Friday, May 27, 2016

Odd Observation #15


Odd Observation #15
by Alfred Lehmberg


What do you want from me, you scurrilous and whiny CSIcopian or denialist denizen of errant Klasskurxia? Questioning Sanity so Reasonably Sane, it remains, that among reasonably rational others? I see stuff. Resolved: If consistently seeing's not believing, it's certainly penultimate to it. 

I intimate with respect, also, as regards "stuff" on more than one level. Every morning of decent visibility I'd go out... would generally provide me with an opportunity to make the substantive report you read here, I say true. 

There had been many sightings since the last accounting reflected in #14 which would have been seen by anyone with me... that is, anyone with the willingness to actually go out and lookanyone one with the most minimal courage to see... ...anyone desiring that reality LARGER than the one metered out to them from their stingy mainstream's homogenizing if sour smelling info-nipples.  

Too direct?

I'd seen weird stuff, again, one morning... then, more mornings after that... an unending stream of mornings and late nights.  There is such a compelling vastness there anyway, and to be at the "perceived" center of it all is humbling where it is not scary, and inspiring where it is not exhilarating... 

How does that work?  The reader might try the proceeding. 

Head and eyes locked as a unit, look left (the better choice in this writer's long experience), and regard where the eye lands.  Doing that and not looking, imagine what's behind you.  Then imagine your right.  Then left.  

Ja'do it?  No?  Well, imagine doing it. The point is that perception goes out from you in every conceivable direction... ...to infinity, even.  There is a lot of space/time and surface area to take in. It's an intellectual embrace that, so very quickly, becomes too big for mere imagination... becomes, in fact, wholly unenglishable. Even language extant is defied. In that single imaginative plane regarded? Anything that can... does!  All this in a single regarded plane:

Lost in time and dusty space 
could live the creatures of some race 
who'd solved the problems that we face 
or vanished there without a trace...
Angels, monsters, neither... both... 
things beyond the wholly loathed... 
A paradise... an anxious hell, 
where we would stay or dread to dwell, 
but existing and extant 
beyond conjectured... callous cant.

Now, imagine this "plane of the regarded" on a ball-socket gimbal contrivance able to tilt the plane in any conceivable direction or orientation.  There is an infinity of those, too.  A few parsecs out a fraction of change at the reader's center means lightyears of dislocation on the... rim of the readers imagination. On and on. On and on. On and on.

The reader begins to notice that perception of all this centers on the reader quite apart from any desire to have it so. Indeed, that centeredness can be downright unpleasant living incorrectly, but we won't digress.  Remains that from the reader's point of view, the reader is, for good or ill, the center of the universe.  It can be no other way. Individual perception is the reality.

Much responsibility there... buying in, giving up... throwing down... it all comes down to you.

When a certain kind of person has an inordinate amount of time with which to "look," they will look, I think. I've been blessed (or cursed depending on outlook) with just that kind of "inordinate" time, and I aspire to be that "certain kind of person" I'll later (and most self-indulgently [g].) try to describe in this piece.  I'm precluded by conscience from anything else.


It all adds up to a genuine desire to find out just "what the hell is  going on." How can evil reciprocity and bold insentience hold such sway over this egregious disincorporation amongst ourselves when we are just the ones on which we must depend?

This is a desire that more of us have than not, I believe, and I am in a position, and have the time, to have a really good go at this puzzle, perforce; try to digest what I'm seeing, and then report findings back to you (the contrarily if gainfully involved, understandably distracted and otherwise employed, living hard won and travailed lives). Respect!

In a useful, periodic, and entertaining kind of way, I would take a reader completely out of themselves by suggesting an ironic orientation deeply rooted in themselves.  No fiction, or apologies, here. Self-appointed, sure, but "the good borrow and the great steals!" ...or makes the aspiration.  Reach exceeding grasp always and forever, but that's a good thing.



So, on reflection (?), just coming up on my second, more or less, dedicated 'decade' of looking for the 'ufological' and trying to develop some inclusive kind of knowledge base and general sensitivity for same, I find I'm still able to pay the continued price of its prosecutionbe that kind of guy I will describe... ...continue a now protracted period of personal investigation and submit a good report on my, continuing, wide-field exploration of what presents itself as the "highly strange"!  The truth told to be understood, so perhaps believed.

This is forgetting, of course, that it doesn't have to mean a damned thing to you, respected reader. I'm gratified to hand towels and cigarettes where the reader does find meaning or some small pleasure... but it's not necessary. The heartfelt expression is going to be there, regardless. It's a record and a truthful one at that. It'll get read someday, "Lord willin' and the creek don't rise." 

...But let me make a quick digression with regard to the reader wading through my "affected" writing style... The closest I'll get to an apology is to inform the reader I write completely so as to be understood as I've outlined. I hear rhythms and songs and undulations of phrase.  Words are paint.

It is done, simply, the way it is done, out of respect for the language, and by extension, the reader. I'm not going to talk down to the reader, no, or poke teasingly at the reader's lowest common denominator! NO! Expect an intelligence, and many times get an intelligence. Expect Homer Simpson and get him every time.


I am going to use, arguably, the best word available, in my estimation, regardless, klasskurtxaeladdies and less numerous skepti-lassies! They aren't words that will be used only one time, good reader, they will be used again and again, in all my pieces fore and aft, for good reason. They fit, or what's a language for?!

Moreover, they are words that open up new dimensions in time and space for the individual that goes to the trouble of finding out what they mean that first time... a simple cut and paste into "Google" on the internet for instant gratification (and an expansion to the interior of a reader's perceptual bubble or "known universe) the result of a pleasurable little squirt of dopamine, itself a result of becoming a little smarter for the experience! Such is language. 

"Grasp" closer to "reach"! Take a step up on a new definition and see farther than the reader did before! Finally, I write the best, most considered, and most respectful kind of language I am  capable of producing.


I can do no less in as much as you are reading it, eh!  I must respect and appreciate that. I've respect to give.


Besides, different words put the reader's head in different places. The fact of a dwindling commodity (of diversity) evaporating rapidly in a contrived global homogenization of fascist mediocrity (as we speak), the reader needs all the difference they can get their sweaty little cognitive hands on, whether they know it or not!


The kind of language I'm talking about (and trying to employ here) has an appreciation imbued by the user to treat the language as if it were a box of verbal paint. In it are aspirations to make every word a dab of color, every sentence a portrait, and every collection of sentences a virtual holograph.

All things being equal I'd write in a language begging to be revisited, like a song, or like classic words of yore. That's what I aspire to here, with no shame, no embarrassment, and no guile. I'm too old to be pretentious. I would be of respected service, as would any sociophile.

Words are paints and magics and tools and weapons! They travel in time and are as eternal as they are made and preserved. They are teachers, leaders, and entertainers. They are efficiency. They are efficacy. They are immortality!


They are the very COIN and FABRIC of cultural memory! In as much as they paint better, more durable and longer lasting pictures, they are the ART of primary expression! Our culture will survive much, much longer than those of antiquity because (outside the threat of idea [and therefore book!] burning  CSICOPians, or the electricity stops working), the consolidation of all literary incantation is going to be very hard to forget. Believe it!

What kind of person am I? Why should the reader remotely care? I'm not suggesting that the reader should, really, but that I am in the process of telling them about some pretty 'twitchy' stuff, so I feel obligated to qualify my inquisitiveness, justify my conscientiousness, and predicate my truthfulness for them, if I can. Someone's going to write this stuff, I've a premonition, and as I have the means, the desire, and the attitude to write it myself, I will. Read or not. It's almost the same to me. [g].

I'm the "kind of person" who will blow his own horn once in a while... because if we don't?  It's not too long before a ~funnel~ is made of it, reader, and it loses its ability to be anything BUT a funnel. Pretty soon, there is NOTHING around but "funnels" (the GOP master plan?), too hesitant to contribute to the... efficaciously fertile sonic cacophony of genuine and creative human beings!

That's a terrible tragedy!  I say true.

That's part of the present problem, ladies and gentle-bunkies! Give me the "Rebel Alliance" over the "Empire" anytime, if the reader will forgive the George Lucas reference.  To many nazis in the "Empire."

Who would I aspire to be eventually? Consider the rapidly depressurizing airliner. All the yellow oxygen masks drop down in the emergency, and your personal experience, education, and training is reflexive, you put your ailing neighbor's mask on him before you put your own on yourself. Yes, you've been admonished by the flight crew to put your own mask on first so you will be around to help a struggling fellow passenger.  It's a secondary admonition.  Your own self-admonition takes precedence and you blow off the flight crew as forgotten.  The flight crew is absolutely correct, but that's not going to matter. Not that, it's like that.  I aspire to be of meaningful service.

I've got my mask on in the time allowed me, and I might be able to offer suggestions facilitating a better seal on yours... I would aspire to be around to serve, indeed, I've volunteered for service all my life, doing all sorts of jobs no one else wanted to do.  There was satisfaction in them.


That's over!  I have a new cognitive sheriff in town. This one shutters Walmart for Mom and Pop with extreme prejudice!

I aspire to make original music. It transports me, its only requirement. Others have been similarly effected and I take that for convivial service rendered.  

I'm an aspirant artist. I'm not the only one who thinks so. I say that straight out and without pretension. An 'outsider' discovered by Dr. Faye Earnest of Enterprise State College (who produced a one man show of my, actually award winning, work), I represent an art community with no formal training in it. I push the physical materials or light media around in ways to satisfy me, without regard to convention or tradition and so I am unhindered by the "conventional wisdom" of what "does" and "does not" work. 

I aspire to write.  Words are just another box of paint to meanother art to reflect what is perceived as truth. I do what an artist does. I don't know any better.

I'm a whistle-blower. This is a quality that I didn't realize I had until very recent reflection, years after the fact, demonstrated it to be true. In the military, I would flirt with disloyalty to my superiors when they would operate in arbitrary manners that, knowingly and thoughtlessly, abused the troops or were dangerous and illegal. I "blew the whistle" on them. I was instrumental in getting more than a few of my superiors relieved for cause.  It was not pleasurable even in service to people.



This cost me, in fact, generally, a career above the military company level despite being awarded four times the recognition for Meritorious Service as the usual officer in my grade. I turned down my last promotion, awarded on the second consideration when it was discovered by the promotion board that my failure to get picked up 'first look' was a result of one of those 'superior' officers I should have helped torpedo (very justifiably... he lied, cheated , and stole... nearly killed a guy thoughtlessly in a field training exercise...) but didn't, to leave the Army at last after 23  years.  I regret not nailing that guy, too.

I'm paying a whistle blower's freight, still, with monitored pride and good satisfaction! I've been denied friends (such as they were), opportunities, and about seven hundred thousand dollars in lost income to prosecute what, I have strong convictions, is personal correctness and living correctly, to a high degree necessitated by conscience!  A satisfaction is there, too. It's been a tough slog.  The wife has been patient.

Continuing on the thread of "whistle blowing," One can only imagine what my experience was like in my subsequent career as a Public School teacher... oil and water does not begin to provide an adequate metaphor, but upon coming from a military operation that had to work by definition, my sagacity was by no means appreciated in an operation engineered for failure that does NOT have to work, also by definition. I was treated generally (and from the beginning) as a pariah carpet bagger despite the fact that I was at my very best, appropriately subordinate, behavior. 

Though, I could not ignore hypocrisy and malpractice without at least asking probative questions about it. Anything else makes my stomach hurt, and why should ~my~ stomach hurt when it's not my problem and a result of the clearly defined unethical actions of others? Why should yours? The reader will just have to take my word for that, but it applies in the ufological arena as well.

I am a "Boy Scout", philosophically. I believe all the stuff I learned in school and from parents about honor, truthfulness, and fidelity, and I was nonplussed, to say the bleeding least, upon discovering that it was all, decidedly, nothing but an artful cultural dodge, mostly, used by otherwise unrestricted psychopaths to secure unethical advantage because, honored reader, they were not compelled by a society (they controlled) to follow the same rules that you and I are compelled to follow. Mendacity abounds!

Honor, truthfulness, and fidelity have earned sneers were there should have been citation, loss where there should have been efficacious gain, and rejection where there should have been ready acceptance. I would ram those easy sneers back up some of those sociopathic noses (or alternate avenues to where the sun doesn't shine) and will, given the attention of a single interested reader (myself?).

Who are "they", the aforementioned psychopaths? Already asked and answered. Check the archives.

I'm a trained military observer (I used to teach observation techniques as a flight standardization officer in the Army) as I hope this series has demonstrated. I'm not given to taking apples for oranges, satellites outside their forecast, pelicans for costumed super-heroes, or UFOs for thrown pie plates. I'm not a believer, but at the same time, I am not a reflexive disbeliever

I cannot accept; however, especially given even a clouded history of our own species, that we are the center of the universe, the crown of creation, or even the shining buckle on God's three corner HAT! I don't believe in gods made in the image of those who would have me do their ill-faith bidding. Like George Santayana, I am an ATHEIST in that regard.

My faith is in my left leaning compatriots from whom my salvation was ever secured. It's disingenuous to levy that those human hands alluded to were divinely inspired. No. Individual HUMANS were their own inspiration.   

I'm a writer. I write nonfiction that takes what I would think is an enthusiastic and creative delight in the craft. I want to inspire a reader, enliven a reader, stimulate a reader. I would encourage a reader, revitalize a reader as I have been revitalized by reading, and, finally, I would challenge the reader as I have been challenged.  It's all good.

I am eyes with the TIME to look. Look with me! I am ears with the MOTIVATION to hear. It is there to listen to. I am voice with the OPPORTUNITY to speak. I'm speaking now. Like eating and breathing, I am compelled to produce these ufological reports and expressions because I sense in them (or more, in what provokes them) a 'truth' that will likely not be forthcoming from any other quarter. Call me self-absorbed; I've earned my self-absorption.

The aforementioned truth is detected between lines of cross-purposed communication everywhere else, between the very stars I observe at night, and I suspect that it is a truth that is at the base of many other, subordinate, truths. Know this one truth to know many more. 

UFOs are real, by way of example, and I think everyone intrinsically knows that, even the most gravid CSIcopian skeptibunky at some dank level or in some dark recess or cavity of a withered and wholly atrophied personality.

I see stuff in the night sky, at any rate, that is not remotely addressed in the wan pontifications of those with a CSIcopian cant, and I shall not hesitate to point that out to same. Individuals of the aforementioned bent (individuals and collections of these individuals who continue to pound straw into their nineteenth century sensibilities, fifteenth century mores, and first century philosophies) can just bloody well get used to my earnest if huckstering dissection of them as long as I am able to stab a key with an index finger. I enthusiastically encourage others to do the same!

It's only what I have been allowed the time to do. The lap-dog mainstream should have allowed a more consuming employment for me. I was just fine (and performed splendidly) as cannon fodder!

...Sorry that an employment of that same capability (in the interests of the rout and general destruction of CSIcopia?) scorches CSIcopian prairie oysters, but that's the way the saucer crashes and the way we roll in the ufological hood!

I just can't feel very sorry for him. He's the mainstream himself and so has his reflexive support built right in. Ironically lonely, he is never alone, our intrepid CSIcopian... cowardice, intellectual or otherwise, loves company.

Isn't that right, Mr. Magaha? Isn't that correct, Dr. Nickell?

Buckle up... enjoy the dying thrashings of elitist reductionist Empire, something better is ~sure~ to rise from the dust and ashes. [g].

That's enough. I remain watching the skies.

Read on!

1 comments:

StephenBassett said...

This debate is now 12 years in the past. What is notable today is such debates are no longer necessary or worth having. The world has moved on and left the debunkers, like certain cultures around the planet behind. As for the debunkers of all stripes - to paraphrase Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions and loyal servant to the TRUE emperor, Marcus Aurelius - the time for honoring themselves will soon be at an end and history will have its vengeance in this life or the next.