|To Touch Truth On Her Face...|
Of Seekers And Shirkers
What might a person DO to avoid being laughed at? What means might they contrive to avoid that unbearable perception of playing the butt of someone's, even ignorant, joke? What chances will this person take, then, to be wrong, or, even MORE damnable—too correct? From where will a very necessary courage come, then?
Worse yet, and far more likely... what does this person CONTRIVE who senses an obvious threat to their corrupt and illiberal world view? Predictably, this person selfishly obstructs their praetorian point of view's JUSTIFIED instrument of righteous deconstruction—sits on some smoking gun evidence, or even (shame!) destroys that evidence outright! These are questions more than intimated as one investigates the unintentional disclosure of one Father Alberto Tulli, and how it pertains to the (assiduously AVOIDED!) subject of historical UFO's.
Let's say it was you, honored reader. Let's say it's YOU who'd stumbled upon some bit of compelling evidence providing that first inimitable push into a startling new view of our more expansive world and the multi-verse beyond it! Bigger than the genetics of Mendel or the implications of Darwin's origin of species, the startling evidence is held in YOUR trembling hand!
What do you do with it? Like Father Tulli, do you stuff it in a remote and dusty drawer amongst your personal possessions only to have it found at the conclusion of your remarkably dull and pedestrian life—final proof of your regrettable cowardice?
Do you DESTROY the accusing evidence (?) and live with your nagging conscience for the remainder of a pathetically indifferent and lamentably complacent existence? Or, do you (rare bird!) offer the OTHER hand, and use it to extend your purposeful, positive, and passionate reach deeply into the waters of REAL truth... or at least a more challenging, vigorous, and dynamic INVESTIGATION into that richly complicated, but more vitally satisfying and inclusive *real* world? What do YOU do?
Pausing for a moment's reflection, how many other bits of information (just like the forthcoming) are hidden away in the sealed drawers of shadowy vaults forgotten by ALL (excepting, with difficulty, that select and secret few with total access)? How many MORE of these artfully anomalous articles are at the arbitrary WHIM of some craven and convenient coward—that faux-conservatively minded and exclusive sociopath? What dazzling documentations, momentous mechanisms, or awe inspiring inferences lie smothered in the CONSCIOUS attempt to protect that occlusive social conservative plutocrat's—conveniently pernicious and predatory, but wholly contrived and imaginary—position? WHAT hides—WHERE and WHY?
Exposed! All of it!!
Truly, that arguable need to keep SOME secrets is an abused privilege that has been suspiciously and egregiously overexploited, and so (distastefully and even dangerously, PERHAPS!) a full and complete accounting must NOW be made... . Maybe we owe it, this storm before the calm, to ourselves.
Returning to our intrepid anti-protagonist, what kind of man was Father Alberto Tulli? Was he a gentle and cloistered academic loved by his family of friends and respected by his educated colleagues, or was he a sullen low-tiered architect of the pervasive and unjustified SECRECY crippling and trivializing the individual potentiality of every ONE of us, today? Could he (by some strange mechanism of social irony) be both? This is forgetting that an assessment of "neither" is not within the scope of this essay. Those essays have been written by others—they will continue to be written. This essay would lance THAT particular boil!
Who WAS Father Alberto Tulli? Certainly, his lack of *remarkable* (conscious) contribution could be his definition, and a possible answer to the preceding question. Wool dyed association with the Catholic Church's curious office of Egyptology, he was but a tiny cog in a tightly closed institution that has been around long enough to generate (and then jealously keep) a PLETHORA of deep and darkly shadowed secrets all its own. Indeed, Father Tulli's single association with the anomalous subject of this essay was to come to light ONLY after the event of his death.
The meager papers, effects, and possessions accumulated in a life of apparently unswerving institutional loyalty are, at last, revealed and examined... presumably just to identify what goes where (as in the event of ANY death, this writer's eventual death—assuredly!). Controversially, though, Father Alberto Tulli's personal and otherwise mundane academic effects contained an unsettling surprise decidedly NOT so mundane and assuredly NOT so personal.
The writer pauses to remind my patient reader that this written exploration is made in good faith. Further, the writer presupposes (and reiterates) that intelligence not of this planet is MORE than suggested by seven deep categories of OTHER evidences just as, or even more, compelling than THIS one, one which could be wild horse muffins. That doesn't matter remember, TRUFO or True UFOs only have to evidence themselves once in those seven vast categorical seas. Numerous items from our purposely contrived and foggy history provoke similar pointed questions, forgetting for a moment that this particular one was dismissed by writer Samuel Rosenburg as unfounded invention!
His—too easy—dismissal was based on an alleged (and unsubstantiated) inexpert translation of an ancient document the Catholic church reports as currently "lost." Rosenburg's scoffing conclusion was as dictated to Rosenburg by that SAME Catholic church cloaked in the, ever assumed, faultless integrity of an "infallible Vatican." The reader should be feeling some unease.
See, even THERE the reader can hear the weak admission that some artifact existed, even if it cannot now be produced! Is this naught but just one more piece of the ongoing puzzle lost in the convenient shadows of the planned general ignorance? Such might be so.
What IS this artifact?
Roughly, but certainly no less than three thousand, five hundred years ago, in an Egypt far removed from us and further distorted by murky antiquity, there once ruled, as it's writ, the minor Pharaoh Thutmose III—also unremarkable (at least as far as Pharaohs go). THIS Pharaoh, as it happens, fortuitously continued the serendipitous tradition of making a durable record of the events of his time in a manner that would (it was naively hoped) be CRYSTAL clear to the presumed unending chain of forthcoming future Pharaohs. It is plainly suggested that he made (or had made) the following recording, inked deeply into the rough surface of one stunning sheet of startling, if lost, papyrus! The reported translation of the stylized figures in these curious hieroglyphics follows:
In the year 22, the third month of the winter, in the sixth hour of the day, the scribes of the house of life found that it was a circle of fire that was coming in the sky . . . its body was one rod long by one rod large. It had no voice, and the scribes so advise the King. Some days pass, and lo, they are more numerous than ever. They are shining brighter than the sun in the sky. The army of the Pharaoh looks on with Him in their midst. It was after a respite that the circles flew up higher and disappeared to the south. It was a marvel never occurred since in this land.
Other accounts of this intriguing document talk about a strange "stink" that the "fire rings" make in the air as they dash around, and further describe the Pharaoh as futilely chasing the dazzling circles from below in his horse driven war chariots, slinging pathetically ineffective bolts at them as the fire circles darted effortlessly past. Perhaps exhausted, finally, from their seemingly ignored exertions, the sweating Pharaoh and his fearful men stand at last looking up at the indifferent saucers with their mouths hanging open, effected by equal amounts of enchanted wonder and abject terror.
In sidebar, one could speculate that the personal stock of this apparently fearless Pharaoh went WAY up with his relieved troops at the no harm conclusion of the terrifying, albeit one sided, exchange. They could ALL call themselves very brave that day, and, this writer submits, likely did.
Returning abruptly to the mysterious document suggesting this astonishing occurrence, this writer questions what truly underlies the social mechanism USED to preclude a document, of this enigmatic type, from being brought to light immediately and with all deliberate speed! What hides in the shadows of that ridicule permeating the interested discussion of such a document, and the larger reality that it heralds? Much likely hides in that ponderous ignorance we continue to consciously assume like a smothering cloak.
Consider some idle if reasoned speculations. Father Alberto Tulli was a man who did not want to be laughed at. Father Alberto Tulli was a man who did not want to compromise or contradict the untested faith, assumed fidelity, and convenient sensibility of his order and its institution. Father Alberto Tulli was a man willing to stuff an oddly smoking gun into an out-of-the-way drawer to further postpone, perhaps, humanity's rendezvous with its more secular destiny? Father Alberto Tulli was a... coward (yes) in the most regrettable sense of the word, was not motivated by adherence to any strict (otherwise fawned over) scientific method, and was a mere stooge for an outdated, probably criminal (certainly unethical), and decidedly back-stepping world view? This writer knows that he would be judged in a similar fashion upon committing the so described or some analogous offence. What's gravy for the goose, and all that... this writer appreciates consistency only because TRUST can sometimes be born of it.
This writer challenges, with outrage, that "smoking guns" remaining hidden, and ACCUSES the owners of these drawers (into which these smoking guns are so smugly ensconced) of the aforementioned regrettable cowardice. With fervent anticipation, this writer envisions a time when we will, collectively at least, more typify the courageously advancing and forthcoming seeker over the cowardly retreating and obfuscating shirker. The seeker—the one willing to run that gamut of wounding negativists to touch the truth on her shining face. The shirker, of course, is described everywhere else in this essay.
Concluding, this writer asks WHEN (and even if) we might all ever learn to laugh at the laughter we SHOULD be laughing at! That brand of laughter alluded to is identified as toxic and that which comes from the one with substantially less COURAGE than the one PROVIDING the mal-alleged amusement. It is the laughter born of a whistle past a graveyard. It is the laughter born of those unable to face the selfish fears of their own convenient manufacture. Turgid and turbid and not a little rabid.
Some see evidence of the beginning of that furtive hand gnawing, a coming revolution, and assuming the patented Dan Quayle deer-stunned-by-headlights "look" on complacent faces—pretend they don't know why or how. ...But they DO know, we all do of course, know why and how. Those answers don't have to be searched for; they have but to be faced. How much is a betrayed and abused rank and file expected to endure from their own officiality, anyway?