was buried and subjected to high heat and pressure. Those extreme conditions supposedly transformed the hydrocarbons in vegetation into the hydrocarbons of petroleum.

"That's nonsense," snapped Thomas Gold, a scientist at Cornell University. "There's not a shred of evidence from chemistry, geology, or any other science to support it. It has no place in textbooks and school classrooms."

In appearances at the annual meeting of The American Association for the Advancement of Science in Seattle here that ended Thursday, Gold repeatedly challenged geologists to reconsider and reject the conventional theory.

Gold also presented evidence that oil and gas deposits on Earth are primordial. That means they came with the planet. They were part of the original raw material that formed the sun and planets, and deposited deep below Earth's surface when the planet formed 4.5 billion years ago.

Some of the oil gradually oozes upward from these original deposits 100 to 200 miles below the surface and collects where oil drillers can reach it.

In one presentation, Gold described shafts that he and associates drilled in an ancient meteorite impact crater in Sweden. They drilled into a kind of rock that was not sedimentary, not associated with the sediments believed to produce oil deposits.

At a depth of about 4 miles, they encluntered a hydrocarbon oil similar to light petroleum that Gold believes was primordial oil. He noted a variety of evidence to support the belief. Gold estimated that this single site contained "more petroleum than all of Saudi Arabia." With current technology, however, pumping it out would be impossible, he added. Gold contended that many other planets and planetary bodies in the solar system have similar deep deposits of hydrocarbons, which are the stuff of oil and natural gas. Gold argues that a primordial origin for petroleum is the only way to explain its chemical composition.

Petroleum originating from plant matter decayed by bacteria, similar to bacteria that decay backyard garden-compost piles, would resemble a microbial product. Instead, petroleum is chemically similar to a pure hydrocarbon that has been contaminated with microbial material. That contamination, he argues, occurred as petroleum seeped upward through rock now known to contain enormous amounts of bacterial life. In moving upward, petroleum also collected helium, explaining why oil wells are such a rich source of helium.

"This is the only possible explanation," Gold said. "The association of helium with petroleum has not been accounted for in any other way."

How do geologists respond?

They're beginning to listen, according to Michael Carr, who appeared on a panel where Gold presented his theory. Carr is a scientist with the U.S. Geological Survey in Reston, Va. "Dr. Gold has some very, very good evidence, especially that involving helium," Carr said. "He certainly is challenging the geological community. There is a debate within the gological community." Carr said geologists plan to reconsider the conventional theory about petroleum formation at a major meting later in the year.
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Once again, Prouty's assertions are backed by solid, credible people, and the next time Warren Commission apologists pooh-pooh Prouty, citing Prouty's "obviously ridiculous" views on petrol, just refer them to the above article. 



Sustainable oil?May 25, 2004
By Chris Bennett
© 2004 WorldNetDaily.com

About 80 miles off of the coast of Louisiana lies a mostly submerged mountain, the top of which is known as Eugene Island. The portion underwater is an eerie-looking, sloping tower jutting up from the depths of the Gulf of Mexico, with deep fissures and perpendicular faults which spontaneously spew natural gas. A significant reservoir of crude oil was discovered nearby in the late '60s, and by 1970, a platform named Eugene 330 was busily producing about 15,000 barrels a day of high-quality crude oil.
By the late '80s, the platform's production had slipped to less than 4,000 barrels per day, and was considered pumped out. Done. Suddenly, in 1990, production soared back to 15,000 barrels a day, and the reserves which had been estimated at 60 million barrels in the '70s, were recalculated at 400 million barrels. Interestingly, the measured geological age of the new oil was quantifiably different than the oil pumped in the '70s.
Analysis of seismic recordings revealed the presence of a "deep fault" at the base of the Eugene Island reservoir which was gushing up a river of oil from some deeper and previously unknown source.
Similar results were seen at other Gulf of Mexico oil wells. Similar results were found in the Cook Inlet oil fields in Alaska. Similar results were found in oil fields in Uzbekistan. Similarly in the Middle East, where oil exploration and extraction have been underway for at least the last 20 years, known reserves have doubled. Currently there are somewhere in the neighborhood of 680 billion barrels of Middle East reserve oil.
Creating that much oil would take a big pile of dead dinosaurs and fermenting prehistoric plants. Could there be another source for crude oil?
An intriguing theory now permeating oil company research staffs suggests that crude oil may actually be a natural inorganic product, not a stepchild of unfathomable time and organic degradation. The theory suggests there may be huge, yet-to-be-discovered reserves of oil at depths that dwarf current world estimates.
The theory is simple: Crude oil forms as a natural inorganic process which occurs between the mantle and the crust, somewhere between 5 and 20 miles deep. The proposed mechanism is as follows:
  • Methane (CH4) is a common molecule found in quantity throughout our solar system – huge concentrations exist at great depth in the Earth.
  • At the mantle-crust interface, roughly 20,000 feet beneath the surface, rapidly rising streams of compressed methane-based gasses hit pockets of high temperature causing the condensation of heavier hydrocarbons. The product of this condensation is commonly known as crude oil.
  • Some compressed methane-based gasses migrate into pockets and reservoirs we extract as "natural gas."
  • In the geologically "cooler," more tectonically stable regions around the globe, the crude oil pools into reservoirs.
  • In the "hotter," more volcanic and tectonically active areas, the oil and natural gas continue to condense and eventually to oxidize, producing carbon dioxide and steam, which exits from active volcanoes.
  • Periodically, depending on variations of geology and Earth movement, oil seeps to the surface in quantity, creating the vast oil-sand deposits of Canada and Venezuela, or the continual seeps found beneath the Gulf of Mexico and Uzbekistan.
  • Periodically, depending on variations of geology, the vast, deep pools of oil break free and replenish existing known reserves of oil.
There are a number of observations across the oil-producing regions of the globe that support this theory, and the list of proponents begins with Mendelev (who created the periodic table of elements) and includes Dr.Thomas Gold (founding director of Cornell University Center for Radiophysics and Space Research) and Dr. J.F. Kenney of Gas Resources Corporations, Houston, Texas.
In his 1999 book, "The Deep Hot Biosphere," Dr. Gold presents compelling evidence for inorganic oil formation. He notes that geologic structures where oil is found all correspond to "deep earth" formations, not the haphazard depositions we find with sedimentary rock, associated fossils or even current surface life.
He also notes that oil extracted from varying depths from the same oil field have the same chemistry – oil chemistry does not vary as fossils vary with increasing depth. Also interesting is the fact that oil is found in huge quantities among geographic formations where assays of prehistoric life are not sufficient to produce the existing reservoirs of oil. Where then did it come from?
Another interesting fact is that every oil field throughout the world has outgassing helium. Helium is so often present in oil fields that helium detectors are used as oil-prospecting tools. Helium is an inert gas known to be a fundamental product of the radiological decay or uranium and thorium, identified in quantity at great depths below the surface of the earth, 200 and more miles below. It is not found in meaningful quantities in areas that are not producing methane, oil or natural gas. It is not a member of the dozen or so common elements associated with life. It is found throughout the solar system as a thoroughly inorganic product.
Even more intriguing is evidence that several oil reservoirs around the globe are refilling themselves, such as the Eugene Island reservoir – not from the sides, as would be expected from cocurrent organic reservoirs, but from the bottom up.
Dr. Gold strongly believes that oil is a "renewable, primordial soup continually manufactured by the Earth under ultrahot conditions and tremendous pressures. As this substance migrates toward the surface, it is attached by bacteria, making it appear to have an organic origin dating back to the dinosaurs."
Smaller oil companies and innovative teams are using this theory to justify deep oil drilling in Alaska and the Gulf of Mexico, among other locations, with some success. Dr. Kenney is on record predicting that parts of Siberia contain a deep reservoir of oil equal to or exceeding that already discovered in the Middle East.
Could this be true?
In August 2002, in the "Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (US)," Dr. Kenney published a paper, which had a partial title of "The genesis of hydrocarbons and the origin of petroleum." Dr. Kenney and three Russian coauthors conclude:
The Hydrogen-Carbon system does not spontaneously evolve hydrocarbons at pressures less than 30 Kbar, even in the most favorable environment. The H-C system evolves hydrocarbons under pressures found in the mantle of the Earth and at temperatures consistent with that environment.
He was quoted as stating that "competent physicists, chemists, chemical engineers and men knowledgeable of thermodynamics have known that natural petroleum does not evolve from biological materials since the last quarter of the 19th century."
Deeply entrenched in our culture is the belief that at some point in the relatively near future we will see the last working pump on the last functioning oil well screech and rattle, and that will be that. The end of the Age of Oil. And unless we find another source of cheap energy, the world will rapidly become a much darker and dangerous place.
If Dr. Gold and Dr. Kenney are correct, this "the end of the world as we know it" scenario simply won't happen. Think about it ... while not inexhaustible, deep Earth reserves of inorganic crude oil and commercially feasible extraction would provide the world with generations of low-cost fuel. Dr. Gold has been quoted saying that current worldwide reserves of crude oil could be off by a factor of over 100.
A Hedberg Conference, sponsored by the American Association of Petroleum Geologists, was scheduled to discuss and publicly debate this issue. Papers were solicited from interested academics and professionals. The conference was scheduled to begin June 9, 2003, but was canceled at the last minute. A new date has yet to be set.

Related links:
Gas Origin Theories To Be Studied
The Mystery Of Eugene Island 330
Odd Reservoir Off Louisiana Prods Oil Experts To Seek A Deeper Meaning
Fuel's Paradise

Chris Bennett manages an environmental engineering division for a West Coast technology firm. He and his wife of 26 years make their home on the San Francisco Bay.
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Thursday 28 August 2014

Why Me? - by Jodie Foster

Jodie Foster is a member of the Manuscript Society, a senior secret society at Yale University in New Haven, Connecticut. 

Toward the end of each junior year, 16 undergraduates are "tapped" to be inducted into the society, which meets twice weekly for dinner and discussion (once per week with undergraduates only, once with alumni, honorary members and invited guests). 

Undergraduates are selected for their strength in academics, extracurricular activities, character and commitment to truth.

Manuscript is known for having the best of the intellectual and artistic undergraduates among its members and calls itself an "Arts and Letters" society.

It holds the number 344 to be sacred.

Possible explanations of this include the fact that this was the date that the Greek philosopher and scientist, Aristotle, travelled from Assus to Lesbos to study natural history and marine biology. 
[This is almost certainly NOT True]

The Society supposedly holds Enlightenment ideals, and the sun and sunflowers are both important symbols to members. The society also retained close connections with the campus literary society Chi Delta Theta in the early 1950s.

The society holds an annual gathering in its tomb on Halloween. A Manuscript event is described in the novel Joe College by Tom Perrotta.



An inverted/negative portrait of the Manuscript Tomb with its hidden insignia exposed.



Why Me?[ Jodie Foster | Esquire Magazine | 1982 December ] 



My brothers and sisters called me Load because of the extraordinary capacity of my diapers. Apart from that fact and a few distinguishing details here and there, my vision of myself was pretty average. Not average so-so; just average...bacon and eggs, Volkswagens, southern California sun. Sometimes, though, I look back at my life, at the way it has slowly assumed shape and color, at the places I've seen and the flickers of people I've met, and wonder, Why? Why Me? Why, when the lists were made and the heads counted, was I always chosen? Why did I always find the chocolate basket on Easter morning? Mostly the applause felt good; damn wonderful, even. 

To this day I still redden and warm when someone compliments my work or asks me for a date. We all need huge amounts of love, some more than others. But there are times now when a very small child creeps up within me and desperately moans, "Why?" This is the "why" of the romantic, the idealist, the vulnerable, the pure. This is the "why" of the struggling woman-child scribbling down explanations, sensations, incantations in the night. This is the "why" of poetry, when a phrase bursts through and pierces my control. A balloon slowly deflates over a calm pasture. This is the "why" they never saw, they never see, they never will see. This is my "why," my final and ultimate cry. This one's for me. 

My summer of 1980 was spent in anticipation of what I was "going to be,"how I was going to walk into the framework of the Ivy League. I bought a good deal of Lacoste clothing, pumped my three-pound dumbbells each morning, played tennis in the afternoon. I wanted to be the kind of girl who's friendly, well-liked, social. To a point, you could say that that's anonymity -- the need to be wholly accepted as an equal and yet respected for the product of your efforts. Maybe I as kidding myself. Maybe I was trying to escape from what I felt was an undeserved image. In any case, I found myself, backpack in hand, playing "Muffin" in a world I knew nothing about. I'd never been to a happy hour, a lacrosse game, a cottage on the Vineyard. For years Ihad been growing paler watching double features with my mom, then eating Chinese food from paper cartons. I knew everything there was to know about distribution profits and how to handle meetings at the Polo Lounge. It wasn't that I'd lost mychildhood or become jaded; I just didn't have a clue as to how it felt to be out of control, completely lost, without prior experience. Yet there I was, never having stayed anywhere for more than three months, never having had to cultivate friendships with people my own age. I had but one childhood friend, Clara Lisa. She was a mover too -- to Paris, to Tahiti, to God knows where. Whenever we could, we'd meet places, giggle, and jump on beds. 

Yale was different from any of this. I wanted to be approved of. I attended every freshman event, every college game to make them feel that I was okay, normal, just like they were. But as the weeks went by I realized I really wasn't. I had a job to go back to, lawyers to call, photographers to pose for. It wasn't until at least two years later that I realized it was okay to be different. Better, even. Being understood is not the most essential thing in life. 

As I became less and less afraid of new experiences, my personality changed. I took on a screw-the-world dress code. I hung out with people I thought were unique, nonconformist, substantially complex. They were the kind you'd pass on the way to the commons and say, "That person' s interesting . I want to get to know him." I had my first and last bout with tequila. I did ska dances in the street, water-ballooned singing groups, philosophized and talked dirty until five in the morning. The control I'd had all those years was self-imposed and alienating. Now I was able to make mistakes. In the beginning of school I had tried desperately to be five foot four. Now I was five foot four. I was elated. 

It was around this time I started questioning my career. I was passionate about school. I wanted to be at Yale forever, holding people, writing down literary revelations, reading from tales of men long dead, smiling from inside out. The idea of returning to a dressing from in a Winnebago, being called Miss Foster, seemed foreign, unnatural. I didn't want to return those phone calls from home, from agents, from polite employers. All those scribbled messages just meant that I was still dependent, still theirs to scrutinize, to admire. Maybe I was kidding myself. In fact, I'm sure of it. 

I was sitting in the library in March. The first weekend of the play I was doing on campus, Getting Out, had ended. I had five more performances to do. I must have been a sight. My skin had erupted from greasepaint. My clothes were torn and rumpled. I didn't like sleeping anymore. It kept me from other things. My studies never suffered, simply because they were my first priority, the easiest responsibility to fulfill. Academics was a drop in the pond compared with the demands of the social process. The fact that I decided to do a play at Yale still astounds me. Theater scared me to death; I didn't know that first thing about it. But one of my best friends was directing and many of my buddies were in it. I suppose I did it for the wrong reasons. I wanted them to love me. he audience, the actors, my pals. I wanted to be involved in a common experience, something that would melt the already thawing barriers. 

The following hazy Monday afternoon I was skipping hand in hand across campus with my best friend. Someone yelled as we went by, "Hey. Did you hear? Reagan got shot." We continued on. At dinnertime everyone was asking if we'd heard what the President's condition was. Well, my radio had been busted for three months and my friend's was terminally glued to the local reggae station. "Come on. This is college. News can wait." No one seemed to mention Brady or the assailant until late into the evening. I finally sauntered home around ten-thirty. My roommate opened the door before I could get my key in. 

"John," she said. 

"John who?" 

"John Hinkley." 

"What about him? Did he write me again?" 

"He's the one, I think. It was on the radio." 

"Bullshit. You're imaginin things." 

The phone was ringing. I answered it. My dean said, "Don't be upset." He explained that my pictures and address had been found on the arrested man. Ifelt the tears welling up in my eyes. My body started shaking and I knew that I had lost control... maybe for the very first time in my life. I was to meet the FBI in his office as soon as possible. 

"Give me a couple of minutes," I said. I ran to a friend's. I waited for her to get out of the shower as three or four loud boys listened to the news down the hall. They were drinking beer and I carried on with them for a few minutes to prove to myself I could do it. I laughed and made jokes -- like a good little actress. Then my friend closed the door and questioned me with a glance. I started to cry a bit, then my tears turned to laughter. I couldn't stop laughing. It was simply too funny, too incredibly bizarre, too painful. She thought I was going crazy. My laughter was strange and hollow, and I couldn't control it. It was beyond me. My body jerked in painful convulsions. I hurt. I was no longer thinking of the president, of the assailant, of the crime, of the press. I was crying for myself. Me, the unwilling victim. The one who would pay in the end. The one who paid all along -- and, yes, keeps paying. That kind of pain doesn't go away. It's something you never understand, forgive, or forget. It is a pain that can never be healed with a kiss from your mother's lips or a "Sssh, everything's okay." Everything's not okay! It's not. 

But I didn't have the time to feel it then. There were things to be done, secrets to keep. I was supposed to be "tough," like cowboys, like diplomats, like "unaffected actresses" -- not because anyone asked me to but because I wanted to show them (God knows who) that I was strong. I wanted to show them all that Jodie was so uniquely "normal" and "well-adjusted" that nothing could make her fall. I think I believed all this, my subconscious propaganda. But the truth was that in the crunch, when the chips are down, in a time of crisis, you resort to strength you'd never dreamed you owned, like frantic mothers lifting their children from under two-ton trucks. The will to survive is stronger than any emotion in the human system. 

The next afternoon I was rushed to the home of one of the bigwigs in the Yale administration. So these grown-up Yalies -- the men in hornrims and with law degrees -- were called to advise me. But nobody quite knew what to do. These academic wonders were reduced to schoolboys. There was no time for typed speeches and haughty jargon. We had to pick up the pieces, to act. I started making my calls. I talked to lawyers, to the FBI, to DAs, to anyone with some sort of experience in these affairs. They all gave me different advice and none was too sure whom I should speak to. Things were being leaked so fast that the news stations knew more than any of us on the inside. I had to read a local newspaper to learn most of the details. Maybe this is what scared me the most -- the descent of the media. They scooped up headlines and swarmed through the campus like a calvary invasion. I couldn't protect myself from being trampled. 

But I organized my press conference, wrote a statement, all against the will of the officials. I wanted it over with as swiftly as possible. For the press my presence was almost superfluous; it was the story that counted -- the twisted, bizarre headliner. A compromising photo, a brief comment was all they needed. I can't say that I didn't feel exploited by these friendly men and women with Nikons and with mikes clipped to their lapels. Suddenly they were allowed to destroy my established life because it was their "job." Public figures should just expect it that way, I've been told. But the interesting thing is that -- beyond their flashbulbs, note pads, and video cameras -- the reporters were scared, too. Their faces were desperately trying to mask their terror, awe, guilt. When I saw them assembled before me, I knew that these were the faces, the uncomfortable, fascinated eyes, that I would have to meet for the rest of my life. When I saw them waiting silently and solemnly for my statement, I knew I had to play cowboy -- once again. I was Mother and they were to be reassured that nothing could interrupt my flow of life. If they wanted weakness, I wasn't about to give it to them. 

After the details were delivered and the crews went home, it was time to fact the world. Until now, everyone had been kind, sympathetic, availing. My mother would take my hand and say, "Don't worry." The administration assured me that I was not alone and that they were available at a moment's notice. Even the reporters I'd come to know would pat me on the back and say, "Hang in there, kid." But their offerings only stressed the fact that I was completely alone. 

I strapped on my backpack, put on my dirtiest jeans, and headed back to university life. People were pretty good about hiding much trace of interest. Some of my friends wanted to respect my privacy of the moment, some smiled and went their way. But I knew that there were two Jodie Fosters. There was one as large as the screen, a Technicolor vision with flowing blond hair and a self-assured smile. She was the woman they had all been watching. But the second Jodie was a vision only I knew. She was shrouded in bravado and wit and was, underneath, a creature crippled, without self esteem, a frail and alienated being. 

I went to classes, laughed, joked, pulled all the tricks to make everyone feel comfortable. I tried not to admit that I had noticed the change. I was a returning war hero to be paraded. But I didn't want their awe. I didn't want to be a political figure, a victim of society. So I limited myself to a few companions: the boy I loved and my assigned bodyguards. 

With the boy I loved I sat most of the day at the window in the Cross Campus Library. We poked fun at and successfully alienated every person who walked by. We were obnoxious. This boy and I decided, in our self-destructive, eighteen-year-old subconscious, that we needed only each other, that the rest of the population was disappointingly affected by the events of the shooting. Neither of us stopped to think that it was we who were affected. We were both escaping through our intellect, not our emotions. It was I who chad changed, not them. In time I asked myself, Why me? Why not someone like Brooke Shields? The questions made me feel uglier-- and the uglier I felt, the more difficult it was to resolve. 

Six days after the shooting of the President I was onstage for the second and final weekend of my play, Getting Out. The Yale police were sent to guard the auditorium. At my request the audience was frisked for cameras. The cast was instructed that the show must go on...no matter what. It was something I had to do, some damn foolish thing I had to prove to myself. No one could just change my life, my plans, without asking me. No one could keep me down. I'm really not sure whom I was trying to impress or what I was ever doing up there in the first place. I had sworn never to do theater at school. I was going to be anonymous, remember? But it was too late for that. As long as everyone was going to stare, I might was well play the game full out. 

The show went on, with the squeaking walkie-talkies and the general awkwardness of the crowd. It was the best performance I had given. The audience applauded for reasons I am still unsure of. The rest of the cast was shaky. They knew that the people in the seats were laughing at the wrong lines and keeping their eyes conspicuously toward my end of the stage. The crowd wasn't lying, they were simply impressed -- as I had intended them to be. They were in awe. I was embarrassed for them. Why did they clap? Did it really mean anything at all to them? 

The second performance of the play began. Click, click, click, I heard. I could recognize a motor drive on a professional camera better than my own heartbeat. It was coming from center left -- a perfect position for anyone who had the pluck to get past the frisk in time to choose the most advantageous seat in the house. Well, you asked for it, I thought. My most vicious lines of the play were coming up and they were to be directed to this particular spot in the house. I decided that the villain was one of three people. I directed my character's biting insults to all three, until my eyes narrowed to the bearded man in the middle. No, he was not the photographer. His hands were calmly folded and his eyes were fixed. But there was something unnerving about his emotionless stare, something I didn't trust. He became the sole subject of my dialogue's abuse; but he did not flinch -- not once. The next night, again, I heard the click of the motor drive, coming from a different position in the house. The strange man I had noticed the night before was again in the same seat. "In theater," the adage goes, "one is not supposed to glance through the audience, noticing who comes and goes, who sits where." But I only knew movies. So I noticed every light change, every yawning friend, every item of clothing worn by every boy and girl, every bearded gentleman with a ceaseless stare. 

At the third performance, no clicks and no bearded man were to be seen or heard. However, during intermission a note was found on the lobby bulletin board to the effect that "by the time the show is over, Jodie Foster will be dead." Iimagined something was amiss when the security guards were suddenly standing with their backs to the actors, surveying the crowd. The note had proved to be a prank, a devilish trick pulled by some bitter spectator who had found himself frisked by two college jocks at the entrance. It was ten-thirty. I was still alive, no harm done. In fact, I had made a bigger ordeal over a stray photographer: "How did you get in? Who do you work for?" (This was perhaps the beginning of a flash phobia that would follow me throughout the next year.) I found out a few weeks later that he had been let in by the producer of the play. The very same producer who confided to the press that I had a few acting problems that would iron themselves out with a little help. The tactless person who said, "At least the publicity did wonders for the receipts." And, finally, the same producer who -- as the explained with a British affectation he had picked up somewhere -- let the photographer in "because...wahl...thar was simply nawthing I could doo. Sorry, luv." 

A few days after the show closed, a note was delivered under my door --a death threat in the finest sense of the term. I picked it up neatly by the corners and handed it over to the proper officials. My mother, who was leaving on the next plane to Paris, was frantic. She wanted to take me with her, "to stay...to walk to classes with you...anything!" She desperately wanted to protect me. I told her she was only making me nervous and that the rotating bodyguards were more qualified to watch me than she. This was my first life-crisis had I had to show the world that I could take it like a pro. That's what they call you when you make it to the set by five-thirty A.M. and don't complain. 

The next morning I arrived at my English class a bit early Five minutes later my man with the squeaky walkie-talkie told me to stay in the corner of the class until it ended. "He has been apprehended." Ap-pre-hended, I thought. Okay, apprehended. Who? 

His name was Richardson, he was from Pennsylvania, and he had a beard. The police and Secret Service had worked nonstop tracking down the letter writer, found him, followed him to New Haven station, where he had boarded a bus bound for D.C. He was picked up at Port Authority in New York with a loaded gun, hoping to fulfill his threat to shoot the President. I was too pretty to kill, he had said as he was arrested. He saw me in my play and simply couldn't. The bearded man in center left? Ten feet from death? Ten feet from a loaded pistol held by a sick and perhaps "insane" man? Ten feet? I don't care to know for sure. Richardson was released a year later on parole. 

Then it hit me. It felt like a ton of steel dropping from the top of a thirty-story building. Death. So simple, so elementary, so near. Pulling a trigger is as easy as changing the TV channel with remote control. What was I trying to prove by performing a college play three days after one of the most bizarre assassination attempts of our time? Who was I trying to impress? Why was it so important to look death in the eye and hurl victorious insults? Because I was the one who always found the chocolate basket on Easter morning? Because I always wanted to be the best, no matter what, no matter how? 

In the time after Richardson's "ap-pre-hension," a great change came over me, or so I'm told. I started perceiving death in the most mundane but distressing events. Being photographed felt like being shot; it still does. I thought everyone was looking at me in crowds; perhaps they were. Every sick letter I received I made sure to read, to laugh at, to read again. People were punishing me because I was there. They were sending bullets, pulling triggers, exercising the simple law of cause and effect. They were hurting me, intentionally, without any physical contact. They were manifesting a need to wound, and I just happened to be the victim. They could seemingly witness the falling star -- once stalwart and proud -- bend to their aggression. The words, the threats, the accusations were irrelevant. They all wanted me to react, to stop playing cowboy; they wanted to bring me down to their level from the great silver screen. 

I could feel death by alienating and insulting the people I loved or at lease enjoyed. I could feel it by hating myself so much that I hated everyone around me for liking me. I died when I looked at myself in the mirror, the body that no longer slept, the clothes I no longer cared for, the mismatched socks, the tired expression, the reddened eyes, the languid stare. My prior identity -- the actress, the enthusiastic collegiate -- no longer existed. I became suspicious of everyone. I suppose I thought they were al informing for People magazine. There were a few, of course, who were. Maybe that People article of April 20, 1981, was the greatest death of all. An ambitious Yale senior, whom I have never met, submitted a manuscript. People simply couldn't turn down. He offered a scoop: what I was in the habit of wearing, my favorite eating places, my friends, my classes, my dating habits -- the works. And this ambitious Yale senior confirmed what I was dreading -- I had been watched. I was being watched from the first day I set foot on campus. They all noticed the color of my Dolfin shorts on the day of orientation. They had noticed which chair I preferred in the library. Strangers had scrutinized and analyzed me without my permission, even without my knowledge. No, the Hinkley ordeal did not destroy my anonymity; it only destroyed the illusion of it. Every man or woman in this world had the right to stare at, point at, and judge me because... that was my job. That's what I got paid for -- to take my lumps. I can be rejected for physical reality, the audiences's perception of who I am. Consequently, I become the property of my judges or I risk rejection. 

When my freshman year came to an end in May 1981, I packed up m remnants from the "psycho single" I had been assigned -- a single dorm room reserved for emergency security risks -- and returned to L.A. For two weeks I went hiking and stayed at a health farm in the mountains. When I descended the mountain I jumped back to work. Things were essentially "normal." People were afraid of me and for quite some time I made no effort to ease their awkwardness. I just listened and watched. I heard that Martin Scorsese had been phoned by Maureen Reagan, who expressed her condolences. Her condolences! I'd even heard he'd hired a bodyguard -- something I refused to do. When people recognized me in the street they'd say, "So what, this guy write you letters or something?" They'd say "Too bad," or they'd say "Great publicity, kid." It all seemed so hilariously sad at the time. I smiled inside and felt pity for all of them -- all the people who either thought they understood or thought they knew me. I felt sorry and embarrassed for them as they simultaneously felt sorry and embarrassed for me. It was a confusing time for everyone. And if this was show business, I wanted no part of it. I didn't belong there. I didn't belong anywhere -- except Yale, maybe. Maybe. IN any case, I was glad that the shooting had happened while I was at school. Who knows what mistrust and violence I had avoided by removing myself from Hollywood. There's something about a freeway at rush hour and backdrops of ghost towns that make L.A. untrustworthy. It simply isn't a place you'd call familial or safe. If anything, Yale had been safe. 

I went back to school in the fall and found everything back to normal. I started making efforts. I dressed better, I returned phone calls, I kept my room dusted and my toys in place. But by the end of the semester I found myself watching movies every night. I was getting restless. "Just school" wasn't enough. As if by a stroke of fate, a script arrived, one I liked. A Manhattan location. Starring Peter O'Toole, A chance to sing. I was ecstatic...and, for the first time in two years, in love with a project. And Svengali proved a thoroughly fun film. It made me fall in love with acting again. It cured me of most of the insecurities; it healed my wounds. 

More than a year after the day of the shooting I found myself in a Washington, D.C., courtroom waiting to give my deposition. It was all very orderly, very efficient. I brought my briefcase and answered questions with a sobriety and cool that seemed appropriate. No one had told me before I arrived in Washington, of course, that Hinkley would be present. But I played cowboy and got through it all the best way I knew how, thinking this would be the end of it. 

The proceedings went smoothly; there seemed to be very few surprises concerning the case, or so I thought. I went to my hotel room alone, flicked on the Oscars, and watched the lights of Georgetown grow dim before me. And it was that moment, as I watched the suited dolls below my window and the Pan-Caked presenters doling out prizes, that I knew I wasn't the only one playing cowboy. I thought about how every dealing with another human being was an unconscious act of bravado. You blink; I understand that you're thinking. Human relationships are forms of acting, only the players aren't aware of it. Interaction is a form of lying. So how can anyone trust the words "I'm not scared," "I love you," "Go to hell" if they are issued from the mouth of someone who can never be aware of his true feelings, of his underlying motives? Yes, I thought, we are all liars; it's a humancondition. I decided that night that good actors are essentially good liars. I raise my eyebrows, you think I'm sexy. I dart my eyes, you think I'm smart. Actors and nonactors all manipulate. An actor simply has more personalities and techniques to draw on. And more people to manipulate. But the most frightening thing is that when we "turn on" to the camera -- when we insult it, make love to it, comfort it -- we aren't only manipulating a lens and some glass fragments. We're talking to ten, twenty, or perhaps thirty million people. We're manipulating and influencing them all with every careless gesture and gleaming smile. That's art. That's mass media. A man can buy a poster, pin it on his locker, and imagine the most minute details about a slinky starlet. He'll know her through and through. He'll possess her external reality. So of course Hinkley "knew" me. That woman on the screen was digging in her bag of tricks and representing herself for everyone to assess, to get to know, to take home. The most intriguing actors are those who hold back and keep something -- whatever that may be -- for themselves. They are at once tangible and intangible, accessible and inaccessible, readable and mysterious, friends and strangers. And people are both attracted and extremely angered by something they can't quite "have," whether it be a piece of chocolate cake, a multi-million-dollar corporation, or an aloof young actress. I guess you'd call it playing hard to get. I guess that's what actors do. I guess that's why other people often "love" them and sometimes feel obsessed by them. 

Love. Quite a word. I am sorry for people who confuse love with obsession and hurt by those who have inflicted their confusion on me. Love should be sacred. It should be uttered in a soft breath, on misty mornings, in secret hideaways. Love does not exist without reciprocation, hugging that person and feeling the meeting of two minds, two hearts, two souls, two bodies. Obsession is pain and a longing for something that does not exist. John Hinkley's greatest crime was the confusion of love and obsession. The trivialization of love is something I will never forgive him. His ignorance only prods me to say that he's missing a great deal. Love is blissful. Obsession is pitiful, self-indulgent. This is a lesson I've learned. I'll always be wary of people who proclaim their love for me. I know what love is. Do they? I've even been obsessed, which is -- you'll pardon the expression - -insane. But any emotion carried to excess is insanity. Does that make it a legal defense? If so, we all stand acquitted. Why are people so afraid to admit that they have it in them? I could pull a trigger. Am I crazy? 

Now it is all supposedly over. I walk down the streets, go about my business, and don't look to see who's following. I don't look over my shoulder or sweat if I ride the subway. After a period of death-dodging you learn to believe that you've been picked for survival. Someone's not going to let it happen. There have been too many almosts. Still, there are times. I was coming back from the Svengali set one night with tonsillitis and a broken clavicle and in a fit of depression. I'd had to dodge paparazzi by lying on the floor of the company station wagon and I couldn't talk from laryngitis. It had been a bad day. So I stopped off for a coffee before packing myself into bed for a few days. It was six o'clock, rush hour, and the place was mobbed. Suddenly a flash of light blew up four inches from my nose. At four inches ,the photographer was just trying to harass me. The next thing I knew I was running down Eleventh Street, crying and tearing at this down jacket and slugging away. I slipped on the ice, right on my clavicle, and lay in the street sobbing. The photographer laughed and yelled, "I got her! I got her!" I couldn't talk because my throat and body throbbed with pain. I cried all the way home, all the way to my hotel room, all evening and into the night. I couldn't stop. It hurt so much. I hurt so much. The only thing I could whisper through my wrenching sobs was "It's not fair. It's not fair." Some days the anger and pain swell up in my and I can't hold it in any longer. My mother will hold me tightly, my fists clenched around her neck, my tears staining her blouse. She'll say "Sssh. I know. Everything's going to be all right." All I know to say is "It's not fair! It just isn't." 

Someday I will look back and muse upon the curiosities of history: acting and politics all mixed up together. Anything's possible in a world in which media rules all. But for the time being the wounds still ache, the battle goes on. It seems that things calm down just as you think you can't take anymore. Then something else happens, some new event, and I find myself "taking it" once again. A stranger will approach me in the street and say, "Ain't you the girl who shot the President?"



ANGEL NUMBER 344


Number 344 is made up of the attributes and energies of number 3 and number 4, with number 4 appearing twice, amplifying its influences.   Number 3 adds self-expression and communication, optimism and enthusiasm, skills and talents, friendliness and sociability, growth, expansion and the principles of increase.  Number 3 also carries the vibrations of the Ascended Masters. The Ascended Masters help you to focus on the Divine spark within yourself and others, and assist with manifesting your desires. They are helping you to find peace, clarity and love within.  Number 4 resonates with practicality and application, hard work and responsibility, traditional values, honesty and integrity, patience and inner-wisdom, and diligence and determination to achieve goals.  Number 4 also relates to our drive, passion and purpose and resonates with the energies of theArchangels.

Angel Number 344 is a message from your angels that the creativity and joy you have to put into your work and daily life has brought about positive energies, making things run smoothly for you in your life.  Your angels, Archangels and Ascended Masters applaud your efforts and encourage you to continue on your current path.  Know that the work you do is of great value and your determination and persistent efforts havemanifested many blessings in your life.

Angel Number 344 asks that you acknowledge the determination, patience, discipline and hard work you have put into your endeavours in the past, and know that they will have long-term benefits and rewards for yourself and your loved ones.  Take heart that your will and efforts have been well worth your while, and your angels encourage you to keep up the great work you have been doing.

The repeating Angel Number 344 is a message that you are being protected and guided by the angelsArchangels and Ascended Masters.  Give any concerns or worries to the angels for healing and transmutation, and trust that all is well in your world.

Develop a peaceful, loving relationship with yourself.

Number 344 relates to the karmic number 11 (3+4+4=11) and Angel Number 11.



NameYale ClassKnown for
Matthew Bruccoli1953Preeminent expert on F. Scott Fitzgerald[1]
Ted Morgan1954Pulitzer Prize-winning author and journalist[1]
Michael Pertschuk1954Consumer advocate, author and former government official[1]
David Calleo1955Intellectual historian, political economist at Paul H. Nitze School of Advanced International Studies at Johns Hopkins University[1]
Henry Geldzahler1957Art historian and curator[1]
Anthony Lapham1958CIA Lawyer[1]
Stephen F. Williams1958Senior Circuit Judge on the United States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit[1]
Richard Maltby, Jr.1959Tony Award-winning director[1]
Richard Rhodes1959Pulitzer Prize-winning author[1]
H. John Heinz III1960US senator[11]
Dale Purves1960Neuroscientist, Director of the Neuroscience and Behavioural Disorders program at Duke-NUS Graduate Medical School[1]
Robert Glick1962Former director of the Columbia University Center for Psychoanalytic Training and Research[1]
David Gergen1963Presidential Advisor and Political Commentator[1][11][12]
Robert Fiore1964Film producer and co-director of Pumping Iron, a documentary about Arnold Schwarzenegger[1]
Paul Steiger1964Editor-in-Chief of ProPublica, formerly the Managing Editor of the Wall Street Journal[1]
Charles Derber1965Professor of Sociology and social critic[1]
Juan Negrín Fetter1967Director, Wixarika Research Center, founder of the Party of the Left at Yale[1][13]
Richard H. Brodhead19689th President of Duke University[1][11]
Alan Bernheimer1970Poet[1]
Rodger Kamenetz1970Professor and certified dream therapist[1]
Soni Oyekan1970Leading chemical engineer and inventor[1]
Jane Maienschein1972Director of the Center for Biology and Society, at Arizona State University[1]
Eli Whitney Debevoise II1974U.S. Director of the World Bank[1]
Rosanna Warren1976Poet and scholar[1]
Karl Zinsmeister1981Director of the White House Domestic Policy Council underGeorge W. Bush[1]
Byron Kim1983Minimalist artist[1]
Cheryl Henson1984Puppeteer and President of the Jim Henson foundation[1]
Jodie Foster1985Actress[1][11]
Tamar Gendler1987Professor, chair of the Yale University Department of Philosophy[1]
Scott Peterson1988Author and journalist, Moscow bureau chief for the Christian Science Monitor[1]
Jen Banbury1989Playwright, author of novel Like a Hole in the Head and journalist[11]
Anderson Cooper1989News Anchor[11][12][14]
Jonathan Zittrain1991Professor of Internet Law at Harvard University[1][11]
Noah Bookbinder1995Professor of Law at George Washington University, chief counsel for Sen. Patrick Leahy[1][15]
James Prosek1997Author and naturalist[1][16]
Maia Brewton1998Child actress and lawyer[1]
Elisabeth Waterston1999Actor[1][17]
Brooke Lyons2003Actor[11]
Zoe Kazan2005Actor and playwright[11]
Josef AlbersHon.Artist[1]
Cleanth BrooksHon.Literary Critic[1]
Robert A. DahlHon.Professor of Political Science at Yale University, considered the "Dean" of political science[1]
Vincent GiroudHon.Historian of French Opera[1][18]
Gary HallerHon.Professor of Chemistry at Yale University and Master ofJonathan Edwards College[1]
Cyrus HamlinHon.Literary critic and longtime Yale professor[1]
E. D. Hirsch, Jr.Hon.Literary critic and proponent of Cultural literacy[1]
Patrick McCaugheyHon.Former director of the Yale Center for British Art[1]
Ved MehtaHon.Author and advocate for the blind[1]
Wallace NotesteinHon.Sterling Professor of English history at Yale[1]
Richard RephannHon.Former director of the Yale University Collection of Musical Instruments[1]
Duncan RobinsonHon.Master of Magdalene CollegeCambridge, Chairman of theHenry Moore Foundation and Director of the Fitzwilliam Museum[1]
William Kelly SimpsonHon.Art historian and Master of Timothy Dwight College[1]
Richard SelzerHon.Surgeon, author and professor of surgery at Yale[1]
Steven SmithHon.Political Scientist and Master of Branford College[1]
Robert Farris ThompsonHon.Art historian and Master of Timothy Dwight College[1]



TESTS SET FOR MAN CHARGED IN THREAT


A Federal judge yesterday ordered a psychiatric examination for the 22-year-old unemployed man who was charged in Manhattan Tuesday with threatening to kill President Reagan. Other authorities said the man had indicated he was motivated to commit violence by a ''prophetic dream.''

The accused man, Edward M. Richardson of Drexel Hill, Pa., told of the dream in a letter that was delivered to Jodie Foster, the actress, at Yale University last Monday, Federal law enforcement officials said.

In the letter, Mr. Richardson indicated that in the dream he had received instructions to kill the President from John W. Hinckley Jr., the 25-year-old man who has been charged with attempting to assassinate Mr. Reagan in Washington on March 30.

''I will finish what Hinckley started,'' the letter said in part, according to the law enforcement officials. 'A Wave of Assassins'

''RR must die,'' the letter continued. ''He (JWH) has told me so in a prophetic dream. Sadly though, your death is also required. You will suffer the same fate as Reagan and others in his fascist regime. You cannot escape. We are a wave of assassins throughout the world.''

A number of parallels between Mr. Richardson and Mr. Hinckley have emerged. Both had apparently been captivated by the 18-year-old Miss Foster, the star of such films as ''Taxi Driver'' and ''Carny.'' Both stayed briefly at the Park Plaza Hotel in New Haven and sent letters to Miss Foster. Both had recently lived in Lakewood, Colo., just outside Denver. Both had been unable to find work and appeared to have been drifting around the country with little purpose in the weeks before they allegedly took action against the President.

But Federal authorities reiterated yesterday that they had found no evidence that the two men had ever met. Furthermore, the authorities said that Secret Service agents administered a polygraph, or lie detector, test to Mr. Richardson, which indicated he had no connection with Mr. Hinckley.

The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms in Washington said yesterday afternoon it still had been unable to learn where Mr. Richardson obtained the gun he was carrying when he was arrested. Gun Sold March 20

But in an interview, Paul Eichenberg, a gunsmith at the Llanerch Gun Shop in Drexel Hill, two miles from the modest white house where Mr. Richardson lived with his parents, said that Mr. Richardson had purchased a .32-caliber Smith & Wesson with a four-inch barrel from the shop on March 20, 10 days before the attack on President Reagan for which Mr. Hinckley has been charged. Mr. Eichenberg said Mr. Richardson paid ''$80 to $85'' for the used weapon made in ''the 1930's or earlier,'' and picked it up on March 27.

In addition to the letter that was delivered to Miss Foster, the police and Secret Service agents found two other letters Tuesday morning in Room 608 at the Park Plaza, where Mr. Richardson had been staying since the previous Friday. One of the letters repeated the name ''Jodie'' over and over followed by ''I love you.''

On Mr. Richardson's first evening in New Haven, four days after the attack on President Reagan, he attended a performance of a play, ''Getting Off,'' in which Miss Foster plays the role of a tough woman recently released from prison, the New Haven police said. He saw the show for a second time on the next evening, the police said. Letters Left at Hotel

In the other letter found at hotel, Mr. Richardson said he was leaving for Washington ''to bring to completion Hinckley's reality.'' ''Ultimately,'' the letter continued, ''Ronald Reagan will be shot to death and this country turned to the Left.'' The letters in the hotel had been left in plain view on a night table, along with three .32-caliber cartridges. They were discovered by a maid shortly after Mr. Richardson left the hotel without paying his bill. He was arrested in the Port Authority Bus Terminal in midtown Manhattan a few hours later, armed with a loaded .32-caliber revolver.

In Federal District Court in Manhattan yesterday, Mr. Richardson, the son of a retired postman, appeared alert and calm as Judge David N. Edelstein ordered his psychiatric examination and directed that the study be carried out by Dr. Stanley L. Portnow, a forensic psychiatrist at the New York University Medical School.

When Judge Edelstein asked if Mr. Richardson had any questions, the young man responded in a firm but polite voice: ''You honor, I just ask the court to bear with me and try to understand who I am and what I believe.''

Mr. Richardson said nothing further to explain his request. The judge replied, ''I'll do my best.'' At Upper Darby High School, Jean Smith, an English teacher, recalled Mr. Richardson as one of her favorite students. He had graduated in 1976 and returned to visit her last spring.

He seemed ''disconnected from reality,'' then, Miss Smith said. ''He was incoherent,'' she continued, ''He seemed to have lost the thread of his life. He seemed lost. He didn't seem aggressive and hostile.'' ---- Another Arrested in a Threat

RALEIGH, N.C., April 8 (AP) - A man convicted of threatening to kill Presidents Lyndon B. Johnson, Richard M. Nixon and Gerald R. Ford was arrested today on charges of threatening to assassinate President Reagan, the Raleigh police said.

The man, Harry Thomas Smith, 34 years old, of Siler City, allegedly told an off-duty Raleigh police officer last night at the Greyhound bus terminal that ''President Reagan won't live long ... if I get my hands on him,'' according to James Blackburn, the United States Attorney.

After spending 15 of her 18 years in the glare of show business, Jodie Foster desperately wanted to be just an ordinary college freshman. Her choice of schools was not that surprising. With its mock-Gothic spires, ivied courts and boola-boola spirit, Yale has always seemed like a Hollywood version of a tranquil college campus. Foster, by all accounts, was eager to shuck the nymphet roles she had developed in movies for the studious life of an Ivy Leaguer. "Yale actually invited me—little smog-ridden me—to sink my blond teeth into its dusty brick and ivy," she joked in an article she wrote for Esquire last fall. "I'm trading my lifeguard shades for that good ol' New Haven grime." 

Armed with an Olympia electric portable, a reading lamp and her dream of normalcy, Foster came East to the Connecticut campus last September—and, except for the fact that she paid the $9,000 tuition, room and board fee out of her formidable acting earnings, she began doing a creditable interpretation of an average Jane College. After an initial period of discreet gawking, Foster's fellow Yalies quietly decided to accept the star of Taxi Driver and The Little Girl Who Lived Down the Lane as one of their own. 

Then, cruelly, the bullets that threatened the lives of President Reagan and three other men in Washington two weeks ago also shattered Jodie's academic idyll. The disturbing suggestion that alleged assailant John Hinckley Jr. may have been motivated by an erotomanic obsession with Foster so exposed the 18-year-old to the spotlight of public attention that Yale's appalled President A. Bartlett Giamatti called it "an ancillary horror to what happened in Washington." Foster has been forced to leave her dorm temporarily for more secure quarters and to accept plainclothes protection. Then, in yet another bizarre twist, 22-year-old Edward Michael Richardson, who according to the Secret Service shared Hinckley's obsession with Foster, was arrested last week in Manhattan while carrying a loaded handgun. He was charged with threatening the President's life and reportedly had written a letter to Foster. Federal prosecutors said Richardson also admitted to telephoning a bomb threat, demanding the release of Hinckley, that caused a brief evacuation of Foster's dorm. Understandably, as the pressure has mounted, Jodie has missed classes. "She can't do her work, it's really too much," one friend reports. Says Yale junior Artie Isaac: "Everybody here feels sorry for her." 

John Hinckley's particular motivation may never be understood (see following story). A family acquaintance has pointed out that his mother's nickname is Jodie and that Foster bears a striking resemblance to Mrs. Hinckley when she was young. In any case, Hinckley has haunted Foster for months. Last fall he wrote to screenwriter Paul Schrader, author of Taxi Driver, the 1976 film about a crazed cabbie (Robert De Niro) who tries to assassinate a political candidate to prove his love for a teenage prostitute, played by Foster. In the letter, which Schrader ignored, Hinckley requested an introduction to Foster. More recently Hinckley dropped a series of notes into the actress's mailbox and pushed others under the door of her suite in a Yale freshman dorm. Although Foster receives hundreds of fan letters a month in her box at Yale's postal station, most go unanswered. But Hinckley's scrawled hand-delivered protestations of love alarmed Foster so much last month that she showed them to her dean, who turned them over to authorities. Foster never received Hinckley's last love letter. Found in his hotel room after the assassination attempt, it read: "Dear Jody [sic]...there is a definite possibility that I will be killed in my attempt to get Reagan...I love you very much." The New York Times reported that Hinckley may have taped a phone call he had with the actress (although she could recall no such conversation later). 

Fan interruptions are anathema to Jodie, a serious-minded student who graduated class valedictorian from Los Angeles' rigorous Lycée Français. At Yale, she is enrolled in such courses as upper-level French and diplomatic history. A proud accomplishment: an A on a freshman English paper. "I chose Yale basically for writing and literature," she says. "Of course, you can't be sure—you get your first D and could decide to be a chemistry major." 

Dorm food and midnight pizzas—plus forays like a pajama-clad visit to a campus sweetshop—have added 20 pounds to her slight frame, and college has changed her style of dress as well. "When I first saw her, she wore gauzy tops and brief briefs," says one Yalie. "Now she dresses in muted colors, in kind of a preppie health-food look." Scoffs another—apparently disappointed—fellow student: "She doesn't look like a movie star. A lot of the guys here don't think she's as special as she's supposed to be." Foster has no steady boyfriend; although she dates a variety of Yale men, her evenings are more likely to be spent in the underground bunker-like Cross Campus Library, where she prefers the smoking section. 

Foster lives modestly on campus. She shares a newly rehabbed, loft-like suite in her 1891-vintage dorm with three randomly assigned freshmen women. A good friend is producer Ely Landau's daughter Tina. Next September Jodie will move to Calhoun College, an upper-class residence with a jockish cast whose master, Davie Napier, is a professor of Bible and ministry. Nor has she demanded special privileges: Foster handed out programs at a Bonnie Raitt concert and auditioned like anyone else for a role in a local production of last season's off-Broadway hit Getting Out. She got the second lead—the part of a prostitute being released from prison after serving a term for robbery and murder—but only after proving herself to censorious fellow thespians. "She had a couple of problems at first intrinsic to her work in film," the producer, senior Andrew Paulson, says. "She didn't project and she understated. But shortly after rehearsals began, these problems vanished." The play was halfway through its two-week engagement when President Reagan was shot; Foster finished out the run. It was, she said, one of her favorite roles: "I got to scream a lot, which I've never done before. The parts I've had almost always are as an articulate kid who is brighter than her years, like Bugsy Malone." 

As the shock waves of the assassination attempt subside, Jodie will once again attempt to fade into student obscurity. Even now, she is preparing for next month's final exams—though this summer she will be filming O'Hara's Wife, co-starring with Ed Asner. Friends report that she has regained the poise that was temporarily shaken after the shootings: "She's cool as a cucumber," reports an admiring Paulson. All of Yale seems to share that admiration—and a determination to give her the protected student life she wants. "She's just a normal student as far as I'm concerned," says senior Lawrence Hatch. "I grant that she's news—but she shouldn't be disturbed." Foster's unassuming demeanor has earned her that kind of loyalty—and Yale's president is proud that his college has rallied around her. "Students here have always been a kind of family," says Giamatti. "That's the way it should be." 




In 1981, Jodie Foster was freshly pledged to Scroll & Key, the most prestigious of the Second-Tier Yale Secret Societies, second only to Skull & Bones.

Newhaven, Cn. is the City of the Nine Squares - and it's more than just a little bit Devilish.