Saturday, July 28, 2018

ITS: The End Of The Story




ITS: The End Of The Story

by Alfred Lehmberg



...Remember the end of the story? We'll get there in a minute.


The beginning of the story, one recalls, revealed individuals selected of a pool from which astronauts would later be drawn.  These selectively sieved persons, highly trained, intelligent, and brave, were ordered to fly out in state-of-the-art jet aircraft to meet with their inevitable opposition. Only, forgetting they must have acquitted themselves gloriously whatever their fate, most of them had never signed on for this brand of opposition. 


See, they'd fly right into the teeth of the unknown unknown: unidentified flying objects. That's right, UFOs. That's where the data seems to go, even if off our established rails. Some of these pilots and crew, by the way, were never again seen, man or machine. Poof.




Well acknowledged Standing Orders were to shoot "noncompliant" UFOs down, remember, wherever they were encountered... and "non-compliant." Laughable, but those were the orders of the day.


A conjecture, reader, that shots were never fired at UFOs is just ludicrous beyond the testimony of at least one four-star General. He reported "many men and machines lost" in certainly countable armed rejoinders, a testimony to how serious the official responses to UFOs actually were. Disclosure of a sort, eh?

A leader for the Air Force's official investigatory body wrote of "other, more lurid duels of death." He minced no words as he otherwise complained of the lack of proper funding for his effort. UFOs must have been "investigated," of needs. Where did the real money go? I digress.

Feschino and Friedman hold blow-up of a Newspaper headline 
published during the Summer Of Saucers, 1952.

It's no leap to conjecture an aerial engagement where early official admissions, recorded losses, and numerous eye-witness accounts bear out data pointing to exactly that. Gird barbarian loins, pilgrims, for undeclared and secret (even as announced!) airwar with ET in 1952. Such would appear to be so. 


...Sounds crazy. Yeah yeah. Sure sure. No apologies, here. 


We had our own aircraft losses, unexplained... or badly explained. We know about them. Verily, we had ours crashing into schools and subdivisions! 



Yet... chasing UFOs? The report, this writer recalls, was that the unarmed aircraft above crashed with an unejected pilot (?), due to fuel starvation... only... the aircraft explosion and fire testified to a profundity of fuel (it appears also to this former Master Aviator) and the area was hazarded to firefighters a result of exploding munitions.
So... 



But wait! How about similar "downed aircraft" incidents involving supposed occupants of those UFOs aforementioned? They're being shot at, after all. ...And on that subject of alien defenses, one can say what one will about alien "countermeasures," superior to "mere human" munitions... but 10 pounds of high explosive on the business end of a 2.75 folding fin aerial rocket arriving at point of impact, just under the speed of sound, must complicate even ET's physics!







Cut to Flatwoods, West Virginia in the same year... at the end of our story, now. September 12th. A warm Indian Summer evening and some kids are playing football in a valley schoolyard. Abruptly, a flaming fireball (a distressed alien craft?) coasts low and slow over their heads from the east-north-east, hangs a 90 degree left turn to the south, and then lands behind the trees on a hilltop of the old Bailey Fischer farm. 

This spot is well known to the locals and only a short distance away. The kids will run and get one of their mothers, who will think to bring a flashlight, then all will troop up the hill to investigate. Someone said UFO in the excitement (it was the season for them after all) but "downed aircraft" was on everyone's mind.  

Who would have thought, "both"? ...A creeping low fog gathered as they made their excited accent up paths and through gates...

...Our very "highly strange" incident would ensue.



May confronts the monster...

Enter Ivan T. Sanderson. One of the first few named researchers on-site only five days after the now very much-renowned event of that night of the 12th, he was a reputational worthy and not one to reflexively dismiss the high strangeness surrounding the event as too impossible to seriously regard. That was not this investigator's style.


It's what ITS did...

No, Sanderson was no credulous buffoon fluffing a bizarre occurrence for an edge reputation, an initiative so popular today. He liked getting to the actual bottoms of things. He was a man very highly regarded.

He was a well-out-of-his-armchair, world-class educated, and literate literary who wouldn't be cowed or bullied even by the likes of a forceful John Nebel (An earlier and more credible Art Bell) in a radio interview regarding this, our... end of the story. The reader will recall that this was the end, as ends were had.

The end of 1952's "Summer of Saucers," flap. Flatwoods seemed to bring everything to a close. The end of official open-mindedness and forthcomingness as cover-up became the increasing order of the day. A consequence of secret wars? ...Not; however, the end of the well-publicized orders to shoot UFOs down. Those orders may have yet to be rescinded.



Here's what ITS had to say on the subject:


Notice the sequestered witness drawings...





Later on, it would be proffered by gloating members of a disingenuous skeptibunky intelligentsia that Flatwoods people didn't know their own night forest fauna, were poisoned by hallucinogenic ground gas  (?) absent before or since, or that West Virginia "hillbillies" won't know a simple meteor from a space invader. Sanderson didn't think so. 


Sanderson, plainly not a sufferer of fools, found everyone he spoke to, examined, or interviewed to be precise, moreover, accurate, intelligent, and considered. Listen to the short Youtube interview above. He was emphatic about this.


No, this story happened, beginning, middle, and end. But for one Frank C. Feschino, Jr. we would know none of it and would have forgotten all of it. Spin up on this story. It's the future after all.





Read on...

Saturday, July 21, 2018

...I Would Live *Forever*...



I would live forever. I would live to seed the stars. Why, I'd live to see the glad demise of petrol-burning cars!

I'd dare exist in silent space in cities that we built.
I would sip a comet's water. I would farm that comet's silt.

The Earth would be a garden when her language we could speak. We would decrease human numbers... "Less is more," is my critique.

At last, when churlish kidneys went the way of facile flesh?
We'd switch out two "brand new"ones; I'd continue—be refreshed!

I'd needed brand new kidneys, and my fellows used the rest. Flesh is more respected, see; respect's now in neglect!

...I'd live to see our "Asteroid Belt" restructured living space.
We'd build it and not take it... ...to ameliorate our prior disgrace...

We'd treat each other decently. We'd live for one another. The Earth herself? ...A living thing! We would treat her like our Mother.

We'd take her lesson to the stars. We're creatures of her art!
We'd live like we had common sense; we'd live like we had heart.

...And once we had this change of mind, the skies would open wide; we'd find it filled with stellar folk... ...strange folk who used to hide.

Though now they'd hide no longer, see?  We'd discarded errant shame...
 To see them as we'd see ourselves, self-aware and sane.



So, they engineered a cloned frog without a head… Yes! I want it. Please continue the research. I'll pay the freight, psychological and pecuniary, on spec... ...but, at your peril! 

Create nothing with even the barest potential for the remotest consciousness! I'm a player only when it's me paying for it. If I have to die... ...well, I have to die, don't I.

...But, I should be able to grow my own replacement flesh—I would live *forever*. I will answer the ethical questions as I go along at select points in the next few thousand years, and that ongoing quest will be driven by asking who has to pay so ...I... can *play*.  Do you grok the implication, reader?

Consider longevity juxtaposed with population... I can cop to the egregious perils of overpopulation; most can't or won't at any level of our society, especially on the institutional, governmental, or ecumenical levels... To cop is to sacrifice, to sacrifice is to endure... enduring we explore... ...that part of the universe created to know itself... ...herself? So, where to go...

A lot of living space can be made from our ring of asteroids. We could be a shining bracelet around our star, just to keep things in perspective. If we can think it, it can be so. Who says we're not God.

You know? The only real way to ensure a quality human being may be to bring the total number of humans down to a level where individual humans are assured of some respect... ...to start! Love the fetus, sure! But only if you love the child too... ...and then the nursing home denizens these children grow into.  Consider, instead. 

Individually sire only once. Do this and our population is painlessly curbed in a single generation, no muss no fuss!  The individual is key!

This is an individual thing. It is from this individuality that teams of real quality have their provenance. Can't you feel it? Again, the individual is key.

...Living *forever* does not seem to add to that. Or does it? Can it? Should it?  I would find out. Scary.

Still...I'd live longer than I'm presently *allowed*. Not because I'm scared to die so much... no, that's a terror of the known unknown. It's because I missed so much of what was here. You know? Space, Time... Surface area?

Out in the asteroid belt, I'd live as far as I could *see*. Unfettered consciousness is a precious, precious thing... ...at the very least it should be.

Read on.

Thursday, July 05, 2018

At The Gravesite...

Lieutenant John Jones

There were these fellows, brave stalwarts in the service of their duty, their honor, and their country. Some scant weeks after their own Fourth Of July, let's pretend... it's now somewhat later, September 12th, 1952... are you with me?

Walk with these men. Stanger steps are seldom taken. 

Fading into these boots...you're a flight officer in the nascent Air Forces of the United States in 1952. This writer was four, then. You've been assigned to an airbase on the near-deserted azured green and frothy white coast of panhandle Florida. You are trained and educated to be part of the pool from which would later be drawn moon-walking astronauts. You're not arrogant, only appropriately confident; see, with few contenders of this Earth? You and your brothers would compete in an aspiration to rule Earth's skies. See links to the torrid tale at the conclusion of this piece.

As fate was determined, you go, and oddly, missing in action. It's ostensibly a "training mission," but it's the combat aviator understanding the difference between flying in training and then flying in combat. 

The only difference is the but slight increase of stuff in the air to hit... canopy breached, hot metal flashing through the plexiglass faceplate of your helmet and taking out a side of your facechurning your brain in the bucket of your headgear and then flopping down over your remaining good eye. It happens in training. 

As it turns out, the evidence would point to you flying into some alternative training, Special High- Intensity Training, seriously strange and more terrifying, even, than that alluded to encounter with shrapnel... or an enemy for which one is trained. You didn't sign up for this, even if you would have.

Big sky, little bullets, sure, but then there is the unknown unknown really filling the void of one's unspeakable and imagined loathing! See, you had never trained for what it looks like you were sent out to face.


Actual telegram received by the family...


Ultimately, your folks get the dreaded telegram, a well-known horror of the gold-star family saved like it was written on the skin of you, their loved one... and it rather was. ...Notification that their son or daughter was missing and in dire straights or dead. 

There can be literally no amount of gold stars making the slightest difference... then add that they're never getting a hint of the truth, your memory for them having been "the dead guy blamed for his own misfortune" and needless demise.  An errant pilot, erring. This writer was a military Master Aviator. No pilot wants that as their legacy.




All hopes, then, are coal to a mourning Newcastle... your folk's misery, abject. Then they hear from a man in support of those responsible for what has all the appearances of an Air Force cover-up...



After the board examination of the military, there would be this small stone, quickly forgotten and overgrown. Beneath it lay forgotten dreams... and a sacrifice which has been demeaned.




After the Air Force had washed their hands of him and later on even denying his very existence to Field Investigator Frank Feschino (in two separate inquiries to different agencies trying to get to the bottom of the strange affair), he found the grave and family of Lieutenant Jones.  




Later on, and after many years, Feschino would return to the grave site and plant a few flags for 2018's July fourth. He would have to give the plot a spruce up and then brush time's detritus from the engravings...  remembering. Respecting.



Here lay not the man, one is reminded. His bones, aircraft, and radar operator were never recovered or seen again. Presently, he is but a memory wrongly remembered and dishonored for the convenience of suspicious secret keepers. This writer says true. Feschino would aspire to put that to right.


Frank C. Feschino Jr. would pose plot-side with a Newspaper article chronicling the 1952 affair. This affair would give even retiring Stanton Friedman pause, among significant others. Friedman would provide Feschino support, assist in the investigation, and write the fore an afts of all Feschino's books. 

One wonders why one couldn't be moved to call this an endorsement as close to a death-bed confession as respect and "an appropriate" allows, forgetting... live long and prosper Mr. Friedman! My point is that a guy like Friedman with an unargued reputation is all in on the premise. Stepping down now as rather undefeated champion... ...seems he'd be more careful with a respected legacy... unless...

Regardless, Friedman would agree, I believe, pointing out the supremacy of the directions data takes... data... unspun, it is truth.  That should mean something.


Respectful remembrance at the grave
of a forsaken hero betrayed by a
supposed need for secrecy. 


Seriously? Full-on air to air combat? An undeclared and secret air war with ET? ...Endeavoring not to presuppose, the perspicacious follow data for its leadership, it's shown. 


READ THE FULL STORY

Part I of VI


Thinking you know, and knowing not, but pretending you know not when you do know are likely equally egregious, societally toxic, and just no way for sentient humans to live their lives.

Read on.