Justification

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

Tuesday, November 22, 2022

"I'm Your Huckleberry"

For Ron Mon... if that is his real name...
.
.
.
So you DARE to call me crazy? 
I'll debate that point's contention, 
best prepare to pay a "freight" conjectured fair! 
See, I'll snap your weak derision 
(born of fatuous pretension!), 
and return it with three folds—
One best beware!
.
We'll see who's sane when it's explored
the assumptions bigots make,
make "light" unsettled darknesses 
light's loathe to mask or fake.
Prepare for self-disclosures, then
Offended folk? Be free!
"I'm not locked up in here with you;
You're locked in here, with me."
 .
See, your "insult's": insufficient! 
They define your small pretension—
and they frame you out, so plain, 
for one to see. 
Friend? Your reductionism's facile; 
Though, I'm shoved upon its "edge" 
...but I've resolved you're sans control; 
of you I would be free!
.
See? You're not remotely "free," dim-bulb... 
you're befettered by "restriction," 
impeded by that cold wet fish 
of *class*... its "bitch," *tradition*!  
See, "Tradition's" over-mechanized 
to shore-up jealous means. 
Most "ceremony" shackles us 
and keeps us from our dreams.
.
Then? Who lives where 
you'd know terror, friend; 
who knows your secret deals? 
Who knows what kids are thinking 
(and that from them you shall steal!)?
... 
...Who knows if washboard clouds must mean 
a sound—so low—is heard; 
only whales hear this music 
so should live free, undeterred...
.
...For me, I'd freely die out on 
the edge of airless space... 
before I'd give an inch to such as you
Your *righteous* soporific's 
flatly specious in its whining... 
what we've come to find 
is blatantly untrue!
.
Why, it's you who's plainly crazy—
self-defined—and then what's next
Why, it's you, a mawkish blue-nose, 
who contrives some "failed test." 
It's you, your foul "activity", 
and your *righteousness* pretended—
to you of course that can't apply... 
as hypocrites suspend it!
.
As for you, you'll get comeuppance 
when the truths you hide are known. 
Who, then, climbs your walls in anger, 
and, then, who drags you from your home? 
Who will ask those questions 
which are answered from the heart? 
...You shall not have your "lawyer" there 
to play his scabrous part!
.
You'll stand alone, uncovered. 
Who's then calling on the phone? 
Who makes you pay for disrespect... 
Who's taking back your bone?
.
Who's had enough of *secrets*? 
Who'll make you rue your day... 
that you hitch good folks to servitude
and then make them pay your way?
.
You don't deserve the secrets 
which should rain from starry skies. 
You don't deserve that bounty, 
and you shouldn't wonder why!

You're "content" to stumble blindly 
in the shadows of your *Fathers*, 
you fletch them out as heroes
and won't listen or be bothered 
if we later find them ill-advised, 
aligned by specious *sight*, 
a shackle on our freedoms
as obstructers of our light!
.
You contrive your *little* secret 
in the hopes that you slide by—
are absolved for your indifference 
so we gulp your bigger lie. 
I point this out, flat mad as hell, 
as I am off my knees! 
My play'd be "pay the piper," 
so our children could be free!
.
For this you mock/deride me, 
that I see you wear no "clothes"—
that I mock your lack of "balance," 
and your ethic's full of "holes." 
That the 'man' would squeeze your gonads,
 and you'd toe his unjust line 
to spew unjust derisiveness, 
abusing all you find!
.
You'd encourage new divisiveness 
while the world slowly dies. 
You'd abrogate "decisiveness" 
to feed your fat despised!
.
Giving in to their malignity, 
you are the true depraved! 
You have given in to devils! 
You are wrong, unjustunbrave!  
You prosecute the innocent 
to suit depraved elites; 
you undercut our values 
and then push us to the streets!
.
I bite an unwashed thumb at you! 
I give the "secret" sign! 
I hoist my middle finger 
in the hopes that you're confined! 
I continue my rude gestures—
I intimate contempt
Your outrage and annoyance, 
I portend, is heaven sent!
.
See, your lack of "face" emboldens me, 
I am DRIVEN by your spite! 
Encouraged by your bitter bile 
I fight a better fight!
Your jeers, they must embolden me.
I've seen what makes you cheer!
My self-respect goes up a notch
Any time you smirk or sneer! 
Your taunts? My ammunition! 
Your jeers? My hand grenades! 
See? Your petty—facile—comments 
fuel poetic fusillades!
.
I've strength where you have weakness 
'cause I understand your plight
I hate your jealous shadows! 
You hate I want more light!
.
So I fester in your kill file! 
I shall not go away. 
Like Jefferson's black progeny? 
I'll shout the truth one day!  
'Till then? I'll be so "up your nose," 
your pea-brained head distends!  
Your lips will feel my scrubbing knees 
and my boot heels feel your chin.
.

lehmberg2002@gmail.com
www.AlienView.net




    "I'm Your Huckleberry"


  • Yeah—too!  Those you'd criticize—for all their competencies, talents, and integrities—may have feet of clay as all do. Their mistakes have been made. Their credulities have been strained. Their assumptions have been prosecuted. Their confidences have been betrayed.  These are significant still if only for their consistent sincerity... even as I can't agree with them in all cases...
  • ...Yet they are as GODS of absolute HUMILITY and perfect certification when compared with your boundless, if groundless hubris, tedious self-promotion, and abundant lack of wit...
  • "You grovel at the feet of these, a piss-wit's toad on scabby knees..."
  • See?  You are especially obnoxious given that the "fruit" from your metaphoric "trees" screams "dolt," "lack-wit," "troll," "fatuous bore," and "coward"! Your production is laughably homocentric, hopelessly narcissistic—larded with pathetic arrogance and baseless hubris, and your anxious explication is only evidence of rank cowardice, intellectual and otherwise, full stop!
  • Now... that's an exposing exposé worthy of an exposed exposure, eh? Still, entirely lost on you, I suspect.  That's what reflex reductionism will do for you: enslave you to a misapplied Occam... See, it remains that sometimes it is required to "complicate the hypothesis," you klasskurtxian swine!  Occam never ruled that out contrary to what you might have believed. He said, "not without necessity"!  Necessity commands!
  • Step off, there's a lad!  Then pound cement past a prolapsed pore. There, that's better.  Know too: "I'll be your huckleberry...," and strike the sun were it to provide your offense!  It's.  My.  Job!
  • You know who you are.  Bunched up, hopelessly inbred, and mutually supporting, one metaphoric or literary grenade gets you all! Read on.

Tuesday, October 25, 2022

Good News, Plus...


Good News, Plus...
by Alfred Lehmberg


It had seemed a propitious day, if tense and ominous... if filled with dread. Reality, looming. Existentiality in meatspace. That bell tolling for thee. Well, me... this time. The inexorable singularity remains to loom for us all. That may be good news, whoever you are. Read on.

Unfortunately, my very fearful, now-late Mother made the nonplussing disclosure to the first internet buddy calling me on the telephone. I'd had a stroke, you see. There was concern. We won't bury the lead.

She did it out of concern and fear for what she knew was a sympathetic ear, but it was "disclosure" nonetheless. I'd have sooner if we kept it to ourselves. The reader can suspect why.

Why? Think about it... I didn't want a reader to have any "excuses" to employ against me, thinking they could confidently answer questions about me, or the like, and it was largely my own damn business, anyway! I was the one payin' the f'n freight... and besides. It's not like I'm an airline pilot or a neurosurgeon... well, maybe a neurosurgeon, remembering Ben Carson...

She didn't know, was the point. "Otherwise distracted," myself? I didn't think to tell her not to. It's what people do.

The result was that I hadn't remotely felt like she'd blabbed. Her heart was in the right place, yea and verily. She's gone now... 1996...

It remained that the "news" was out, though, so I'd endeavor to turn it into a disclosure of my own... and a good thing, too! For reasons I'll go into, it was good news for you too, reader, even as you might perceive that it was bad news for me. It was good news; however, for me, though, tooOpportunity had presented itself!

Seriously! I mean that. See, the bell was rung, and hard... ...just, not shattered. This would be a bell taking the lesson! I was well served as it turned out...

See? As part of the new mammalian internet consciousness and aware of (unabashedly woke to?) an initiative combating the reptilian consciousness which had preceded it... and in the spirit of same? I was compelled to make a full report of that good news to you, reader. Listen up.

It was good news, remaining so years later, surprisingly, and I would be laughing, laughing in the pleasure of that news, sincerely, even as I first typed these words, now so long ago. Why, I'm laughing, now!

There were some grateful tears mixed in with all the eventual laughter. I was extremely grateful that I still had the capacity for both... 

One anxious Tuesday, many years ago, at about eight o'clock in the morning... and during some news report about the aggregate egregiousness that our then-current United States government had committed (...but that story only at the tip of the iceberg, [right ?!]), I'd had that stroke to which we allude...

Yeah... sincerely committed to the idea that I just may live forever? I had a stroke. It was an attention-getter, yea, and verily!

Not a bad one, mind you, and not one requiring me to bang this essay out with my forehead, now, by any means... even as it's slowed me down... but a stroke nonetheless. A "Bell" rung as indicated, and I was shaken to my stackin' swivels!

I was left unsure on my feet, later making a lot more mistakes as I typed, and I couldn't chord my guitar for a long time... but hey... it could have been a lot worse. A lot worse. Moreover, recovery continues. Lucky stars are well-counted!

Oh, I'd had it comin'. We all do. Close to fifty pounds overweight, no real regular exercise in the preceding decade, and wrapped a little too tight (one might argue?) than is good for anybody? I'd been skatin' a tad too close to the edge of the f'n abyss for a while, at that point! The aforementioned bell tolled, finally, for... me. Sucker gut-punch!

I got a "wake-up call," to cut to the chase. Moreover, that new mammalian consciousness I'd alluded to earlier can transfer! Make it a wake-up call for yourself, too, if you choose! A 'freebie' "Lehmberg's Good News Plus" call! ...Costs you nothing but the time to read this essay. You could be pointed in a whole new, and more efficacious, direction.

...But outed? I owe it to you, reader, to start the, alluded to, transfer... apply the appropriately efficacious, inspired, and aspiring spin... tell the true story. See, I'm not to be pitied, or eased-up-on, or considered infirm... I'm not to be immediately considered dotty, disrupted, disordered, or disturbed. I'm still me, if a little slower version at present. Moreover, I flatly refused and wouldn't (won't!) tolerate reflexive sympathy. ...Wouldn't own it. ...Didn't stand for it! 

An abutting illustration, does the honored reader remember Rich Reynolds of the very suspiciously spurious and specious "RRR Group" out of Fort Wayne, Indiana... He was circa an Internet of yesteryear and from decades past (last century, in fact)? You can read his homocentric, hubris-filled, and arrogantly mewling "pule-expulsion," still. I won't link to it.

Well, he'd had a light stroke earlier and I backed way off his expositional case, as a result, treated him with toleration he did not deserve... extended to him an idiosyncratic credit he did not earn! ...And, as a, one would suppose, predictable result of a subsequent "pointed discussion on ethics, credibility, and fair or balanced ufological reporting, unrelated to him, where no good deed goes unpunished"? ...He plunged an unearned blade of bogus manufacture deeply into my very innocent back... right around kidney level... for my trouble and earnest consideration! 

Even if that trouble was senseless, un-based, and unfounded, still, it was serious and sincere! It was an unconscionable fabrication to wound! One is faulted to remember the headline ACCUSATION (!) before one remembers the below-the-fold exoneration! An accusation is always above the fold and the exoneration ever below.

This twat, this psychotic scourge, this toadie net-weasel circuitously suggested by way of a guy on his writing team, to our shared community at large (in a very public forum, the late Errol Bruce Knapp's UFO UpDates) that this writer was a pedophile...

!!!


See how this is gonna function? Mr. Reynolds dies periodically on the journalistic cross and continues to die at every opportunity presenting itself, for whatever provoked concern, concerning anxiety, or needless apprehension this writer feels the need to periodically express correcting a distorted record... 

See how this might work? I've no reflexive respect for the dead, and the reader might consider their own even as I contemplate my own. Too often that "respect" only provides for a continuation of the unconscionable and egregious. Respect should be earned in death as it was in life. Consider Christopher Columbus. Sometimes history has been made to lie... and that just sickens the soul.

The reader was better advised to feel about me... exactly as the reader felt about me before my, actually fortuitous, episode, good, bad, or indifferently ugly. I had not changed, so the reader would have less of an excuse of such. Moreover? My character remained undamaged!

Be silently ambivalent, wish me well, or even ill. Then move on, with my thanks. I'll eat your literary face for anything less or more. I may eat it anyway; we must first come to that bridge.

Still, and now, a "fortuitous episode"? Yes. Proceeds now, the good news. 

You see, for the better part of two years, previously, I had co-written a series of information papers with a former longtime friend and fellow military retiree Alan Graham. We collaborated about diet, nutrition, and the aggregate disservice done to all of us by a disingenuous American Medical health system and its "evil pharmacological ancillaries." Yeah... there's some nuanced if dicey shiznit afoot, medically, shiznit in large part obscured by your du jour conspiracy crazies and their monied corporate backers who most aren't woke (see above) to, but that's a dive for another time! 

Back at "the ranch," Alan is the fellow who 'cured' himself of the 'incurable' ailment called Crohn's Disease, 'hereditary' arthritis, and some other diseases of the 20th Century. By all evidence of same, he vastly improved my extremely ill mother's last-years quality of life and assisted many others (why even "UFO abductee fake" Jim Mortellaro and his alleged wife [allegedly stricken with MS] among them, allegedly!), this writer had witnessed same. 

A quality of life they had thought gone from them forever was returned. True stories all. Encouraging stories. Instructive stories. Stories of hope and a better quality of life. 

Like many of you currently reading, I thought I was one of those immune to the diseases of the 21st Century. Not so. As a result, I wasn't really practicing what I'd helped preach. 

Back at that original ranch, the circle-bar-stroke, I had survived what amounts to my second wake-up call... or, at least, that 2nd "wake-up" requiring a 911 buzz, an ambulance,  and a subsequent 3-day hospitalization. The first episode was very brief, quickly recovered from, and a result of sleeping in a funny position... ...I "thought." 

This had happened about 5 weeks previously... about the time that Rich Reynolds was twisting his contrived, fallacious, and libelous knife in my back... hmm? An interesting coincidence!

Back to me, I was just lying to myself about my physical condition. I knew what it was. I just willingly self-deceived. We do that, don't we...

No more. It's the third strike for which you have to walk (or be carried) away from the plate, after all. If I can't hit a home run with my efforts, I'd still, at least, like to get on base. 

I still intend to get a 'hit', reader. That said, I'd ended my self-abuse at a bone dry 225 pounds (should be about 170, tops, soaking wet), blood pressure averaging 170 over 110 or thereabouts (should be about 120 over 85)... and was rendered unsteady on my feet if of sound mind... I lost for a time the coordination to play my guitar. That was especially and ominously crushing. 

I was hoping I could report to you later that I'd dropped the meds and gotten my guitar-playing ability back. I did the latter. Still burdened with the former... but the numbers get better with every doctor visit!

I had hoped to make a full recovery, reader. A complete one. I aspired to be better than before. I aspire still to that goal. Progress was made.

Additionally, I'd hoped I could give the reader more time at-bat, themselves, as a result of some small attention the reader might pay to the evolved saga, here. What I intended to do is described very well at the indicated location (Google 'Graham Lehmberg' on the Alienview website), so I don't have to be tedious about it here in the essay. The reader can go have a look as the reader wishes. Or, e-mail me. I'll direct her to the sun source! North of any politics, you'll do fine.

The site is not the B's knees & end-all. It remains; however, to establish a path! Osteopathic trumps the allopathic!

It's not required to pay attention or follow along in any way, of course. It's just that the new mammalian internet I've referenced a couple of times now makes it possible for me to effortlessly share this "good" news! I shall, indeed, share. 

It's my duty, I suppose, forgetting I'd as soon have kept it to myself. I have a system. I have a plan. I have hope.

I've good people around who care about me. Good news like I said. For me and, as I said, for you too...

But what does all this have to do with UFOs? It's this. 

When I was lieing in the bed at the hospital that Tuesday evening after midnight, in the 2nd deepest dark of the blackest night I have ever known—even requiring help to urinate, reader—I was compelled to wonder if this was not the end of all things for me. Depression... 

The end of physical love? The end of mobility? The end of the complete satisfaction I had taken for granted concerning wife, family, friends, and my little pound puppy dog, the late Sheiba? The abrupt end of a thousand and one other pleasurable things, wounds of slings and arrows dismissed as immaterial

Perhaps not surprisingly to the reader? The loss of UFOs and the earnest consideration of their ancillaries figured closely after my concerns for the just iterated items... that I was being taken out of the game, you know? Everyone understands that. Bad enough to die... but to linger incapacitated and a burden.

I got released from the hospital late Wednesday morning. I was responding favorably to treatment and got a lot of mobility back as a result. After checking in with family and friends, still, my thoughts were on the night sky and her accouterments. 

Thursday morning came with the usual alarm at 02:30 hours, and I was, apparently, to be given another chance to stare, at least once again, into her matchless depths and deeper reaches. Honestly, I lusted for that night sky... another gift I had taken for granted, I discovered. I won't make that mistake again. 

At about 05:15 hours Central Time that day, with a temperature around 30 degrees Fahrenheit, I was looking to the west at the best Star-field I'd seen in quite a while. Winter always has the best... 

!!!

The object appeared over the South South-West tree line, brighter than Venus, at about 50 degrees elevation, and preceded to travel Northerly at a rate of about 5 degrees in 15 seconds until it disappeared, also at about 50 degrees elevation, in the tree line to the North! The sighting happened between 05:15 and 05:20 hours, or thereabouts. It traveled with such unvarying regularity and brightness that I took it for the Space Station or an especially bright satellite. Checking the NASA java application for satellite prediction; however, at a NASA site for satellite observation and setting the application for ALL satellites and ALL passes, showed that there were NO satellites between 03:40 hours and 11:28 hours of 'any' type or at 'any' magnitude of brightness for my location (ZIP code 36330). 

A UFO, friends and neighbors! With any other name? It would smell as sweet! I was well and truly served. Gladdened even. The reader may understand why—brushes with death always make a person appreciate the 'little' things. 

I was still in the game! I'm in the game still! I'll keep you posted? Read on!

Plastic is silver to a person sans flatware...




Thursday, October 06, 2022

Seditious Sky...


.

.
.
So... glamoured, I gaze into endless dark skies. 
Skies, so pro-capable of spinning vast lies.* 
The kind of a sky that snatches your breath; 
a beautiful sky that all must regret... 
remains it's alive with an uncommon light 
to question "contentment" or query what's "right."
.
...Then it appears so abruptly I'm startled
A CRAFT (?)—or A LIGHT (?) 
...but, you call it, Ronald!  
It assaults my cognition
and assails one's senses...
it batters perception...
I'm rendered quite senseless!
,
...I shall not be sorry for bearing such witness; 
dismissals are facile, sans courage, and witless!
.
...And it swayed (!) and was pulsing 
across the dark sky! 
Its speed was inconstant
I'm seeing this, Clyde!
.
...And, I know it sounds crazy... 
Yes, I know it's obverse; 
what I can't tell you outright
I'll express it in verse!
.  
See, the verse is a transcript 
of what has been seen
"disclaimer" provided 
as verse is demeaned?  
Still, happening in fact
all it takes is one time; 
then, self-honesty dictates 
a change in one's mind!
.
...It *wafted* along
—its purpose a mystery—
.  
Too? Doing away with those tales we're told;
to deify "fathers" who make us less bold!
Hear epics of "heroes" 
to which you're compared... 
when they never existed!  
...And you're "unworthy," Mon frère?
.
Rather... I propose our history's lies 
are toxic cloth we should despise... 
a damned and thread-bare tapestry! 
 A cloth of artless sophistry... 
contriving that which holds us down
supports too few—sports errant crowns! 
.
...For I've—so—seen "them" flying 
in the glittering above! 
It was certainly not an airplane
or a seagull or a dove
This... thing was not an airship
or a storm cloud, or a finch
It wasn't Hynek's' "swamp gas,
then, you smirking son of a bitch!
.
...And then at once it brightened, 
and I thought it must explode! 
It dead-stopped in the star field and then, 
flickered, burned, and glowed
I held my breath to wait and see 
what this might be about, 
then, it did the damnedest thing
It but flickered... and went out!
.
Awestruck—I stared, befuddled, 
into empty star-filled space, 
my chin a'bounce from buckling knees—
I'm so gobsmacked and amazed; 
...then *daughter* lights came out to play 
...along "meanders" traced (!), 
and flashing red and white they're GONE
departing in all haste!?!
...
...
...
All the stars are laughing then, 
or it seems so on reflection, 
that I was there to process 
this anomalous projection.  
A common man without "Doc's" letters, 
"without portfolio"
—inconsequential... unimportant, 
...Sans braggadocio!
That I could be the one to see 
this para-normal light... 
which was visible to thousands, 
maybe millions, am I right?
.
That I would see this strangeness 
so belittled by "the news"—
that I'd... more clearly fathom... 
all the wonder it imbues!  
The "greatest story never told
and what it just might mean... 
the actualizing of oneself ...
to better "hopes" and "dreams"!
.
...Though, we have had our "trust" betrayed
been thieved from "fair and square"; 
our air and food are poisonous—
water's getting rare!  
So, I'll not then be buying 
what our "ruling gentry's" said, 
as they've clearly been untruthful, cousin! 
I would do this then, instead!
.
...I'd Cop to "living" skies, my friends! 
They're not an errant joke! 
Too, they're in no way beholden 
to those persons blowing smoke!
.
...To me at least, it makes no sense... 
this entropy of common sense; 
this desolation of the self; 
this final loss of mental health? 
The losses 'twixt your "hawks" and "doves"... 
The deaths of wholesome care and love...
.
You so choose, at cost
so stow it
then, cheated and alone... 
...you blow it?
.
...Though, STILL be optimistic 
in this blackened Winter night! 
Lights will still move strangely
but they won't increase our fright.  
They are, instead, strange "alternates"—
alternatives—new voice! 
They do not pay observance to the "man"!  
They offer CHOICE!
.
See, that's the real problem 
with what "serves" us as "Officials."  
We're offered an "alternative" 
which, then, could be beneficial.  
"Kings" just as soon have none of that; 
they'd keep you on your knees—
they'd introduce reductionists 
and substitute "disease"!
.
UFOs? A comfort 
when compared to our own kind... 
who'd let their own just starve to death... 
driven crazy, sick, and blind
The lights can be, then, much preferred (!), 
compared to me and you 
or the fulsomeness of anger 
'twixt the Christian/Moslem/Jew! 
Their lights are then more favored, friend, 
than governments of hatred
"governments" down primrose paths... 
to "hells" for which we're fated?
.
...And me? Well, I'll be watching 
for those "lighted cosmic ships" 
... entities thought sailing in an ocean sky eclipsed? 
...And I won't await "consensus," 
or a "scientific" nod, 
or the words of fulsome "ministers," 
or the mewling of some mob!
.
I've seen them fly—goddamnit
 How worthy, then, your sneer 
...I've come to understand, my friend, 
just masks a coward's fear!
.
You think that I'm affected 
by your lies and obfuscation; 
you think that I'm controlled or led 
by vast prevarications; 
you're thinking I'm a hapless clone 
to listen and obey—your drone?
.
Get a grip, you're almost through...
our times are fast a changin'... ...true!
You miss the train and won't perceive
you're standing on its tracks, you see. 
.




      • *If our sun, at *this* moment, exploded... we wouldn't know about it for eight and a third minutes.  Further away Betelgeuse—a monster sun swollen to the size of Jupiter's orbit and glaring balefully from the constellation Orion's right shoulder (and still tiny, by the way!)—provides for a colossal explosion we wouldn't know about... for another 640 years!  Further away than that is the truth, farther away.
      • *The lying skies lie as the sky must lie.  What you "see" is not... "what you get," you see?  To the contrary! One looks at the obfuscating night sky and shall not perceive what "is" but rather, at best, what "was."  The sky is not current events, the reader discovers; it is a grudging "history," and history, remember, further back the farther we gaze out into it. Their unguessable futures have already occurred. ...Can there even be a "now" for everyone and everything, there we're all an operation of likely probabilities, and we take that for reality?
      • See the "sliding scale" of truth provoked by distance?   Consider, we really do advance into the future perceiving only the misinterpreted and so distorted reflections from a crazed and indistinct rear-view mirror!  The point?
      •  I suspect that this is the draw of a SETI program or simulacrum.  Fixed myopically on what happened "long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away," one can then use their cognitive dissonance to excuse their cowardice, reader, and pretend that a truth measured only as light-nano-seconds removed from fact—of the clock—is not there at all.
      • It remains; we really do perceive only a grudging and after-the-fact forthrightness from the duplicitous sky with regard to the truth, reader, because, facilitated as it is by a glacial "speed of light," it has not yet made TIME—to tell us the truth. Maybe that's its apology. 
      • It remains that this lie becomes only grander and progressively unknowable as one moves one's perception further away, and is a tangential reminder that at center?  The only truth one can really aspire to is oneself.
      • When you "look," you "find"! To start? Perhaps, yourself! See, the skies may lie, but not about what's in them. It's YOU, after all, in something else's sky... and how true are you?


      Restore John Ford!



      "Shoot Them Down"! --


      Quadrature --


      Wendy's Song --


      Rudiak Rides Again --


      HyperSpace --


      Taken --


      Always Searching --


      SkyLights --



      Monday, September 12, 2022

      September 12th, 1952!

      Seconds from the playground and all history...

      September 12th, 1952! 

      by Alfred Lehmberg

      [SEE THE BOTTOM FOR VIDEO DOCUMENTARY]


      On September 12th we will have reached an inauspicious and regrettable anniversary for America. It is not a nice anniversary. It's a lot more nuanced than that. 

      The reader must, unfortunately, if constructively, wade a tedious mire, an unsettled swamp in 70 years of societal cowardice, homocentric hubris, scientistic (sic) timidity, corporate treachery, social infidelity, and the clutching embrace of our own enforced cosmic mediocrity so seemingly sought... all this forecasts a coming judgment. Not the judgment of some jealous God, no! This would be a judgment or judgments we'd be making ourselves... as ever and always. The writer writes in the spirit of gods manufactured to do the manufacturer's bidding and something to which responsibility can be shunted when the manufacturer is out of his depth. God's will.

      We choose this. It is a choice made every year. It’s a bad choice. We can make better choices.

      On the aforementioned date in 1952, there arrived the conclusion of what must be the most tumultuously far-reaching affair of our time or any other time! This affair, dwarfing all other affairs handily and effortlessly, is an affair at once and simultaneously giving opportunity for our self-aware species to know a past, secure a present, and prepare for our looming future. That’s how big it truly is. Only, we blew it then, will be the assertion... as we’ll blow it... now?

      This hugely colossal affair in 1952 was called the “Summer Of Saucers.” This particular summer earned its unsettling name by hosting so many civilian and military close encounters with UFOs flying unwelcome into those self-same prohibited military or civil airspaces… and even impinging on the airspace over the Capital (!), that a United States President would order them shot down using extreme prejudice in the interests of our National security! Besides that? The military would have wanted one of those things. Perhaps securing same? ...We digress.

      This “Summer Of Saucers” was a summer of our state-of-the-art jet aircraft inexplicably falling out of the sky, fully fueled and armed, to cause massive collateral damage on the ground. A school was hit and one heavy sedan in another area was launched for a city block by a crashing military aircraft into other cars and storefronts! Moreover? Aircraft were launched after UFOs that did not return. Brave sacrificed pilots, pilots later discovered extant by one Frank C. Feschino Jr., were denied by military officiality as having ever even existed!

      Frank C. Feschino Jr,
      author of The Braxton County Monster,
      and without whom, his initiative and due diligence, America's airwar with ET
      would have been entirely, even purposely, forgotten.

      UFOs… (the term UAP is condemned as a facilitator for non-constructive cognitive dissonance on the subject and will not be used!). UFOs of the modern era would be dismissed in print and by scientific officiality as a nothing-burger every time any interest, caused by mass sightings or other high strangeness, was raised in that critical mass of interested persons. Where are we served pouring water on this stuff, every time?

      We are not served! By way of example, the edifice of Science itself takes one below the waterline, muffing and waffling through its lackluster inquiry into UFOs... something the "smart money" won't touch with a ten-foot pole.

      Every UFO wave since the middle of last century has ended up as roundly debunked, discredited, catcalled, and disgraced… eagerly misidentified by professional negativists and their official noisome naysayers as a mass hysteria, hysteria only ever facilitated and/or fomented by what this writer has coined as the “M-Cubed” crowd: those Misleading the Misled and the Mentally ill. These “miscreants, mysticals, and misanthropes” are the root cause, we're advised, for the dismissals and disassociations by a lauded and respectable science... and are (neatly!) the true creative engines of the lunacy, you see? 

      It would be these who are conflating birds, bolides, boosters, blimps, and balloons (swamp gas, fairies, and water nixies!) into the conjectured "occupied craft from other worlds and star systems" about which these obsess… This is what your anxious negativist and reflex reductionist will disingenuously advise. 

      September 12, 1952, a day that could live in infamy. Sincerely. 

      See, this was the day, seven decades ago now (if becoming more relevant with each passing moment—check the news reflecting current mass public interest in the ufological!) that was the end, officially, of humankind’s admitted if undeclared air war with ET, a war raging surreptitiously since the President had given his order. Almost lost to time. 

      This end was heralded by an obviously distressed UFO landing on the property of one West Virginia farmer whose land was neatly bordering the town of Flatwoods in that State, the State’s dead center! A group of boys were playing football in a nearby school playground at dusk on a warm Indian summer night...

      Landing on the far side of a small hill out of sight, and then disgorging some weird robot thing hissing noxious gases and hovering about the area, it terrified that small crowd of boys and young adults collected by them to investigate the landing. It would cause a significant and ongoing media brou-ha, and despite being covered at the time by the likes of legendary para-literary heavyweights Gray Barker, Ivan T. Sanderson, John Keel and Donald Keyhoe, the thread of a single sensical could just not be found tying the whole thing together. 

      This was before the release of the Project Blue Book files of that specific time… that is. After that, Frank Feschino was able to put together a pretty good case for the infamous Flatwoods Monster of yore on the 12th being something else altogether. Evidence suggests a downed alien aviator. This being's craft was conjectured shot down as a result of furious aerial activity precisely at that time… as multitudes of UFOs and the American jets launched to shoot them down on Presidential orders, leaped and danced in what one Blue Book Chief wrote were “lurid duels of death.”

      We should take a moment to allay a reader’s concern with regard to the potentiality of a space traveler able to navigate the distance between star systems as having a technology that must be capable of precluding any threat from mere human offensive weapons. That MAY be true! It remains to be seen, based, as it is, on "invulnerable UFOs" as conjectured if unsupported supposition only surmised. Zero facts. This writer has had other experiences.

      The military jets employed to shoot those UFOs down by Executive Order harbored quick-running ballistic rockets tipped with proximity fused warheads holding ten pounds of high explosive. These were fire-controlled by nascent flight computers of the time, and they were deadly. Designed to shoot down flights of Soviet Bombers by sailing into their midst and salvoing dozens of these missiles at them, any one of these was capable of bringing the Soviet bomber down, all by itself! This writer has fired hundreds of them from attack helicopters. They pack a decided punch.

      The reader can only speculate on what weapon defeating alien tech these aliens might have at their disposal, but this writer KNOWS that ten pounds of high explosive arriving at perhaps the speed of sound on the skin of your spaceship is really going to complicate your spaceship’s protective physics. Then, there is the documented evidence of that conflict.

      "Lurid duels of death"… this writer suspects that mere lurid is not the half of it. It will be a lot more tragic than mere "lurid." See, this might be one of those days where we reason out that we've abdicated our collective self-respect, turned our collective backs on futures looming on us like freight trains, and so denied, then, the fulsome aspects of a realizable and achievable existentiality based on the embrace of ourselves, finally, as our own possible salvation… the only one truly there at all, to achieve a realizable gylany, perhaps, as a human species; we could aspire to learn, know, live, and love… in all sincerity! 

      This is out there. That "kingdom" always professed at hand and in reach... in reach and at handThis writer’s eye to the reader’s own. ...But we digress, again.

      September 12, 1952, this was a period of furious and sustained aerial activity, to which we have already alluded, 21 continuous hours and some minutes, time sustained by numerous sightings and landings of UFOs in various spots surrounding Flatwoods… forgetting activity on all three United States Coasts down into Florida and… well, lurid indeed. Most of the activity condensed down to the last few minutes.  Lurid as a result of denial, obfuscation, and their attendant self-betrayal… of these occurrences. Brave men flew into the teeth of the wholly unknown as was pointed out in a link above, remember. 

      See, and the writer will make this point again  (it’s the theme, really), that if we had but faced our fear, our cowardice, our complacency, our indifference, and our bad faith 70 years ago, we would be 70 years ahead on this “the rest of the universe” thing and, this writer is betting, BE those dollars to donuts ahead… space farers maybe even making the asteroid belt into a living ring around our star—humanity... getting started on being a first category civilization instead of the sub-category civilization we ape currently, one still huffing plant flatulence from the carboniferous age when we could be getting every erg of needed energy, like plants do… from the sun, for free. Humanity believes itself to be smarter than plants...

      September 12th, 1952… the Flatwoods Monster is born to terrify, vex, overcomplicate, and exacerbate a media frenzy that lasted for months, and, all thanks only to Frank Feschino, to this day! The startling event would draw attention from all over the world as far away as Japan! One heavy battalion of the American Army infantry (and one loaded for prepared bear!) was dispatched to the Flatwoods area for cleanup… one would argue that all this would seem an extreme reaction to some hillbilly kids and their mom being scared by a barn owl at night in the dark, dark woods, as the haughty hubristic and wholly homocentric skeptibunkies and denialists would have it…  



      The Braxton County Monster, the Green Monster, the Flatwoods Monster… is sold by the too casual as a single story in and of itself, but that is not accurate. These are but the inconclusive end of a much bigger story where we have un-bravely sought new and more "acceptable" answers to this enormity, just as we have refused to face the answers before us and extant in their regard, already there. 

      We are not alone. The first of us are boggled! Most get over it.

      September 12th, 1952! Seven decades spawning three generations of sturdy human beings. These are human beings, singular in aspect and philosophy, who would have never known a time when they thought humanity was alone in a universe of increasing vastness and strangeness! This will be a vastness and strangeness SO vast and SO strange that imagination CAN be stunned to incredulity in the cosmic enormity of it all… at first! ...But only at first.

      That’s where we could be: three generations of humanity already embroiled in what is likely going to have to be accepted as reality eventually, anyway. This writer has lived through each of those generations, and each, the writer offers, would have been able to accept it more or less easily… and would be improved is the overpowering intuition, in the open-endedness of it. What would convince the writer of all this? Only that which we've already conceived entirely out of our own... what can only be imagined as currently limited... imaginations.

      Then? Then, like any child growing into new experiences, we’d find out… …maybe burn ourselves on the “stove” of a cosmic kitchen or cut ourselves on some new kind of “knife” in drawers currently beyond imagination or understanding… “learn,” in other words… but this writer suspects we’d do it as a united humanity realizing we’re the stranger in the strange room—to at last see fellow humans as fellow humans without regard to irrelevances like skin color or sexual preference, sex, religious creed, or political affiliation! 

      All of that dissolves to smoke and broken mirrors as we embrace humanity in the presence of other races of beings, friend AND foe… to provide a salvation to humanity that it only ever provided for itself, anyway… credit otherwise ever shunted to and excused as coming from the good graces of some bearded white guy, above… only, we provided it at the start. ...This writer has read that if God is required for your good behavior? You’re just a bad dog on a leash.

      Reader, and once again eye to eye with this writer when our eyes are on the same words now smeared before us across time and space, know THIS! Humanity has a bountiful plethora and fulsome cornucopia of that which it can be proud, and obviously! Know this to be entirely true at all consequent indices and on all substantive levels. ...That is precisely the problem, this writer suspects and fears. 

      For in that pride is also found the toxic arrogance, the baseless hubris, the unjustified pride of unearned egotism provoking narcissism, and that juvenile conceit provoking self-serving inapt social malfeasances! ...Not a good look for a species. We can’t sell that kind of unaccountability to ET; it’s rot too quick to stink! Obviate the rot to have them land forthwith, this writer suspects!

      September 12th, 1952? The "admission," then... an official disclosure... disclosure that we are not alone in the universe… along with, of course, the admonition that no untoward threat has been imposed by these "others," or has not been imposed with regard to them, for what has perhaps been many thousands of years… humanity could have been changed on a cellular level, most likely for the better, this writer suspects, with that official disclosure. 

      Regardless, if we’d faced this in 1952 (where we’re going to have to face something like this given any current events seeming revelatory!) we would be three generations to the stars… instead of the pre-category civilization we’ve limped to become… 

      ...And with God removed, unrequired, from our human equation? We’ve nothing and no one to blame but ourselves. That's all we've ever had to blame. One wonders what Gods ET has manufactured to do its bidding.

      Verily, we exist presently on the crest of a wave signifying a current interest in the ufological. This is that crest aforementioned, provoked by mass interest. The usual procedure is to fan the existential flames while mixing in damp-matter debunkeries, skepto-logical “imbalances,” irrelevant comparisons and grasping scatologies, and other worried argle-bargles... your balm for cognitive dissonances, the excuse to return to the same attitudinal complacencies, succoring cognitive dissonances, and rank intellectual cowardices… as has been performed since September 12th, 1952. It’s a choice. Heaven or Hell. We can make either or both, remember, and have been, since that first one of us became human.

      September 12th, 1952. That was one of the days we stood on the lip of eternity, gazed into its unavoidable depths—had it gaze back—  but passed entirely upon our likely efficacious progression into it... to miss one of those looming trains we alluded to earlier. 

      Remains: we’re our own proof of the “other”, and we can use that knowledge to legitimize the sincere search for same! A legitimate look for what MUST be just "new people across the gulf"... of space. Currently, science just pronounces on what it refuses to investigate honestly. We haven’t been, and we must. The toddler has to leave the crib eventually. We could have been seventy years out of it, now. Where will we be 70 years from today?

      Observe...

      ...Then try to ignore the indisputable fact that whole booming divisions of near infinite, so incalculable, multi-Dimensional vastnesses are spreading and sailing and blooming around you in a slow explosion of fusion magics and eldritch exotic elementals!

      Ignore a myriad panoply of vast cosmic artifacts churning, boiling, and weaving hysterically without seeming plan but for ultimate novelty and the unknowable existential...

      Ignore realized and idealized chaos where past, present, and future, based on arbitrary relative velocities...are one...

      ...Ignore raw expanses, near infinite themselves, which are installed in chartless tracts existing then and now, and then ignore this fulmination of the insistent corporeal into these futures unnamed and unnameable...

      Ignore space-times and surface areas stranger than _can_ be known, beyond all imagination, and apart from any supposition...

      ...Ignore heaven AND hell, reader, that long smear painted between them, that unknowable enormity between enlightened understanding and flummoxed incredulity...

      ...Ignore, finally, all manner of intelligent representation reflected betwixt beatific expressions of graced intelligence... all the way to slack-jawed expressions of drooling fools barely self-aware... full stop! Breathe.

      ...All of that can be hidden, reader, behind just one small grain of sand held at arm's length, 'twixt thumb and forefinger, anywhere in a 24-hour sky! No thing is impossible in this immensity! No thing is preposterous having the tiniest shred of the remotest possibility in this witheringly abstruse expanse of stunning potentiality! All that can be conjectured and then the much vaster amount... ...NOT! Not impossible at all. Little is. Very little...

      Happened. Happening. Will happen. That is the potentiality of time and space. See? There's more.

      ...In an amount equal to outer spacetime and surface-area described above, there is that which is reflected in inner space, too. Endlessnesses are wrapped in infinity and then folded into an eternity of mind, the Koch's Curve of reality in both directions... and in what directions not sensed or even conjectured. ...As above so below, eh? As below, so above!

      ...Another full stop! Then...

      ...There, at the hub of all of that... at dead center ...stands the conscious observer. You!

      At the center of all that is possible; however, inarguably meager the individual's senses are... and intimating a predicted shallowness of craft or capability possessed (?), one's shallow evaluation of their own dull organic sensory array must suffice... that consciousness of self-awareness, must persist. So, where's it writ large that monkeys making mouth noises, or scratching imperfect symbols insentiently in their canted and self-serving histories, can grok the big picture... ...but that we'll try?

      We choose, or not. It's on us! Entirely!

      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 


      Post Script...



      The 70th Anniversary of the
      "Flatwoods Monster" Incident





      It was seventy years ago today on September 12, 1952 when one of the world's biggest news stories gripped the world after a terrifying UFO/alien encounter occurred in Flatwoods, West Virginia. This was a case involving a downed UFO and its alien occupant, which became known as the "Flatwoods Monster" incident. It involved a 12-foot-tall armor-clad being. This being was encountered by a group of unsuspecting Flatwoods townspeople, including 2 adults and several children. This terrifying "close encounter of the third kind" quickly made headlines across the globe, was talked about, effusively, on the radio and TV, and was featured one week later on a nationally broadcasted live TV program named, "We The People." Mysteriously, this long-running popular TV talk show was suddenly canceled after the episode following the "Flatwoods Monster" airing! Curious!


      Yet, even though the popularity and fame of the "Flatwoods Monster" had risen quickly in the public eye, there was a dark downside to the story as well! Government intelligence agencies had covertly stepped into the picture, kept a watchful eye over the unfolding situation, quickly worked to diffuse it while skeptics had a field day in debunking the story. In the years that followed, the "Flatwoods Monster" appeared in several books and countless newspaper articles around the world but the inconsistencies in reporting the incident abounded and became horrendous early on, abiding even today! The witnesses were constantly misquoted and the incident was heavily bowdlerized and contrived to seem highly doubtful.


      The government's official explanation reported that the incident was caused by a passing "fireball meteor" and the witnesses probably misinterpreted the tall "so-called monster" as a "barn owl" perched high on a tree branch at dusk! Not true on any level! This "monster" incident, as well as many other UFO cases during the 1952 "Summer of the Saucers" had the American public panicked because UFO sightings were at a historical high over the country that year! Here, the cover-up of this alien encounter was determined as necessary by the government and actions to squash it were quickly and covertly implemented. Mass hysteria was indeed avoided!


      Subsequently, the "Flatwoods Monster" case was on the way to becoming a mere West Virginia myth of sketch-less folklore. As time passed, the skeptics continued to have a field day in reporting their absurd explanations of the incident, thus making the story even more convoluted, far-fetched and unbelievable. As a result, the majority of the public didn't believe the tale, the famous "monster" case was to be shelved as a curious legend and the forthright witnesses were, and have been, laughed at for decades! Luckily, and as fate would have it, the story doesn't end here! You see, in 1952, there were a few people of consciousness who investigated the incident and believed that this terrifying incident actually did happen. Thankfully, some of these investigators involved in the Flatwoods case did leave historical documentation about the incident in their books, published periodicals and private newsletters. Yet, with all the valuable information they discovered, documented and reported on, the entire story behind this mysterious alien visitor and the circumstances surrounding the enigmatic and bizarre incident was never fully known. That was all about to change!


      Enter illustrator and videographer Frank C. Feschino, Jr. forty years later. Intrigued and perplexed by the story, Frank picked up this cold case where it had left off back in 1952, was immediately engaged, ran hard with it, never looking back. Feschino would truly become the first primary investigator involved in the case since it was originally investigated in 1952 and would bring the "Flatwoods Monster" case to a whole new higher level! During his arduous, sometimes even hazardous, investigation, Feschino traveled extensively, accumulating a mass of information including the works of the aforementioned past investigators. He searched for and found numerous book and magazine publications, private research papers and scores of newspaper articles from around the world. Most importantly though, Feschino found the gold when he got his hands on the long-forgotten declassified official government files that documented the Flatwoods case and UFO events of September 12, 1952! These were the Project Blue Book case files that were classified and unavailable to the original investigators back in 1952.


      Unsettlingly, Frank discovered that the government had intentionally convoluted the Flatwoods case's evidentiary trail with misleading information and lies but there still remained other scattered clues and widespread pieces to this cold-case puzzle! These were clues and pieces telling the truth, if strewn about—buried all across the United States! After years of research, compiling all the data and then interpreting it, Feschino not only discovered that this alien encounter had indeed occurred, but also put together an astounding timeline of events for September 12, 1952. He disclosed there was actually 21-sustained hours of unending UFO activity occurring over ten east coast states!


      On the day of September 12, 1952, Feschino was able to pinpoint 116 documented locations involving 25 separate and distinct UFOs over those ten states, and he also discovered that four of those UFOs were heavily damaged! These four damaged craft, which were seen by countless witnesses throughout the eastern seaboard were in flames, flying low-level and had made repeated landings, by report; one of those damaged and downed objects held an occupant that abandoned its crippled craft on a farm in central West Virginia. This "occupant" was initially named, "The Phantom of Flatwoods," and would later come to be called, the "Flatwoods Monster" or the "Braxton County Monster."


      Shockingly, Frank discovered that by putting all of the individual UFO events into a chronological timeline and piecing it all together, the story demonstrably involved two seeming "search and rescue missions" by extraterrestrials for Extraterrestrials. Frank Feschino's groundbreaking book, a completed essay map of his investigation into the famous "Flatwoods Monster" incident is titled, The Braxton County Monster—The Cover-up of the Flatwoods Monster Revealed, "Updated and Revised."


      For more information about this fascinating incident please visit:




      AND

      THE VIDEO DOCUMENTARY!


       


      Grok In Fullness

      Errol

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