Ouroboros And Fermi's Hubris

Ouroboros And Fermi's Hubris
by Alfred Lehmberg

I offer that the Fermi's 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 always oversimplify.

It remains that 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, that all we have is each other for the remotest salvation, and that we are nowhere being kind enough to each other to secure that salvation. One turns to invented Gods securing, as designed and noted, 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 will only trump 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, reflecting. 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, but that toll paid. 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. That was the 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 the lowest 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.

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 teams—that 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 attention—like 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 off—something 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 uncomfortable—a cold, slap in the face—with 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...

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 standards. 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, presented himself. 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 (only every effin' checkride while on active duty!), 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, actually! 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 that unnecessarily secluded clearing, eh? 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 rolled 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... could 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, consuming me for decades, remember!

The point is? 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 of them 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, Pete Hegseth, and others 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.

Mushrooms In The Dark

We are power we don't use. I've said it many times. Our reach is exponential and our grasp the gold we find.

...And it won't matter, not at all, those distractions we endure... ...we're mushrooms, to the dark, consigned, and fed a thin manure. Yet, we have minds with eyes that see complete with ears to hear. Our voices swell in righteous song! We can vanquish *any* fear!

Our feelings have sincerity, we're alive, in touch, aware... and we would have some answers to the questions we must, bravely, dare!

Yes! We, by right, will think *those* thoughts and question our *beliefs*! Shared misery's diminished. Shared joy, of needs, increased!

Why, if folks are just a little brave? Then no one's scared or suffers. The "slings and arrows" now endured? ...They fold as culture stutters!

No, it's not to *God* we owe success. "Success" was made despite! *Religion* has done all it can... to filter out our light.

See, don't thank "Gods" who are contrived to do the will of men, who use that cloak of godhood to promote their pestilence? Thank instead your force of will that makes a life more real! It's a quantum leap! Enlightened step! You live a better deal!

We're, perforce, a plucky bunch! We'd -dare- to wrestle truth. ...Though "heaven" was the real "hell," and "hell" a clever ruse!

Though black was something paler, and white a charcoal gray! If dawn were dusk and dusk were dawn, with "night" mistook for "day"! Though beauty was an ugliness making cowards of the bold, and plainness was a loveliness more precious than the purest gold!

If everything we knew was wrong? If profits proved a loss? Would we, still, practice foolishly and value what's, indeed, pure dross?

Most would hate the aliens who'd inhabit outer space. They'd hate for specious reasons always used in such a case. The aliens are... well, alien! We hate what we don't know! We project our fears on that... which threatens "status quo."

Though "no man is an island," I've ever heard it said, and change is a necessity or we're moldy, month-old, bread; we hate ourselves and so hate *them*, assign to *them* our faults; moreover, we're duplicitous, so less than the, complete, adult!

Most think the aliens evil... of a lesser stripe than we. On *them* we hang a minus sign, for *us* pretense we're "free." They're the "spawn of Satan," but do halos light our brow?! What have we wrought down here on Earth? What grace do we show... now?

First: we are, then, that which we hate! It's us apes "crooks" and "thieves"! It's us that's starving children by the millions every week! It's us declaring wars we wage for corporate human greed. It's us that's causing misery, and it's us ignoring, ardent, need!

We vilify the aliens! We paint them worse than us! We *divine* their *motivation* as betrayal of our trust. We do this knowing nothing but the crap on which we're fed, the *news* from "FOX" (insulting us)... denial dipped in well-earned dread...

Agents making war they've caused... support corrupted states, and religious fervor's gas on fire, regenerating hate! The Earth cries out her warning; new diseases cause their blight! And we do less than nothing... ...as we cower in our, hapless, fright!

We're lucky we're *approached* at all! We're lucky if they try! We are damned repellant, folks! We're lucky we don't fry!

We're lucky they don't aim at us some stellar cosmic weapon and wipe us from the cosmos like some bug that they could step on! We're lucky they don't act like us, and roar in guns all blazing! We're lucky they don't slap us down like a freshman at a hazing. We're lucky for a lot of things, as we don't act our part. It's us requires change, not "them" ... (of mind, or hand... but heart)!

• lehmberg2002@gmail.com
• http://www.alienview.net/

Is the Alien a rule-breaking villain, a black agent in the nameless dark? Is it an intellectual rapist, a serial abuser on a massive scale, or a singularly bizarre kidnapper criminally exacting an unknown ransom?

Is the Alien a being with no respect for humanity, only raw disgust for humanity's sensibilities? Has it naught but disconnected indifference for humanity's creative attributes or individual quality of life?

Does the Alien use humanity as its lowly subordinate and reviled minimum wager; does it squander our savings, inflict disease and pestilence upon us; does it put us out, homeless, onto the streets?

Does it shortchange and abuse our women, manufacture non-effective and dangerous drugs, equipment, and consumables; does it pollute the groundwater and needlessly despoil the environment with toxic waste and planned obsolescence?

Does the Alien spin our history (...cook the very books of it!) or corrupt accurate institutional memory for unjust advantage (to the "textbook producing" class)? Does it pasteurize, homogenize, and sterilize the accounting of history into boring, unrealistic, and untrue accounts of unjustified heroification... ...to intimidate, manipulate, and depreciate the inventive minds of trusting school children?
Does it punish the critical thinker and reward the malleable "employee"?

 Read on...

Laika

November 4th, 1957

Laika...

by Alfred Lehmberg

A hapless female puppy dog... 

ablates in icy space... 

Unloved, beneath respected, 

yet a credit to the race. 

She starved to death; 

her air ran out; 

she burned up... 

but she suffered. 

She was the one, 

the first in space—

concern not made, or offered.

.

She's "just a dog," beneath concern 

of shiny *honored* man. 

She was so completely terrified, 

and she couldn't understand. 

Her ass was shaved

—electrodes placed—

this side of vivisection.

Then blasted into inky space, 

bereft of all affection.

.

Laika was the small dog's name 

we commemorate with verse. 

She's the one so chosen, 

and in space? She was the first. 

Of all the flesh that ever was 

from right back to the Cambrian, 

she's the first to breathe in space—

our very special champion.

.

Forty years and then they choose 

to honor with a plaque... 

the sacrifice she made unasked; 

though it caused her death, in fact. 

Better late than never, 

but then so much better still... 

to—long ago—

have placed her stone 

on the highest sun-washed hill.

.

For half a year she spun the sky, 

to Earth at last, ablaze. 

I wonder if some saw her 

as she burned up in those flames. 

Perhaps a child, 

chance looking up, 

to see her "shooting star," 

made a wish for her own puppy... 

and then ate a candy bar.

.

Laika

Flatwoods... It's Important

Flatwoods... It's Important

by Alfred Lehmberg

Why is the Flatwoods case important? The Flatwoods case is important because… and let’s take the scenic route OK? ...Flatwoods is important because UFOs continue to intrude or reveal themselves as important, don’t they? In sighting after sighting after unprovoked sighting…

See, apart from the gleeful psychopathic hoaxing, the ignorant journalistic sneering, the angrily dismissive proclamations of reductionist science... ...and the curiously inept presentations of UFOs by corporate media? UFOs continue to reveal themselves–outside official channels–to thousands of individuals simultaneously, periodically, and have done so for thousands of years. Sneer at peril.

Indeed–now think about it–but it seems disclosure is to be facilitated more as a “bottom-up” revelation, and not a top-down activity … “take me to your leader” is decidedly out of fashion and already shown to be as unsuccessful as it is duplicitous.

Too, consider, perhaps it’s this alien approach to rank and file humans and not the corrupt self-empowered leadership which explains the piqued reluctance of those aforementioned hoaxers, journalists, reductionists, and corporate captains … I digress …

These undoubtedly and indisputably seditious mass sightings we just talked about include numerous well-documented references sailing back through recorded history... passed the recent affairs of Phoenix, South Indiana, and Texas, back all the way to the middle ages, biblical times, and beyond, but specifically in 1952 from June to September of that year, during the biggest UFO flap in History: The Summer Of Saucers.

The Summer Of Saucers gives every indication that UFOs, without regard to where they come from or even how they manifest themselves—and stated as simply as it CAN be stated: UFOs are the reality and the truth. At its most simple, UFOs just are.

Now, it’s my considered intuition and long experience regarding even an unsettling truth … is that an aggregate humanity is BEST served by facing that truth and ILL served by looking for excuses to turn away from it. You can’t put the dentist off forever, eh?

To that end, the Flatwoods case and the implication of Feschino’s incisive research into it are of paramount importance because that specific Feschino research, TO WHICH WE REFER, is so detailed, mapped out, tacked down, cited, and exhaustive … it stands revealed as the most documented UFO case ever, without exception, in history. Even Stan Friedman admits it’s the best documented case he’s seen …

Moreover, Feschino’s Flatwoods research supports the avoided, corporate abhorred, and alleged uncomfortable truth about things ufological, provides support for that ufological truth’s ongoing assessment, and, I suspect, provides humanity with its ticket to a future truth about UFOs and a more experiential existential... a more complete corporeal.

This is forgetting that it provides all manner of gravitas to other valid studies, honest researches, and serious investigations.

This is the singular relevance of the so-called Flatwoods Case. See, besides facilitating our ticket to the future, it’s the best placed and most finely crafted nail in the coffin of our ignorance regarding all things, this writer suspects! A lance, even, for the boil of that ignorance.

This post only outlines the importance of the Flatwoods case, of course… a case otherwise highlighted by the needlessly abused sensibilities and even physical health of innocent Americans, it is highlighted by lost and forgotten soldiers and airmen following orders to shoot UFOs down with state of the art jets in a secret and so undeclared war, and it is highlighted by billions of 2016 dollars in lost aircraft and military equipment.

Very messy and paradigm-changing, I make no apologies, and the ETH so far up your nose you feel knees on your top lip—am I right? ...But truth, though these heavens fall, I suspect, or we are all just deluded fools.

That’s the truth of the Flatwoods case… it is too well documented to be disbelieved or discarded out of hand, so belief regarding all UFOs is begged!

Alone?

We swim water that's there, where we must.

I've written "it comes down to you" how YOU perceive YOUR stars. ...As tiny points of distant light, or *them* more near than far...

See it's what YOU think that matters as you make your feelings known. Would you accept your lot in life believing you're alone?

Alone in all the cosmos? Alone to contemplate? Alone to go un-witnessed as you seek some pointless fate? Alone in sad indifference? Alone to count your beads, alone to be ... oh, good or bad—or something in between?

Alone to count your blessings? Alone to feel cursed? Alone to be respected, glad, or disrespected — hurt? Alone in satisfaction, or alone to be without? Alone in suffered silence... ...alone to scream and shout?

Alone in yawning vastnesses, we'd BE anomaly. We'd be... just freaks of nature in some grand futility. Alone—in matchless time—our candle sputters in a wind we shall not know the source of, and then break were we to bend.

No, alone we have no measure. Alone, we make no sense. Alone, we are a bubble set to pop in sad pretense. Alone we've no authority. Alone we come up short. Alone, there is temptation to believe our own reports.

See, alone we have no reason to behave as would be best. Alone's the lower standard, so we fail every test! Alone, it's like we have no point. Alone, we are forlorn. Alone, we are as good as dead. Alone?  Then, why be born?

It just won't make a shred of sense, pretending we're alone. It staggers one's credulity if that's what you condone.

Life, it seems, must find some way; that's what it does on Earth! It's found in fiery fumaroles, or upon some snowy perch. It somehow lives through ANY strife, be it asteroid or ice. It finds its way, and it survives by paying ANY price!

Given all its grand success, right here on planet Earth, I've reasoned that it's just no stretch that, elsewhere? There's no dearth!

Life, if NOT space-faring, is as thick as fleas on dogs—vermin gassed indifferently by their errant *human* gods. Life will find a way, it seems, through all which comes undone, and will then sense, at last, the sky... ...beyond this "song just sung." Time is just so damned immense, and bigger every DAY is the space that would enclose it—all the egg-heads write and say...

I find it too damned reasonable, when I understand its depth—that if, in fact, we ARE alone? We'll die a slow-rot death.

• lehmberg2002@gmail.com
• http://www.alienview.net/

I've said it before, I know, but even if we WERE alone (...forgetting that this is bereft of certainty given the historical, anecdotal, physical, and photographic evidence...) it would make much more sense to conduct our affairs... as if... we were NOT alone.

We'd treat each other better, I'm betting. There would be more open toleration and cooperation. We'd SEED the asteroid belt, and make it a living ring around its star? The Earth becomes a respected garden instead of a squandered gift? Mars, and perhaps a few moons of Jupiter and Saturn support an efficacious, inspired, and creative humankind? We'd be happier?

I suspect so.  Whatever the result, we wouldn't have our eggs in one basket.  We need to spread out.  Presently one "grenade" would get us all, eh?

Read on!

Bio of Frank C. Feschino, Jr.

Bio of Frank C. Feschino, Jr.:
An Overview of his ongoing
"Flatwoods Monster" Investigation
by Alfred Lehmberg

Frank C. Feschino, Jr. is a graduate of the Paier College of Art in Hamden, Connecticut, where he studied illustration, commercial art, and photography. He was trained by several world-famous artists including Kenneth Davies, Rudolph Zallinger, and John Massimino. He earned his four-year Fine Arts diploma in 1981. He knows why truth is important. He'd hold your high ground.

Feschino next moved to Florida where he studied film and video production at Phillips Jr. College in Daytona Beach. There, he was instructed by legendary Hollywood camera operator Rich Davis, thus honing his technical competence and communication skills. In 1994, Frank graduated with an Associate's Degree in Film and Video Production, plus a minor in Business. 

Feschino would come to be interested in UFOs in the early 1990s when he chance visited a relative's farm in Braxton County, West Virginia. Crop circles had appeared there overnight, unexplained to this day; additionally, UFOs were frequently sighted over the region and for many years. This was great material for a one-off project for film school, Feschino reasoned! 

He very carefully and meticulously documented these anomalies, a perspicacious student of a craft, and then shared his research with British crop circle expert and electrical engineer Colin Andrews. Andrews would subsequently catalog Feschino's information in his world database and even become a major fan of his work. 

During that time, and in pure serendipity, Feschino became aware of the famous "Flatwoods Monster" UFO crash incident of Braxton County. This is that singular "attractor" event that had occurred on September 12, 1952, after a "Summer Of Saucers." Entirely captivated, he dove in. Little did he suspect that his school project "one-off" would become his life's work!

This case, in a quick review, involved a downed UFO and its alien occupant, a 12-foot-tall exo-suited and armor-clad being, we come to find, who encountered a group of unsuspecting local Flatwoods townspeople. This terrifying "close encounter of the third kind" quickly made headlines across the globe, was obsessed about, effusively, on the radio, and was featured just one week later on a nationally broadcasted live TV program. 

The program alluded to, We The People, hosted by Dan Seymour, was an extremely popular show that, but for one show iteration subsequent, would be immediately canceled after the "Flatwoods program..." We'll leave that there... another story, we can read about that, later.

Still, the far-reaching news about the "monster" from West Virginia was actually one of the world's top news stories of the year. Yet, although 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! 

Intelligence Agencies, it can be shown, had covertly stepped into the picture, kept a watchful eye over the unfolding situation, and quickly worked to diffuse it, it would appear. Such seems, abundantly, so. Why? There were reasons good and bad... and weird...

Verily! Inconsistencies in reporting the incident abounded and became horrendous early on, abiding even today! The witnesses were constantly misquoted, the incident was heavily bowdlerized and contrived to seem doubtful, and the forthright witnesses were, and have been, ridiculed and laughed at for decades! 

The government's official explanation reported that the incident was "attributed to hysteria" and the witnesses probably misinterpreted the "monster" as a "big barn owl perched high on a branch at dusk"! ...Hillbilly's skeered o' haints in the dark around Halloween! What's not to laugh at that? Not true on any level, aspect, or indices... of course. All ridicule is ridiculously baseless... and suspicious for that.

This "monster" incident, as well as many other UFO (Summer Of Saucers!) cases in 1952, had the American public worried and agitated because UFO sightings were at a historical (not hysterical!) high over the country that whole year! These UFO encounters were hugely intensifying that entire summer! Here, the cover-up of this alien encounter was determined as necessary by the government, it is reasoned. That actions to squash it were quickly implemented is no stretch... 

Yes... "Mass Hysteria" was indeed, avoided! Existential reality was circumvented, yet again! Yes, this writer asks, "...but, at what cost," ultimately. 

Subsequently, the "Flatwoods Monster" case was well on its way to becoming just a "West Virginia" (heavy eye-roll!) myth of sketchlessly entertaining folklore sullenly degraded to the absurd. ...And scene! 

Heavy Sigh... This writer must momentarily digress, constructively, to observe that "Life may be a part played on a stage," but it does remain that life is not that play metaphored. See, a play's players go home to real lives when the curtain comes down, apart from their momentary and more fictional portrayals flatly irrelevant to day to day actuality. We look forward to and sometimes dread the materiality impacting roughly from the corporeal. We laugh and cry, exhault and suffer to something on the telly or stage, fridges fret their nutritional stockage, rolled socks and underwear in their appropriate drawer, ...personal tragedy and conditional comedy. Romeo and Juliet may be typified and reiterated all over the planet daily in reality, but the play is only allowing us to recognize the reality typical of its even predictable plot, and other plots, in that reality. The play's not the thing, it's the thing allowing us to recognize and remember the thing. 

In a play; however, a curtain must come down. The corporeal reality has no such curtain. It must of needs have more validity than a mere illustration of it. Neither the play nor the reality giving birth to it can have meaning when you can't tell one from the other. That's what can happen when one, even with the best intentions, circumvents reality.

We are individuals of the corporeal in the felt presence of the moment. We are Life's players and subject to the consequences of our performances. Our payments are dire. Critics matter. It seems likely we're best served with the truth, then, or our culture is flawed and self-defeating... sick, only to get sicker. What are we seeing currently?

Suffice to say, returning from our digression, the majority of the public wouldn't believe the Flatwoods tale. The famous "monster" case was to be shelved as a curiously ridiculous legend! ...Only, wait... the real story behind this mysterious alien visitor and the circumstances surrounding its enigmatic incident, extant if in a scattered record, ... was never fully known to the public! 

That was all about to change! 

You see, in 1952, there were a few people of consciousness and conscience. They believed that this terrifying story actually did happen. Luckily, they left some historical documentation about this case in their books, their published periodicals and private newsletters... their personal correspondence, reader... key evidentiary components lain fallow for decades!  Enter, forty years later, illustrator and filmmaker, Frank C. Feschino, Jr. 

Intrigued and perplexed by the story, Frank picked up this cold, cold case (where it had been left for dead back in 1952), was immediately engaged, and so captivated by same that he must run hard with it, never looking back. Defeating insurmountable obstacles, Feschino would overcome the slings and arrows of incompetent publishers and errant skeptibunkies to truly become the first primary investigator involved in the case since it was originally studied in 1952... ...Feschino would bring the "Flatwoods Monster" case to a whole new level! 

See, while still attending film school, Frank began an intense and extensive investigation into the case. It would become his primary focus and occupation. Now armed with video equipment and newly acquired communication skills, he taped many compelling interviews with a plethora of the first-hand eyewitness. Further, he photographed the many locations involved in the story, untouched by time.

During his arduous, sometimes even personally hazardous, investigation, Feschino traveled extensively in West Virginia, hill to hollow, accumulating a literal mass of information. These included the forgotten works of aforementioned past researchers, unseen and overlooked government documents of vetted officiality, book and magazine publications, and pertinent newspaper articles from around the world! Unsettlingly, he discovered the Flatwoods case's evidentiary trail was covered-up deeply by the officiality and that there remained scattered clues and widespread pieces to this cold-case puzzle, telling a truth, if strewn about—buried all across the country! 

Feschino not only discovered that this alien encounter had indeed occurred, but he also put together an astounding timeline of events actually illustrating 21-sustained hours of unending UFO activity occurring over ten east coast States that day! Ultimately, and reminding the reader that our military forces at that time were under public orders to shoot UFOs down wherever they were encountered, 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 made repeated landings, by report; one of those damaged and downed objects held an occupant that abandoned its craft?! This "occupant" would come to be called, the "Flatwoods Monster."

AlienViews: The Saucer Flap's Map (alienviewgroup.blogspot.com)

Feschino fleshes all this out in an analysis of his "Master Map." This cited initiative contained the information included: the plotted points of the UFOs locations, the type of craft described, the time stamps of each object, and their flight trajectories... it rather forensically recreated a total scenario for just what had happened in Flatwoods on that harrowing Indian Summer dusk of 1952. 

Shockingly, Frank discovered that by putting all of the individual UFO events into a chronological timeline and piecing it all together where pieces fit, the story demonstrably evolved into two seeming search and rescue missions... perpetrated by extraterrestrials for their fellows! Beyond all credulity, reader, they'd apparently retrieve two of their downed and stranded comrades in West Virginia, one in Flatwoods and the other in close by Wheeling. The data was followed, reader, and there are no apologies for conclusions reached, indeed so far up this writer's nose he feels toes on his chin. 

Feschino also discovered the logical explanation as to why there were four damaged and downed UFOs in the country that day! Only six weeks earlier, we're now re-reminded, in July, the Air Force revealed that their pilots, "[had] been under orders to investigate unidentified objects and to shoot them down if they can't talk them down." This was lawyer talk for "Shoot them down wherever they are encountered!" Full stop! 

Feschino also revealed his discovery that in July of 1952, the Air Force further admitted that they had scrambled interceptors, "several hundred times as a result of reported sightings of unidentified objects." Man and machine lost to same!

See, Feschino also unearthed another mysterious incident, apart from the "monster in Flatwoods," occurring on that September 12, 1952, involving a United States jet fighter vanishing into thin air shortly before the "Flatwoods Monster" crash-landed in West Virginia! Feschino worked for several years on this case, discovering bupkis! The Air Force would initially report that "absolutely no record of the missing jet or its two-man crew," existed!

Additionally, the United States government "did not have a single record of the airmen" in any of their official holdings, military or civilian! Curious! 

Feschino continued on with his exhaustive investigation, regardless, and rewarded for his perspicaciousness, tracked down and talked face to face with the two airmen's surviving brothers! No record?

The pilot's brother gave Feschino the official documents that the USAF had sent him, then Feschino tracked down the memorial headstone of the pilot in Ocala, Florida. Our intrepid researcher then got hold of several Florida newspaper articles and began to piece the story together... but something was missing, glaringly... the truth? 

Indeed, the explanations given by the Air Force concerning this missing jet case were suspiciously convoluted, contradictory and fragmented... ridiculously incompetent, even, in TWO tries of Flight Evaluations Boards! Having been on more than a few of these boards in a 23 year career, this writer can report that heads roll when you can't get it done in one.

Years later, perhaps even a result of Feschino's revelations in the case, the Air Force finally released the official Sept. 12, 1952, Aircraft Accident Report case file, on microfilm... including the missing jet story.  There was "no record," reported, remember... a result of many provoked "looks," remember...

Feschino evaluated all the cases on the microfilm and quickly discovered that two other September 12, 1952, aircraft accident events were mysteriously missing from the case files—both sent to higher classification! The reader can make of that what they will. Those records remain lost.

Feschino then read, dissected, and reviewed the missing Starfire case and combined its contents with all of his other accumulated data about the missing jet. His conclusion: a massive cover-up was perpetrated... ...that was actually on a much larger scale than the "Flatwoods Monster" incident! Flatwoods was only the unsatisfying end of the story it appears. 

The upshot is that the alluded to Jones / DelCurto story regarding one vanished aircraft and crew fit perfectly into place with all the other covered-up UFO events occurring on September 12, 1952. Air war with ET. It's not a stretch.

Feschino wrote a groundbreaking book, a completed essay map of his investigation into the famous "Flatwoods Monster" incident.  It is titled The Braxton County Monster—The Cover-up of the Flatwoods Monster Revealed, later released as an "Updated and Revised" edition while his investigation is continued and additional information is obtained. Look for more updates. 

The forwards and epilogs for Frank's books were written by nuclear physicist, UFO expert, and fellow author Stanton T. Friedman of Roswell fame. Additionally, Feschino would generously extend recognition and credit to this writer, veteran Master Aviator and writer Alfred Lehmberg, United States Army (retired), who wrote Feschino's recent book cover synopsis and remains to cover Feschino's astonishing initiative. Feschino's convinced this writer, credentialed educator, and retired MA!

Feschino's works have been featured in countless newspaper, magazine, and internet articles throughout the world. The author has also been interviewed by numerous radio talk show hosts including personalities the likes of Whitley Strieber, George Noory, Kate Valentine, Heather Wade and Shadoe Stevens to name a few. While building momentum through the media, Frank caught the eye of several conference promoters and subsequently traveled throughout the United States to spread the word about his UFO research and books of aviation and UFO history. 

For nearly a decade Feschino appeared in, and has headlined for, several UFO conferences, lectures, and book signings. He was also involved in many "Flatwoods Monster" one-man events. In 2007, a groundbreaking exhibition occurred in West Virginia, where Feschino led a cast of lecturers during a two-day, "Flatwoods Monster and Flying Saucer Extravaganza" show, held at the historic Capitol Theatre in downtown Charleston, WV.

Frank has guest appeared on many West Virginia television talk shows, TV news broadcasts and radio programs, and was also featured in the first-ever "Flatwoods Monster" cover story and feature article in the late UFO Magazine. The author and UFO investigator also appeared in an episode of "Monster Quest" on the HISTORY CHANNEL featuring the "Flatwoods Monster" and "Frametown Monster" incidents of 1952. 

Additionally, Feschino also produced a documentary that he wrote, shot, and narrated. It focuses on his investigation into the "Flatwoods Monster" case expanding into an undeclared and largely secret air war with ET. It appears on Youtube. 

After a 25-year quest to reveal the truth, Frank C. Feschino, Jr. has become the genuine authority on the "Flatwoods Monster" incident and UFO events of September 12, 1952, events at the end of the tortuous "Summer of Saucers" flap of the same year. Today, Feschino continues to be involved in UFO research and currently resides in central Florida.

Read on.

Meaningful Repetition...

Illustration likely true enough...

Our Heroes Betrayed 

The Flatwoods Monster is the end of the story...

The 65th Anniversary of the Flatwoods Monster Incident

by Alfred Lehmberg with Frank C. Feschino, Jr.

It's September 12th, 1952, and you're a flight officer in the nascent Air Forces of the United States. You've been assigned to an airbase on the azure, 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 to rule Earth's skies. 

Ahead: Farnsworth recoils in horror and makes a heartfelt plea, Outrage and Incredulity, Numerical justifications and red flags, ...and your air alert gets called!

Part I of IV
https://alienviewgroup.blogspot.com/2017/08/our-heroes-betrayed-part-i-of-iv.html

Part II of IV
https://alienviewgroup.blogspot.com/2017/08/our-heroes-betrayed-part-ii-of-iv.html

Part III of IV
https://alienviewgroup.blogspot.com/2017/09/our-heroes-betrayed-part-iii-of-iv.html

Part IV of IV
https://alienviewgroup.blogspot.com/2017/09/our-heroes-betrayed-part-iv-of-iv.html

...Take Yours Back...

Here's, then, something clever all the "agencies" must know. It's what keeps them up your backside; it's what drives them up your nose...

It's what keeps them in your business as you try to measure up. But, the scale's always changing. One considers giving up...

The harshest device, a contrivance of culture. Control all the *spice*, is the way that it's done. Compel all the motes to relinquish their freedom to a club, they're persuaded, that will "make the spice run"!

Though... consider the power in personal thought… Power driving nails—swinging hammers. Power that de-complicates the dirty, dangerous job. Power that can slap a face... distress 'the man' to stammers...

See, a person's key, my friend, 
in word and thought and deed. 
It's always been that true—that coldly simple. 
A team can do what's grand, 
but do not fail to understand: 
It's the person on a team who makes it twinkle.

This is your importance. This is how you're owed freedom! 
This is why you're "key." YOU MAKE THINGS WORK! 

Apart from folks like you, the system crumbles from our view. Yet, you're made to feel useless, disdained—their dirt!

Here is where the irony explodes what they'd keep secret and then puts a stunning truth right in the street! Privilege has no privilege where the least withhold providing what it is provides the privileged all their heat!

You are yourself (yes, you alone!) the object that they seek! It's to you they turn their energies. It's to you they wail and shriek. Without you they are doomed to helpless squalors you'd endure were you turned out on an iceberg on command or their adjure!

It's to you they print their papers! It's to you they run their ads. It's to you manipulations they contrive to drive you mad.

See, it's you who buys the car, spends your money, pays the bills… See, it's you they have to fool... to keep you paying! ...And it wouldn't be half bad if they gave some back, it's sad, but the richest must get richer... ...so continue soulless preying.

Yet, it's you who roofs their house, sets their tiles, tends their landscape. It's you who builds the places they inhabit. You must feel no contentment, and enjoy their harsh resentment! See, they charge for ground you'd walk on, friend. They really "let you have it"!

Sure, there're lots of "you"; it's the system; they invent it! If there are lots and lots of "you"? YOU lose your value! You're, then, easier to control as they continue to extol... a system working hard... ...to disallow you!

A smaller population, then, has more respect to savor. The sparser mote has value more in kind. Effort you've expended is to find "the man" dependent... ...on the mercies of your grace, he's shocked to find!

It all comes down to you, and that's the message that you're feeling. It's down to you and freedom you give up. It's you who drives the truck, swings the hammer, spends your bucks... ...It's you with concrete power in your hand so on a cusp!

This is why our "watchers" are in enigmatic "hiding." This is why they won't be "meeting" heads of state. This is why we must atone; we are, by no means, all "alone." This is why we would progress! It's not too late...

• lehmberg2002@gmail.com
• http://www.alienview.net/

Satisfaction is freedom. You just give it over, never expecting to have to take it back.

Your training is against it! The rules are writ against you. But if you want satisfaction's freedom, if you need satisfaction's freedom—if you expect satisfaction's freedom... you're going to have to take it... ...take it back. 

See, "a chain is as strong as its weakest link" you're quickly reminded by the system.  Though, consider.  That's an admission that the individual matters!  The team-member to provoke the failure alluded to is also the team-member who potentially ensures a success with some new idea individually generated!  In other words, that by now tired old saw, but more proof positive that the individual is key.

Yeah yeah yeah... there is no "I" in team... but there is a "me"!  You just get creative with the letter order and selection... or check the A's interior where it languished all along, eh?