Errant Clocks...

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I'm logging in a sky-watch for the stuff one finds up there; I won't pretend what I have found—report what isn't there. Too, I don't mean to scare you or detract from your beliefs, but we're beset by bastards with the ethics of disease.
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See, it's "winners" write a history clearly missing all its thorns. It's how they've kept posterity on the UFOs suborned. It's how they've lied to spare themselves; it's why we don't look up; its why we ask no questions of these men we know—corrupt.
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This is why "they" can ignore us. This is how we're so insane. It's where we trod the paths we take—or shriek our shrill refrain.
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We call that cognitive dissonance, how to think when "up" is "down." How to justify what doesn't fit; turn "crap" to sparkling "crowns." ...Can't keep it up for very long; the spirit won't abide. One makes oneself irrelevant.  It makes one sick inside.
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See, still the lights traverse the sky, and strangeness DOES abound! Their speed is slow and variable. Their appearance is profound. ...And yes, they "flash" and "tumble", and they "vanish"—"reappear." They cannot be mere pelicans—too peculiar, odd, and queer. ...And I mean that in a good way, as produced by massive stars? It's an infinite diversity we've just trifled with so far!
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The "Christers" call them "demon's spawn" of "he who dwells below." They haven't copped to Enki, or Enlil, don't you know. See, assigning errant histories to a label they've constrained... just moves control to human hands from that which they've ordained!
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It's all just razzle-dazzle of a *faith* that they abuse... with Gods to "love" and "hate" folks so the flock will stay confused!
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"Skeptics" are a valued lot, but "bunkies" stink with fear. They've got a lot *invested* in a *future* they hold dear. "...The crown of all creation, we're alone..." these would maintain, and "reports of flying saucers come from crazy—misled—brains." They're like an errant clock which measures time, I would presume, as a chronicle of wishes for a world-view they consume.
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"Pundits" bury tongues in cheeks and sneer up ruffled sleeves. They front for corporate interests who would do just what they please. They've sold their souls to Mammon, see, would dissemble on the truth, so they're the part and parcel of control in disrepute!
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They're slick and coiffed, articulate, and too well dressed it seems. ...And THESE maintain the status quo composed of shallow dreams?
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It's true the "colored lights" portend, for them, a non-event! Yet, Folks report real UFOs... take pictures they present! We see them all across the world; we see they've been recorded... ...in the paintings of the masters who'd reveal what's reported!
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We see them in the photographs—to old to have been faked. We read them in the written word the sages wrote for fate. We hear them on the radio. We see them on TV. Content, we're sold a bill of goods, contained, betrayed—you see?
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So, I'm logging in a sky watch. I report what I perceive. I'm not a crass believer OR a skeptibunky... ...please.
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I have my own possession. I'm beholden to myself. I'll make my observation as I will for mental health.
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I'll "strike the Sun if it offends me," but let its fairness rule my soul. I'll move towards the evidence, and then where it leads I'll go.


alienview@roadrunner.com
www.AlienView.net

Though the "heavens" fall...

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Hey. If they fell at all?  Then what's their value?  Trust in "The Lord," sure, your fellows will kill you if you don't... ...but tie up your freakin' camel!

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The last few days resulted in four of "them" providing sightings of the previously described type. Nocturnal lights, tumbling, flashing, shamelessly stopping and starting, appearing and disappearing in flight-paths to the West, so highly strange.  These are observed in clear skies to vary speed and direction across an inky star field... What Dr. Hynek might have termed a CE-1... all you have to do is rock your head back and refuse to forecast what you might see; they're THERE, damn it!

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Somebody knows...

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Restore John Ford. Read on.

Remaining...

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I look into a starry sky... with length, and breadth and depth untried, and question—to perchance achieve—what these things ARE to soar and cleave.
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They are there, there IS no question... dismissing any protestation that I'm quite mad or just mistaking.  Or worse: that I've been lying... faking.
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Oh, I see them. No great feat! I've proved them to myself, at least! Should I respect what one might think... who ISN'T looking? Specious fink!
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...Sucking on our wounded sphere—mere parasites who breed in fear—our "specious finks" would make "pronouncements." They'd spout denial and denouncement!  These proclaim their "dead-lock nut," to prove in fact their minds are shut, that they are sans imagination... and must court their own damnation.
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Keeping council with their "favorites," pretending they're alone (the flavor!), they would turn their eyes away from that which haunts our skies today.  Oh, they're fearful. No mistake. They're throwing on their drags and brakes! See, new ideas threaten those who keep their process... undisclosed.
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They're braking to arrange "distraction," provide for our INSANE inaction, but keeps the subject tongue-in-cheek so they can sully errant leaks. ...Remaining is the ink and stone—which they discount with heads of bone!
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...Remaining is the anecdotal: weighty, plain and calmly totaled. Remaining is the photographic: ponderous and enigmatic. Remaining, there's the evidence that one perceives with no pretence — no axe to grind, no bill to fill, but has a brain and knows the drill!
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And, yes, sometimes our *science* friends—those filled with same to length and brim—prefer their *method* and *assessment* to live *proud* lives of glad detachment ...
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*Light* shan't dance and caper FOR them, speaks a language MUCH too foreign, so safe beyond their instruments *it* charms and glitters its pretense. Stanton Friedman makes his case, but most who look will earn disgrace ... Science is not BAD—or friendly—science is a tool, comprende'? Though, it can—too fast—be misused to further evil ends abstruse!  Consider scalpels spreading butter, or cleaving bolts with paper cutters.  "All Science" dulls humanity provoking an insanity and we're the lesser for all that if science dictates tit for tat.
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Still, others think some ...won't... conspire to make their short term goals transpire, when survey says it's one in ten would do what they will DO, my friend!  If their gain can be attained they'll do the worst—they won't abstain!
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I've studied them, they know no bounds, to them "we" are as dumb as hounds; we're shackled to our rules and codes made ethics bound to bear their loads. We're mere *objects*—we're their CATTLE—they keep us buying, taxed, and addled while they write their tickets free and freeload from our pockets, see?
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What we lack's the "real deal" that psychos covet, grift or steal!
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What we lack's a base respect that we have lost for their neglect!
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What's we lack's the cop to truth that's been pretended, lost—refused!
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What's we lack's that money spent to educate our future, friends!
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Still we waffle and get lathered... endure elitist double standards—puling prayers that just PRETEND to hold the high ground we don't win!
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Look around, begin to *see*, and sense a new reality! Stealthy wizards find new ways to fleece their flocks and make Y O U pay. They would trade your soul for power; holding court, they build your towers on these special "clouds" they'd claim would keep you *whole* or *safe* and *sane*.
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TV Preachers whine and pray from billion dollar pulpits—crazed! They PRETEND their persecution (spewing saccharine elocution), all the while sowing hatreds they condone (to which we're fated!).
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See the *moral* politician, whining goals or mad positions, wearing mantles of correctness she contrives to cloak her excess? He fronts the "un-elected," sells YOUR soul (you're unprotected) ...lives a life of privileged power—cruising restrooms sans his trousers!
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Still, the sky's alive with lights (which act most strangely in my sight), and these belie pontification, discredit all the obfuscation, and keep in me alive the ...need... to ask hard questions, watch, and bleed.
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Finks pretend, "alleged weirdness... warrants 'special proof's' coherence!" Claims that are *incredible* demand that *proof's* infallible (?) ... but then RETREAT becomes the norm! It's cloaks like these are used or worn! The proof's horizon just recedes ahead of fear... we do not need!
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No, I see them—that's a fact. They don't conform to aircraft, Jack! See, I'm a flyer too well versed for wishful thinking, last and first!
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What I see will fly big circles, glitter like a flash bulb hurtled, then slowing to a crawl they'll glow... to bursts of speed—away they go! I'm out there with my Mother, friend, and I'll not lie, distort ... pretend... that they are there if not—you hear?
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I'll watch the skies. You face your fear.


alienview@roadrunner.com

www.AlienView.net

Former Air Force "zoomie,"—one stunningly shallow nay-sayer, and default klasskurtxian cur-curmudgeon—James McGaha has exposed himself, recently, as the public face of an "on-the-run" CSIcopia. His current too-cautionary mewling—as regards an all but smashed Aristotelian crystal sphere of caustic cluelessness (or scientism as brittle as it is dull)—has been heard on numerous Larry King Live shows.

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McGaha occupied the post previously held by Dr. [immaterial] Michael Shermer, an oilier, more smooth and practiced representative of the dying CSIcopian meme.  Shermer abdicated his position when it became obvious that he could not make his "case" to a public he wants to buy his skep-dick's (sic) books.

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Shermer is to McGaha what Pat Riley is to Bobby Knight. Though, IMO, Shermer is much more the regrettably craven sum'bitch because he's smoother, more lettered, and seemingly derives a lot of personal comfort from his practiced duplicity.

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Problem is: he can't make his case on this stuff to an audience getting a little more informed every day, and he risks his cottage industry of nay-saying literature, as I said above, to come on TV just to look like a fool—as McGaha seems only too willing to do... the zoomie gerbil!  He figures to sell his own book, I suppose. I'll lay odds it's published by Prometheus Press... waddaya-bet!

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That's enough.  Read on.

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Restore John Ford.