Critical Prose & Poetic Commentary regarding UFOs and their astonishing ancillaries, consciousness & conspiracy, plus a proud sufferer of orthorexia nervosa since 2005!

Wednesday, December 27, 2017

Aristotle As Prufrock

Once again I make refrains on Aristotle's crass remains. See, he'd RETURN those "crystal spheres"... enclosing our most strident fears. ...And all to fool... convince... ourselves that we must hold the highest ground of grace and strong integrity—"creation's crown"! ...Hilarity...

TAKE ARISTOTLE AT HIS WORD, as churches did—Aquinas hard—and push your woman to your heel; put her through your strange ordeal. Make her work the lion's share, but work for less—or be contraire—to OWN a hundredth for her toils as she reduces, makes, and boils.

Take dominion of your "Earth," to treat her like the bitch you've cursed; beat her if she won't conform to arbitrary wills and norms. Throw your filth across her ground and foul her face, but scar, confound ... too, mess with normal weather patterns—raging storms to flood and flatten ... then drop that polar shelf of ice and raise your wave of flood and fright! ...Scouring Earth from pole to pole, a cleansing facial harsh and cold!

Depending on a moon, they say, or "just so far from solar rays"; seasons placid, and "predictable," water, heat, and food—some victual. All of this must come together, blessed by God and *his* trite measure, plus some luck to mix right in—to make some spark for *smarter men*.

Likely, "RARE!" they have construed! "We're alone," these BALLYHOO (!), then, hustle back to do their "work"... ...sullenly, to preen and smirk!

UFO's are scorned, ignored, or shut behind their screens and doors, then we are told that SCIENCE shows that their "concerns" be predisposed.

"What you want's a waste of time," they're quick to say from pompous shrines, though we have paid, and dearly too, for what's withheld from me and you.

Locked beyond the common pale (and stuffed to tunnel, boom, and rail) there exists the covert record: secrets kept, purloined ... subverted. Secrets signal strident change, and who gets hurt, friend; who gets blamed?

Power settles with a will, and change is rampant. "Take your fill!" This may be what's kept from us ... that *they* lose power, might, and thrust ... that we could be as them, to find ... that we're unbravecontrived ... despised.

Meanwhile, we're a laugh (...God's treasure?), that we INSIST we use OUR measure... holding to our hubris, meanly, so we can coddle fear obscenely. We would dote on Aristotle, sucking on his drying nipple, living at the charmless center he contrived to suit HIS temper! Made SPECIAL when he's alone—to be God's favorite in His home—a "crowning jewel of cosmic crowns" of "loving gods"... ...with angry frowns?

We'd give the space folk their motivation? We'd tell 'em how to DO their mission ... paint their feelings, points of view, tell them how they'd make and do! But that is us and we're not them, so we can't predispose them, friend. 

Yeah, we'd dictate their *understanding*, argue *physics* notwithstanding, tell them what their form should be, and how they'd speak to you and me? What a crock, hubristic wrong, we use to sing our 'centric song...

We'd dictate what we wished was true, forgetting what we always knew, that what we *know* is likely wrong ... that we might sing more humble songs.

We do these things, retreat from grace, and wallow in a pride disgraced! We forget the time and distance ... expanding as we speak ... for instance. We avoid the misty blackness, elude the depths that lead to vastness, retreating to our shallow minds ... in ignorance's grasp confined!

We doom OURSELVES to crass perdition. We MAKE confusionindecision. We won't see the bigger picture, look beyond a narrow stricture, or fund the courage we would need to validate our break-neck speed! We don't look into the sky, except to plant the reason why that puts us at the *point* of *things*—the universe revolves and swings ... around *mankind* so proud and haughty, but like J. Prufrock? A little dotty.

...And like a Prufrock, our Aristotle... ...figures in to "short" and "throttle", forcing us, yes, to a center he'd CONTRIVE, so we're embittered.

We won't know what futures bring if we insist and falsely sing the jaundiced praises of a hubris ... weaponized to bathe and soothe us!

We don't make consistent rules, we shortchange all our children's schools by feeding pap, a tasteless gruel that rots the "gut" and fouls the "stool."

We won't make a lasting peace, we'll struggle where we're challenged least! We'll let the BIG chance slip away if we allow this glad decay!

Fail not to search your sky for that which they'd let slip on by. Challenge ALL your institutions, hold them close to constitutions. There is stuff they won't explain, and this is why one MUST complain!

Believing you're alone's un-brave, and makes you just a *tool* ... a slave. A larger fire only shows there're shadows still... ...but so it goes. You're obliged to make that light, though shadows rule, regardless. Right?

It's on you to realize that shadows grow with fire's size, but fire's light brings novelty and from those shadows?   "What," comes to be!

From the shadows comes our novelty. It ever has... and will... but, be.

Wednesday, December 20, 2017


We The People
by Alfred Lehmberg

The "FLATWOODS MONSTER" was featured on the hugely popular TV Show WE THE PEOPLE 65 years ago... What was up with that? It got weird.

Given Current events, ufologically, it remains rooted to an existential and corporeal admission of sorts... including official ones... we must call it non-disclosure... as to some lack of sentient and self-aware singularity in our dancer's arm of the Milky Way... To the contrary.  Very much to the contrary. We are not alone.

We are not alone. Good News! The red pill beats the blue pill every time!

On Thursday, September 18, 1952, "Flatwoods Monster" witnesses Kathleen May and Eugene Lemon were accompanied to New York City by Braxton Democrat newspaperman, A. Lee Stewart, Jr. They'd been asked to appear on the very highly popular television talk show of the time, We The People

The far-reaching Flatwoods Monster incident, which Stewart had broken to the news media, had piqued the interest of NBC television executives, one can understand... it status was entirely viral for that day and age. They wanted the Braxton County residents on their golden era television program highlighting the interesting true to life. This abundantly filled their bill.

Daniel Seymour
The Braxton County trio was flown to New York late Thursday afternoon to stay at the Belmont Hotel... scheduled to appear on the show the following night, September 19, 1952. On Friday afternoon, May, Lemon, and Stewart were driven to the TV studio. They were greeted there by the host of the show, Mr. Daniel Seymour. 

Off the set, the "Flatwoods Monster" witnesses explained the "Flatwoods Monster" encounter to Seymour. A sketch artist sat nearby and drew an off-hand sketch of the "Creature." as they spoke. Here was a primary distortion in the making.

May and Lemon explained some of the details to the sketch artist. He'd questioned them as he continued to sketch the figure during the cold-read interview. After the illustration was finished, the large drawing was handed off to a crew member to be used for the opening of the live TV broadcast.

Mr. Seymour then finished talking with May, Lemon, and Stewart off camera. The crew prepped them all for their imminent interviews. Cue the music, folks! 

Mr. Seymour charismatically strode out onto the set and took his place at center stage. The three Braxton County residents took their seats, set to begin their presentation. The live show began moments later when the camera focused on the master of ceremonies, Mr. Daniel Seymour. There was an eerie silence in the studio and the broadcast went live.

The show opened by setting the scenario with the host's soft narration while the nearby orchestra simultaneously performed soothing background music. This set the atmosphere for a fall "Indian summer" day in West Virginia. Mr. Seymour smoothly began to tell the story...
"Imagine a scene in the autumn dusk, in a lonely secluded spot, which you reach right after viewing a fiery meteor in the sky. This was easy to imagine. THIS WAS NOT SO EASY."
Recently Revealed WTP drawing

Suddenly, another camera cuts to the big drawing of the freshly drawn "monster"! It pounces on the screens of unsuspecting American viewers Nationwide! The orchestra music turns unsettlingly eerie and crescendoes to a feverish pitch! At that moment, history was made as a shocked American public gasped at the sight of the "Braxton County Monster" on their nascent television sets for the first time! Too bad that wasn't the monster.

Verily reader, the illustration of the "Flatwoods Monster" was "a lie telling a truth," but real tragedy on further investigation... enduring cheap-shots for the effect even in the beginning! 

Chief among these tragedies are regretted memories of the unreturned and long forgotten fighter pilots lost engaging those UFOs..., through the wounded pride and sensibilities of the betrayed persons involved with the Flatwoods event, moving on to the ongoing disgrace of a media continuing to misinform us today! Such remains to be addressed.

See, the realistic portrayal of the Flatwoods figure was correctly described to Frank Feschino, Jr. by Mrs. May during his countless interviews with her and was also described to reporter Stewart, as well, by May; it was as a hovering mechanical device! It was not a "Monster" wearing a dress.

Feschino, a college-trained illustrator, worked closely with Mrs. May and her son Freddie. He produced near forensic police-style renderings of the figure to ensure its accuracy. For example reader, in reference to the incorrect portrayal of the figure drawn by the 1952 TV artist, Mrs. May explained the following about the "monster's" arms and claws during an interview with Feschino, "It looked something like antennae sticking out from it, between the body and head." During another interview, the following is transcribed from Feschino and May discussions regarding the incorrect 1952 TV show drawing:

Mrs. May: "They just told me they'd like to draw a sketch of it, and Gene and I together had told him what we'd seen, and he [artist] drew the sketch."
Feschino: "Why did he draw arms on it then, because you told me it had antennae?
Mrs. May: "I told him that, too! But that's what he drew on it. To make it look more like a 'monster' I guess."

The late Kathleen May...

This malfeasance of the media led to the incorrect, albeit enduring, portrayal of the mechanical figure as dress-wearing pixie... and the dismissable folklore of the "Flatwoods Monster" was born! But wait, reader! There's more, much more. Devils in details.

On Monday, September 15, 1952, and, as pointed out above, and preceding the We the People interview (so We The People should have known), The Charleston Gazette newspaper posted an article containing key information about the accurate description of the so-called "monster." This information was actually obtained by A. Lee Stewart, Jr. during his interviews with the witnesses back in Flatwoods, immediately after the encounter happened. You see, Stewart was at the May home shortly after the encounter, led a posse of armed men onto the farm where the encounter occurred to chase "a monster," talked to the witnesses all that night in a third degree, and then later interviewed them in the days ahead. This was big stuff taken seriously.

The newspaper article of evidence explained, "Braxton Monster Left Skid Tracks Where He Landed—(Special to The Gazette)," actually precedes the incorrect portrayal of the TV show "Monster" drawing... by five days! Yes reader, five days! 

The witnesses gave the actual description regarding the "monster," at the start! The staff of the We the People program really can't claim an ignorance when it was this initial report crossing their interest threshold, initially, in the first place!

It "Wore a suit of green armor. Looked like a mechanical man. It had a blood-red face. It sported a black, spade-like cowl which extended a foot or more above its head." Yes, reporter Stewart got it right in his initial reportage.

Five days later in New York, Kathleen May was trying to describe the pipes to the artist and likened them to the rolling pleats of drapes! The artist drew... drapes. C'mon! Given the artist must have been provided Stewart's report... the artist could have just phoned that in on can and wire! Eyewitness Freddie May told Feschino, "What Mother described as the pleats of hanging drapes, were actually tubes running vertically." 

Freddie May added, "They were metal, they were actually metal pipes" and compared them to the thickness of a "fireman's hose." Freddie also told Frank, "I think those tubes were some sort of propulsion system. It was hovering about one-foot off the ground." May also said this of the figure, "It was mechanical; it was not alive. Maybe inside of the thing—there could have been something alive." May added, "what I saw was either a small spaceship or suit of some kind. ...Something it was wearing. It was mechanical." Feschino also queried Mrs. May the following about the body of the "Flatwoods Monster" and asked, "Did it look cloth-like or metallic?" She replied, "No! It looked more metallic." May added, 

"It was just kind of floating. It was about a foot to a foot and a half off the ground."

1952 was a Summer of Saucers followed by Presidential orders to the military to shoot those UFOs down. Full stop.  

Should we be surprised that one was shot down on the old Fisher farm, with others in a very turbulent West Virgina, right about now 65 years ago? Credulity is stunned by implication.

Something else, too.  We the people was a hugely successful program and sold a lot of "soap."  There would be just one more program after Flatwoods and then it went inexplicably out like a candle.  Make of that what you will.



The format of the We the People show, which was first telecast on June 1, 1948, was to interview various guests about important events occurring in their lives. Ordinary people, celebrities, entertainers, and politicians alike were informally interviewed by the host, who would casually chat with them on the set. This informal talk show format made We the People one of the most popular TV shows of its time.

At the beginning of each segment, the guests were introduced with the opening line, "We, the People...speak." Yet, after airing the "Flatwoods Monster" story on September 19, 1952, this popular show was summarily and inexplicably canceled after the telecast of only one more program. Highly strange, on September 26, 1952, the show made its final appearance on NBC TV.

In closing reader, I would like to go back to 1952 and talk about a conversation occurring between Mr. Donald Keyhoe and Mr. Albert Chop, Public Liaison for the USAF. Keyhoe, hugely respected at the time as a retired Marine officer and former close aide to Charles Lindbergh, phoned Chop at the Pentagon and spoke to him about the Flatwoods case shortly after May, Lemon and Stewart appeared on We the People and he saw the continuing press coverage of the shocking story. Keyhoe wrote the following in his 1953 book, Flying Saucers from Outer Space:

"This could get out of hand," I told Chop. Why doesn't the Air Force squelch it?"

"We've already said the object was a meteor," he retorted.

"A lot of people don't believe it. and the way it's built up it's bad. It plants the menace idea ten times more than the Desvergers story did...

"It'll die out," Chop insisted.

"But people will remember it if something breaks."

Donald Keyhoe then goes on to say, "The Air Force hands-off attitude seemed peculiar to me. For the monster story was having a serious effect, in addition to letters from worried Americans." 

Was the frightening nationwide telecast of the "Flatwoods Monster" segment on September 19, 1952, the reason that the plug was pulled on We the People, reader? Well, here we are 63 years later, and still learning about the "Flatwoods Monster" incident. Perhaps more truth looms in the upcoming future. I'll stay tuned.

Read on...

Listen for me! I may go out.

Saturday, December 16, 2017

Mainstream Values

Mainstream Values
by Alfred Lehmberg

Mainstream values. One would expect them to be at least competent and forthright, or, sense, both common and refined. Not to be! There's too much "wrath of God Money" involved right down to who's publishing a backwater town's textbooks, or even who can work at all. This writer is a case in point. Does this wrath of God oppose enemies or manufacture them for the purposes of having an opposition? A distractor fashioned as a mechanism of use for the unelected string-puller...

What unsettling gloom must hang over the whole of our National existentiality, currently, the day-to-day reality lived... felt presence of the moment getting warmer in every news cycle. Nameless fears are abruptly named, impossible threats become possible threats, then probable, and what we thought we knew retreats to the wholly unknown. That's the ride we're on!

We would be relieved of all control of our personal lives.  Our aspirations to truth and beauty would be denied.  Even the hope of some personal satisfaction is increasingly discouraged under the threatened punishment of extreme prejudice.  Few persons of conscience or the remotest lucidity would debate the preceding.  Our liberty, real and imagined, is slip-sliding away. I say true.

Well—let's do what we can to force the issue, eh?  True, cognitive action and engagement betrayed, we've blithely allowed our current plight with our uninvolved and non-voting cultural complacency. We weren't voting. 

That's on us. 

What we perceive now could be something apart from a conclusively informational "mainstream," one stealthily hijacked to do the bidding of a pirating few. Argued is that this seems to be providing a clear and present danger to us, the revoltingly manipulated many.  Still, the harder they squeeze, though, mayhap the more of us slip through their fingers, as a late Princess once accurately reflected, also speaking truth to power.

Remember when Alexander just cleaved the impossible knot with his sword or how Monk Bruno, through a primitive telescope, perceived that he now intellectually soared, surely cleaved to the newly perceived endless heavens... truly leaving behind what others yet had so very far before them... It's not hard to understand why he'd rather burn at the stake than renounce his monumental insight... or how Alexander provided ready solutions to insolvable problems. Nothing's found so much as faced!

Grok this: UFOs, extant across seven categories on a huge evidentiary pathway, are pure sedition against this dodgy "Status Quo," alluded to, full stop. This could be a truism. It's archetype enough to be one for sure!   

For citation, Richard Dolan, credible UFO historian, is among those generally identifying, as the enemy of human spirit and humanity in the aggregate... this "Status Quo." It now serves duplicitous masters only, if it's ever done anything else.  The "privilege" of the few increasingly dictates the "treatment" of the many. This writer thought we were getting passed all that. No.

We may yet! Forcing the issue here, et sig al, are UFOs and their ancillaries... it would rather be like addressing some kind of existential chakra point or overall stress release mechanism... release from the dictates of the aforementioned "status quo"—for the individual, it is surmised.  That's a good thing, I'm betting... and there are other such cultural acupunctural chakras! Science is not alone even as it arrogantly pretends (that jealous function of reductionism again) that it is.

The individual is key, you see; it's the quality of the individual determining the quality of the whole cultural team.  Old Rome, BC, at its rational height, was composed of a middle class of many quality citizen individuals ruled by an august Senate, and they accomplished much... reached far a-field and plucked advancement and novelty out of the air before them... all that was perverted on the whims of tyrants, of course... remains any historical Caesar looking ahead to the quality of many individuals in 2007 would see millions of future citizens, common people... but citizens! All with the clear powers of the gods

...And that's with well-smoking brakes on, reader!  Tyrant Caesar, in the form of Autonomous and Self-involved Priests and Kings, still exists in a barely diminished capacity today, or we would be a HUGE middle class of quality citizens residing in the asteroid belt—a living ring around our Sun like a bracelet on the wrist of a cosmic god... and our mainstream, qualified by sterling fact and noble affect, would be worth more than a mere tinker/tyrant's damn!

Mainstream values? Lapdogs have no values. They do what's required for scratch and cookie. No, make the mainstream reflect the learned, legitimate, and efficacious aggregate that it was supposed to reflect... and the stars are ours!

Read on.

Saturday, December 09, 2017

..Bell Toll...

There's more to life than recreation—
more, perhaps, than procreation!
There's more completing ones whole life
that goes ignored in baseless fright!

Yet, we would cleave to old traditions, 
suffering their impositions, 
and clinging to the lies we're told, 
we fool ourselves we're in control.

See, I don't mean to frighten you 
with what I have to tell, 
and if what I say is threatening (?), 
then I don't mean to ring that bell... 
...but not excused is ignorance of all that comes to play... 
not forgotten in the quietness we need to end our day.

See, I observe these "pretty" lies
we've swallowed down through tides and times, 
as we have been discounted, friend!
That's the sum of all pretense! 
Distracted by mere liars—all— 
bastards sans all sack and ball, 
we succumb to their distractions
and condone their gross infractions!

There's more to life than hate and love.
There's balance, knowledge... ...skies above!
We would find that there's respect
that's been ignored and in neglect,
and in our rush to PAY their toll
we cannot hear the BELLS which toll...

These tolling bells? 

The UFOs which danced across our skies of old, 
and they're behind a sullen curtain 
cast across our eyes, be certain. 
Shilled, the "mainstream's" obfuscations, 
prosecuted obscurations. 
They're the grease for our distraction— 
the lens they use in their diffraction.

There's more to life that we're denied, 
They're not "insuring safety," Clyde! 
We endure manipulations, foul disease—gross infestations, 
all at the whim of those who *know* 
the way the tortured winds must blow... 

These tolling bells include our Earth, 
abused and frankly dying, cursed, 
and if one should listen carefully? 
One hears her moan, incessantly. 
She's running out of patience, friend. 
The planet's sick; yet, we pretend!
ALL her species lose distinction; 
All must face the same extinction! 
There is much we've LOST... ...forgotten 
(cloaked by *science* spoiled and rotten!)... 
...we might've used to elevate... 
...our souls or spirits ...plus our fate!

These tolling bells include ourselves and power found within!
We're more than sacks of water held in bags of greasy skin!
...Though, produced like stock or cattle 
we are treated just like slaves... 
beneath concerned respect we've earned... 
PRODUCING... ...but not paid! 

We deserve a new respect, 
a real deal "they" neglect... 
valid info we can use 
to stop the madness they've construed! 

These tolling bells include religion corrupted and contrived, 
that tool of fundamentalists who confuse our facile lives. 
All the Jews or Christians... and the Moslems... are abusers. 
Their faith has gone untested, their philosophies diffusers.

Yet, they are living indecision—
manipulated in precision! 
Too, they are way off balance, friend, 
and stoke the failure they portend!

Who are "they"? One well might ask, to WHICH am I referring? 
The question, asked, is presupposed. The answers are disturbing.
They exist, the ones referred, their affect has been plain! 
So, to even ask the question's to infer that they've little "brain"!

These have ears but they don't hear 
the cries of hungry people here; 
they have eyes but they don't see 
the horror of their specious creed. 
They don't FEEL as we do, 
we're WELL "beneath contempt," it's true.

We're mere tools that they abuse. 
We're "shined on" with a showy ruse. 
"Them"? They are called the "SOCIOPATHIC," 
they are "them": called Psychopathic!
One can't let such call the shots!
We must resist! It's all we've got!


One remembers that you have to be quite sane to be a proper psychopath. ...Ya just wanna, is all. Given opportunity, you will. It may be that, like other behaviors, this is on a behavior on a sliding scale. There's a smear of psychopathy... including even you and me. Remains, leadership sans empathetic and inclusive fairness is not advised. As it's been said: all is is chaos, we've each other, only... kind, be.

Tuesday, December 05, 2017

Ouroboros And Fermi's Hubris

Ouroboros And Fermi's Hubris
by Alfred Lehmberg

I offer that the Fermi objections qualifying the conjectured dearth of ET are as bowdlerized as a misquoted and overstretched Occam. Indeed, these bowdlerizers are the foggy bubbles and opaque fans of klasskurtxian exotic dancers... truly anyone in the camp of even comely reflex denialists. Reductionists, rewarded, will oversimplify.

Remains few of these are comely, internally or externally... one listens to them allaying personal concerns that all is chaos turning on nine cent's change, all we have is each other for the remotest salvation, and we are nowhere being kind enough to each other to secure that salvation. One turns to invented Gods securing, as designed, only one's bidding.

Has everyone heard of Fermi's Paradox? In essence, it's treated as a "we're (essentially!) alone in the universe" justification. It was invented by Dr. Enrico Fermi based on his observation, and I heavily paraphrase, that if *alien beings* were "there," at all, we would "know" it... they'd make themselves known. They couldn't hide from us... humans are too smart. We'll forget hubris trumps smart, eh?

...And pause for squirty giggles. The only lift here is to accommodate an irreverent cheek's unfettered flatulence. Anyway, Fermi pontificates that we don't "know" it. Ergo... 

They're not "there"... simply ...so certainly not "here."

What a cleverly close-looped and wholly fallacious way—or excuse—to not think, I offer. We would "know it," indeed! Voluminous and arcing trajectories of Squirty giggles show an abundant appropriateness. See, that restricted thinking of reductionists may not clarify as much as restrict that same thinking, even degrade the efficaciousness of it. 

Verily, arrogance like this would be laughable... were it not so tragic! No. Their's is only a soothing unguent of unsupported presumption, and it is (along with its opposition, perhaps) well larded by personal fables, presumptive assumptions, and dissonate cognitions... lettered though they may be

Indeed, history might bear out that too many earnest proclamations regarding "such being so" invariably fall short of any mark at all! Verily, moreover, the preceding becomes its own step away from any proposition that such be... other ...than that which has as, and laboriously, already been well "legislated" to be "known" and so, right? ...Even if that academic but "alternative" "such as so," is. ...Especially, if it is, eh? Always so easy to regard re-doing work already thought well done.

Too, Forget the guy who says "such be so." He's most often wrong. Watch the one who says, "Such may be so." She's, most often, right. 

Intellectual cowardice, then, as a life choice or cultural plan... "Personal investment" preferred to and over, apparently, "existential expansion of the experienceable experiential." You can tell how much cooler the latter is than the former, just in how satisfyingly it rolls off the mind's tongue. 

Frankly, the cowardice alluded to provides that our mal-interpreted Fermi is subsequently distorted into an especially turgid hubris and then roundly flogged by the self-invested and self-denying mainstream skeptibunky elite, their follow-ons and fanboys, this writer offers, facilitating this smothering reductionist caul. Not good for anyone as the crow flies. See, sense dictates a living ring above our planet with the ability to fly the 21st Century back down to us in disaster... but we whine and scuffle instead at the behest of psychotic billionaires... 

Indeed consider, forgetting all the obvious canted holes, blithe illogics, and homocentric assumptions of the preceding assessment, the Fermi rubric is still held up as a sacred shield by the fearful skeptibunky—a justification for continuing his philosophically chauvinistic, close-horizoned, and color-desaturated worldview as regards ET. Fermi verily! Fermi, yea and verily! 

If "they" were there we'd know it... as we do! As. We. Do.

Additionally, other half-baked proclamations indicate further "mainstream" assertions to support a "we're alone" hypothesis against all sense and seven categories of evidence. These point to an observation that any intelligence capable of invasion would have invaded us already; we have not been invaded. Ergo... ...like a snake eating its tail, eh? With regard to our conjectured alien, how are we so sure we'd know we'd been invaded?

See? Revealed, the same blithe assumptions, canted interpretations, and disintegrating logics, but a pattern emerges, good reader! A "model" is created for the complacent unbrave; a safe (but cowardly, reactionary, and digressive) mold is formed. In turn, we are encouraged to form to same! Tilt! 

Such is the hurdle, it seems, presented to us by the planned mediocrity of ardent klasskurtxian sociopaths in their jealously coveted *command* of our hijacked culture! A busy sentence, but I do not overstate.

Further... here's another loss-leader *shield* against the other that your garden variety skeptibunky holds prevaricatingly aloft—the smarter ones anyway—the ones practicing a cleverer form of corrosive and back-stepping denial! The aforementioned skeptibunkies will agree (!), almost to a man (fewer female skeptibunkies, not so oddly), that there must be some kind of intelligent life out there in the cosmos (...somewhere!), but then they must irrationally shove that intelligent life so far off into a universe (multi~verse!) of time and space that it is guaranteed... ...never to intrude on their coveted considerations of themselves as, what? A shining jewel in the crown of their God's—favored—creation? 

Likely nothing could be further from the truth... and more squirty guffaws. These slaves to *conventional wisdom* won't perceive that our overestimation of ourselves is most often punished and that our underestimation of ourselves is very often rewarded... but I digress. 

Consider Fermi's, "If they were here, we'd know it," and the additional baselessly dusty rubric, "an intelligence capable of invasion would have already invaded." 

Compare these with the skeptibunky's parallel assertion that "of course intelligent life must exist out there... somewhere"! Does the reader see the disconnect or the dichotomy in these assertions made from a single and very debatable logical ethic?

Remember for a moment that *they* likely have *invaded*... ...and that *we* really do know it! The historical record on film, in ink, and carved into stone, the massive anecdotal and considerable physical evidence (thousands of trace cases!), a mathematical certainty (!) and finally, convincing evidence of a personal nature (if one has it... I do...)... ...provides all the conviction one needs to believe that this is so! But even if they weren't here and invading—which they are, remember, the data are very compelling—would it not make more sense to conduct ourselves with something of a sociological "out" that they were here? Everyone agrees they're out there somewhere; why not here?

Of course, it would. At minimum, reader, we'd be nicer to one another... and what a grand unification we would be...

The answer to why we do not accept the likelihood we're not alone locally is found in our lack of general criticism regarding corrupt social institutions, a reactionary non-elected leadership with a tolerated nature that is decidedly anti-individual and so sociopathic as a result, and finally our own very cultivated desire to, individually, take the most traveled path to the then ~despairing~ ends of our too short and largely miserable (in the aggregate?) little lives... ...heavy freaking sigh! 

What ~cowards~ we are as a summative species! What craven non-bravery we display so collectively! What profound ignorance we cultivate, together, so covetously!

...And all of it while the universe yawns before us like the inescapable future that it ~is~ and towards which we shall ~continue~ to accelerate... without regard to our attention or lack of same!  It might be possible to catch the train looming to run us down. Can't you feel a hum on the tracks? Train's a-comin', boys and girls! 

I must participate in what eschews our cowardly behavior! I must, of needs, ~detest~ our lack of bravery as a species! My understandable revulsion is clearly provoked by the planned and cultivated ignorance of our individuals, ironically, and their complacent dependence on spurious conventional wisdoms that, one, betray them, two, discount their individuality, and three, erode their quality of life! Why would we stand for any of that but that we are trained to do so?

On the other hand, I ~anticipate~ the acceleration to the inexorable future! I ~welcome~ the disclosures of the larger reality! I am ~optimistic~ about that reality as an intellectual force multiplier useful for every individual capable of making the inevitable transition to the next quantum jump in perceivable reality every day! Sometimes, it's just rolling out of bed that is the victory ...when we might be boiling out of churning nebulas and evocative black holes in ships of space and time themselves!

I'd soar and cleave to that future, fellow motes! Soar with me! Choose to cleave

I would aspire to rip the now proverbial scales from our collective eyes like the earnest protagonist character in "Matrix". See, it wasn't about Neo, really, was it. Like it wasn't—isn't—about Christ, really. 

Christ is just the stand-in object, remember, for the individual entreated by the Christ as a reflector. Christ is nothing without the adherent of the Christ, relecting. That goes for any big cheese "G" in the panoply, presently, for my money. The reader is Christ, or closer to Christ than this writer has detected.

I'd opt for the *reality* pill as would the reader, I'd bet. We'd all want to take the pill Neo did. Truth or Lies, discovering what Neo discovered: that the truth can be an improving agent for constructiveness!  The contributing reader could be along for that ride. A ride requiring belts, I add, and an eventual toll paid out of embarrassment. A lie has a short shelf life, conversely, then nothing.

Omar Kyam wrote... "...the moving finger writes and have writ, moves on. Neither piety nor wit can call back a single line to alter, nor tears wash a word of it." Cogent advice from a master, a dead shoulder upon which we are still able to stand. It's your finger does the writing, where it can, actually. Last digression... 

We provide the shoulders on which those who come after us will stand. Do we owe them more than intellectual suicide, cognitive dissonance, and a low common denominator? Do we owe them a solid place to stand... a firm place to build? 

Of course, we do... all those things and more. They are us after all. They are you

That's enough. I remain watching the skies. Read on.

Monday, November 27, 2017

Insentient Voting Blocks: Their Care And Feeding

A friend writes me from the field a harrowing tale. If ever the reasonable Democrat (or those not wholly insensate) needed to get out the vote, now is a prime consideration. See, if it's only idiots who are voting then those not voting are the greater idiot... I say true.

I went back to Wisconsin over the holiday to see my brother and sister. My older brother had arranged tickets for a hockey game. Milwaukee plays in the AHL, which is one step down from the pros.
All the players are either on their way up, or have been told they’re too small or too slow, or simply not good enough—so they play their asses off. I remember Wisconsin sports crowds as a bunch of drunks, certainly, but a bunch of sloppy, friendly drunks. They'd buy beer for fans of other teamsthat sort of thing...
So, the siren sounds, the teams line up, and the loudspeaker announcement is made... but it’s made more or less as an order. “Everyone stand. Remove your hats. Put your hand over your heart. Sing the national anthem.” 
I look around and people are standing at what looks like attentionlike they’re soldiers. When we get to the line about “rockets red glare” they actually cut the white lights and show just red spotlights. I looked at my brother and he’s got the same expression on his face.

The game then begins. The crowd is unusually quiet for what I remember of hockey fans. It’s a little offsomething not quite right. I look around the crowd and there are about 10k people, maybe two or three who are black—one on the ice, the others in the stands.
After ten minutes there’s a break in the action and they announce that they are honoring a veteran. The Jumbotron shows a white former marine waving at the crowd, and a deafening cheer goes up. Ten minutes later, the same thing happens. In another ten, it happens again. The first period ends, and they introduce a whole series of white, former servicemen and women.

The whole thing was just creeping me out. My brother leans over and says, “I guess we’re here on white supremacy night.” Yeah. It dawns on me that we’re sitting in a crowd in the third most segregated city of the US, and it’s not really a hockey game. Rather, it’s so obviously a knee-jerk reaction to the NFL and black athletes taking a knee for equality.
With very little exaggeration, it’s got the feeling of an alt-right rally, rather than a game. It was absolutely disconcerting and uncomfortablea cold, slap in the facewith all the charm and trappings of a German newsreel prior to WWII.
We left halfway through the second period. I realized it’s as bad in my once proudly progressive State (now redder than red) as it is here in SC...and maybe worse. So much for the combined myth of the White Savior and Master Race celebrations. If it is going to get better, it’s going to take a long, long time. It’s a lot worse out there than I thought.

I'm betting it's a lot worse than most are thinking. 2018 Looms! Register... then VOTE. 

Don't be an idiot. Not voting "because it doesn't matter" became an empty and irrelevant concept with the installation of Donald J. Trump. I say true.

...The list is pretty endless...

Monday, November 13, 2017

Me, Too...

Me, Too...
by Alfred Lehmberg

With regard to "me, too," ...me, too. I say true.

Oh, I won't begin to put myself in the same league with regard to the abuse your garden variety woman is privy to, and enduringly. That dread just brushed me, but it scarred me in a substantive way lasting my whole life. I reflect on a maltreated womanhood enduring much worse as a matter of course.

Knowing what I now know about a wholly toxic distortion regarding "the purported sins of Eve," and having an appreciation for a maligned womanhood born, not of supposition, but in fact, I'm able to come to the realization that that womanhood, as she is referred to, cannot be casually dismissed for having "at least half the money and all the pussy," as it has been caricatured. That's never been true.

No, they never had anywhere near the money and their "pussies" have never been their own. Shoes summarily switched, "manhood" would find their oppressive de rigueur intolerable. The current pile-on, then, on the practitioners of "the old androcratic ways," I conclude, is justified. I say true.

In 1970, or thereabouts, and just north of 21 years old, I was a Warrant Officer Candidate going through the second phase of flight training at Fort Rucker, Alabama, where the entire planet goes to learn to fly helicopters. The subject was instrument flight or flight of a helicopter without reference to outside visual cues. Scary!

This activity was aided by a turn rate indicator, an impact airspeed shown in knots, a gyroscopic horizon bar, an altimeter, and a radio compass. Add a bobbing magnetic compass and this was the full package. You learned to trust them all unfailingly, no matter what your lying ass was telling you, or you got washed out. A lot of guys washed out. 

This was a very tense time for me. Everything was hanging in the proverbial balance. Outside of this new military aviation thing, I had nothing.

Basic Instruments, preparatory to the more withering advanced variety, was flying under the hood, as it was called, responding to directions from a check pilot or instructor. "Turn right to heading three-one-five, standard rate, descend to one thousand five hundred, now climb to 3000, right turn, half-standard rate, to heading 185..." The reader gets the idea... Then, we'd do it without the horizon bar. Plus or minus 10 knots of commanded airspeed and 50 feet in assigned altitude. 

These were the standard. Many couldn't forget the seat of their pants for swirling semi-circular canals in confused ears provoking freeze-ups, through full panic, to projectile vomiting. These washed out.

Conversely, I took to it! I loved it! Non-cocky because that bit you on the ass, every time, I reveled privately in my ability to nail it, every time! I was pretty good. Later on, as an instrument flight examiner, I would be at the absolute top of the craft. Near every day was an "A" flight right up to check ride! My confidence was high!

Check flight day arrived at Shell Army Airfield, Enterprise Alabama, and I drew my check pilot. It was like he was drawn from central casting. A West Point Captain replete with a class ring, wide at the shoulders and narrow at the hips, chin as chiseled as his cold blue glare. Wearing a combat patch and a shiny silver Aviation Badge, he was everything I wanted to be when I grew up, you know?

Well, I aced the writ, sailed through the oral exam, and knocked the check-ride out of the proverbial park, I thought. The Captain was somewhat congratulatory and suggested we have a smoke after refueling for the debrief. He hovered the TH-13 BI trainer off the refueling pad and into a clearing way off the beaten track behind a copse of trees in a secluded clearing out of sight of the tower. I remember thinking he must be really serious about fire safety.

We shut the aircraft down and started the debrief, talking about this and that. I was correctly answering his questions and began to get a little unsettled when every question he asked seemed to be getting him angrier and angrier. After about 20 minutes he said, "Well?!" I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Well, what, Sir," looking at him, wholly puzzled.

Clearly pissed off, he threw down his smoke and coldly said, "You're done." An icy front had moved in. All conviviality was gone. We fired up and hovered back to the pad in silence. Shutting the aircraft down, he informed me that I was to complete the post-flight and logbook entry alone. He'd go inside and complete the paperwork. I wondered what had gone wrong. A real Twilight Zone feeling crept over me.

I finished up and hustled inside, wondering if I'd passed or failed. Informing me at the table that I'd "better get my shit together before Advanced Instruments," and citing various flight discrepancy issues I thought were wholly bogus (officer candidates do not argue with a military check pilot) he handed me the lowest possible grade I could get and still pass. Relieved but hugely crestfallen I wondered what the hell had happened. I would always wonder... forever on.

Cut to around 40 years later. I'd been retired from active service for a couple of years and going to school to get a teaching credential. I was going teach in Alabama Public Schools. I'd bought a new home in Enterprise Alabama with its western border on that very same Shell Army Airfield of our story's lore.

In the early-early morning, I'd get up to "sky watch." The adjacent Shell Army Airfield trained 24 hours a day. The military aircraft, about a half mile distant, would be launching or recovering to the helidrome, three times a day, with the usual dull roar of jet engines and air chopping main rotor blades. I would sit on my deck listening and remembering.

Abruptly one morning, as I'd not thought of it for a decade (every checkride!), it occurred to me that the copse of trees and aforementioned clearing, alluded to above, was a very short distance... within walking distance from where I was sitting at that moment. I was remembering my BI Flight Check, again puzzled as ever... wondering again what the hell had happened... ...and then it struck me!

The West Point Captain may have had a whole other interpretation of the concept for an "oral examination," regarding my debrief in the unnecessarily secluded clearing. The reader can follow the drift, eh? He'd wanted me to service him in that regard... is the supposition. In retrospect, nothing else makes sense!

I hadn't had a clue. Was he disappointed I wasn't copping to the requirement that it be my idea? He rewarded me with my barely passing grade for my unwillingness to go along? I'd had no idea what was going on. I thought the screw-up was, somehow, entirely my own.

How did that scar me? Well, I spent the next 23 years getting twisted up and ulcer-anxious when check-ride times came around every year. I can't recall one that didn't cause serious anxiety, and sometimes that anxiety provoked issues with self-respect and self-worth... like a Master Aviator with a thousand hours of combat time in a war zone, full boat Standardization Instructor Pilot (SIP) and Instrument Flight Examiner (IFE) ratings... and even earning a Bronze Star... should be the cause of questioned self-worth. 

No... I was "raped," in a manner of speaking... by a likely serial rapist, eh? I didn't even know I'd been raped for decades and even wholly un-penetrated and oblivious, I was scarred for life. My mind had an unjust hole put in it on the subject of flight checks.

The point is, is that this is not just "shaken off" like it's just "one of those things," and your aggregate female deals with worse on a daily basis... most making it work better than myself... I have to say. No... women have only ever taken a bad deal, rife with ignorance and glad misogyny, and made things better than menfolk deserve, in the aggregate, in spite of their grievous treatment.

Given my own and very minimal, almost tangential, experience with an abuser of the ilk threatening them as a matter of course, I'm provoked to wonder about the avoidable damage to their feelings of worth and self-respect, betrayed. What "might have been" for them... 

See, to a degree... I see how the injustice works. I'm compelled, subsequently, not to reflect, so much, on how different the whole rest of my life would have been... but how constructively different the lives of countless women, in times past or as yet unborn, might have been.

Currently, celebrating abusers of women the likes of Donald Trump and Roy Moore at the top of leadership and governance is a horrifying retrograde from the gylanic ideal we'd rather be striving for, eh? Indeed, one wonders how true the "Handmaid's Tale" is yet to be.

Read on.

Grok In Fullness


Errol Bruce-Knapp, of UFO UpDates, Strange Days — Indeed, the Virtually Strange Network... ...and the coiner of the expression &qu...