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.I stood outside with many, there were twenty-five or so, on a Sunday evening flying model planes. Some were gas but few were flying, and were muffled when they were, it was rubber models folks would fly, for time.
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Pastoral was the evening—no alcohol or drugs, the gentlest breeze was blowing; it was silent as a slug. The ladies fixed the finger food while the old men flew their dreams; the sky that blue and crystal clear... so sharp it leaped and gleamed.
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I see it (I'm a watcher), but I do not jump or shout—I nudge my nephew Mason. "Hey there, Mace ... what's that about"?
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He looks... his mouth falls open, and he nudges at his Mom, who gets right up, and takes a step, to see it closer, Tom.
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It's flying slow, too slow my guess, to be a jet or plane... It floats along, majestically, confusing watching brains... ...Like a BB held at arm's length, but squash it flat—bright white... It coasted by "cigar like" ...and then drifted out of sight!
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There was general amazement! There was, "...What the hell was that"!?! No one mentioned UFOs... I was silent as a cat. Someone mentioned—"Aircraft"! Others offered, "Blimp." I down-lowed to my nephew, "That's facetious, scared, and limp."
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The *thing* flew by again, my friend, for the second time of FIVE, and fewer people watched it—it is that I would confide. The third time fewer still looked up to wonder what it was; the forth was even less than that—the fifth, just me... ...because...
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Call them up! Ask their opinions of the ones who would not look. I doubt that they'd remember, for their peace of mind it took. It reminded them that models are contrived to paint the sky with things WE built to fly up there... not what "ET" would devise!
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It's flying slow, too slow my guess, to be a jet or plane... It floats along, majestically, confusing watching brains... ...Like a BB held at arm's length, but squash it flat—bright white... It coasted by "cigar like" ...and then drifted out of sight!
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There was general amazement! There was, "...What the hell was that"!?! No one mentioned UFOs... I was silent as a cat. Someone mentioned—"Aircraft"! Others offered, "Blimp." I down-lowed to my nephew, "That's facetious, scared, and limp."
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The *thing* flew by again, my friend, for the second time of FIVE, and fewer people watched it—it is that I would confide. The third time fewer still looked up to wonder what it was; the forth was even less than that—the fifth, just me... ...because
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Call them up! Ask their opinions of the ones who would not look. I doubt that they'd remember, for their peace of mind it took. It reminded them that models are contrived to paint the sky with things WE built to fly up there... not what "ET" would devise!
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The craft that flew that fateful day they did not glue together... ...They didn't sand the fuselage or craft it light as feathers. They did not spin the prop they bought with rubber they controlled; they could not point out proudly their invention to extol...
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...This denial that we face is like a pustule near to bursting, and the cause of its neglect we should decry. Those who push away this truth to save a precious "profit motive" we should vilify—regretfully despise. These would only serve themselves nor have respect for you, content to lighting fossil farts, the time made ripe for coup.
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This pustule skin is very close to breaking on its own, and the skin of it is hot and tight and dry. Any little touch could have it blow up in our faces, but I'd like to clean it out—at least... I think that we should try...
...This denial that we face is like a pustule near to bursting, and the cause of its neglect we should decry. Those who push away this truth to save a precious "profit motive" we should vilify—regretfully despise. These would only serve themselves nor have respect for you, content to lighting fossil farts, the time made ripe for coup.
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This pustule skin is very close to breaking on its own, and the skin of it is hot and tight and dry. Any little touch could have it blow up in our faces, but I'd like to clean it out—at least... I think that we should try...
June 28, 1996 at around 18:00 PST... on a sanctioned model airplane flying field outside of Anderson, California. UFOs were witnessed by a veritable throng of credible persons...
I remember a subsequent time of around midnight sitting in a lawn chair on the active runway of that field. I was looking to the North, impatient for sightings of more UFOs. The constellation Cassiopeia lay aback, lounging on the horizon arms and legs akimbo for a salacious "W" shape. Size seemingly increasing close to the horizon, she looked huge! The field is found at 40 degrees 25 minutes 26.02 seconds North by 122 degrees 10 minutes 07.69 seconds West. It is remote. Perfect desert-like night sky. Google Earth it.
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It was on this field earlier that a collection of sober professional people—plus a few real scientists—pushed wonder away and fixed their attentions on their own, more familiar, articles. You can't call it cowardice, quite... more a protective pragmatism. How does one propose to know an unknowable and then roll their socks the same way?
.Too, they had forgotten that the simple balsa planes they held in their trembling hands would be perceived as a similar magic not all that far into their own, comparatively recent, past.
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...Maybe Tommy Lee Jones was dead on right all the time. In conversation with Will Smith as an aside in MIB I, he said, "They... [meaning you and me] ...don't want to know [about extra terrestrials]."
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Well, even if "K" crapped out to the conventional sensibility of facilitated denial , Zed and Jay didn't mind knowing—WANTED to know, needed to know as a matter of fact! They walked away blithely from "normality" and "normalcy" to know as much as they could!
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Reader, don't YOU want to know?.
I do, assuredly, and only because my feeling is that it will be an improvement, a stick in the eye of the 1%er, and the elevation, enhancement, and enlightenment of an efficacious humanity. Such is my intuition.
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