...Almost...

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You could saunter song-filled hallways as the visuals wrapped around you [9]. Poems whispered from the portraits you might pass [1]. You could step-off from the edge and fall through space to sighing fountains [10]. You could hear transcendent music. T'was a gas!
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It was "candy for the eye" attached to verse you'd never seen, but hard to keep your "bearings" on the way. One way trips all seem so final as you clicked "fluorescent signs," and the way-back's hard to find, I'm pleased to say.
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You'd wander in cool gardens that you only dream about [7], or fly to real castles in the sky [5]! You'd float along, astonished, while the pictures curled and danced; you'd "warp" to other places if you tried!
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You'd almost smell the greenness of the lushly crafted leaves as they moved around in winds you'd almost feel. You'd almost taste the flowers that were growing 'round low bushes which were almost... like they may as well be real [3].
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It's more valid than some golf course that you over-fertilize, and so poison all the wildlife downstream! Rather, satisfy an urge to get away from all that hassle, for awhile, and just wander in your dreams.
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Jump through *holes* in space to see its alternate dimension, and then walk, amazed—if gob-smacked—by the sight. Visit links you've "clicked" on for a different kind of view, and be thankful for the conscience you don't fight...
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And, yes, you may be lucky if I poke you in the eye, or I *scare* you with the stories I can tell. The fact they MAY be real is a fact you might consider... if you freak and go all purple—mad as hell!  I'm cast "the piano player," and I'm honest with myself and expressions bubbled from me just provide my mental health.
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Remember a proportion of your rage may coincide with assertions that one's grossly incorrect. I'm right? It makes you angry; you lose your bearings—and your focus—so descend to crass attacks ... and disrespect!  Then you obviate the circumspect and fail on your merits, pontificate your party line: a parody of parrots.
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...I wander halls and parapets of faery-castles built [6]... with this: the smallest gesture and a nod! See, "convenience" is no virtue when enjoyed by just the *few*, so I'll build the odd reality... that must query Christian gods...  ...rake this "muck" (it is deserved) on "shiny shoes" of *greater* persons... who would sooner shut me up, or put me out.  Elitists have their way; they write the rules; they ARE foreclosure; they are sum and tat and total, and they SHALL NOT go without!
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Stand atop a soap-box—never put there for your use—but to vent a righteous spleen 'bout what you'd feel. ...I can take it or can leave it, but I'm better for the hearing, and the same must go for you, so... that's the deal.  ...Though, there's something in the "seeing" and the "hearing" what is there; it runs a different groove and must preclude the rut now fared...
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Care to hear a sunrise? Then a visit to my "grotto" was the coolest place you'd ever think to be. You'd run and spread your arms to "warp" or "fly" but "cleave the heavens" that were spreading wide like curtains, yes... You're free!
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Build your own and we'd be neighbors—an idea marketplace, where the usual laws of physics shan't apply. Unhindered by the *rules* you're—freely—thinking on your own, and then thinking for yourself the reasons "why."
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Don't believe the priests and kings—who bother and distract you—with convenient rules they've made... to stay on top. Learn to take your counsel from the mirror of your life—then learn to wonder why; then, learn to cop!
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...And this, "a tiny plot" of all the places you can wander that provide their own *distraction*, I admit. But who is making money when you cash out "buying in," and begin to see who profits most by... it.
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Come on in and talk, leave a message, walk the walk, and we'll share out all the things that we have found. Come and look and you might find: it's your culture strikes you blind, and the teachings that you've scorned?  They're more profound.


alienview@roadrunner.com
http://www.alienview.net/

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"Culture is not your friend." -- Terence McKenna

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"Dreamland,"—an expression of a virtual universe that Terence McKenna would have walked into and never come out of—on the other hand, was as real as you wanted it to be, linked to anywhere, and it did it "right now," in real time... even last century.  Additionally, it was going to get a lot better—a LOT better...

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Ultimately, you can own a little piece of this virtual paradise! Don't buy a few packs of coffin nails, some Hagen Daz (to provide the required fundage)—take a chance. Buy in. But come to wander the environs for free, that’s as free as it needs to get, and as good as it got...

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Got?  Yes...

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See, I discovered real estate in cyberspace is every bit as ephemeral as real estate in actuality... it's just a lot less expensive.  See, things get less expensive when made only of photons and electrons. Only, it hurts no less when it's taken from you, earth-quaked, or otherwise blown up. ...But sabotage?

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See, and paying for the privilege, I worked for years building a huge virtual cyber-park where one could walk or fly in a construction not beholden to the usual physics, ya know. Space, Time, and Surface area, to a degree, became a place to show your art when it wasn't being art itself. It was gallery and school and community, too.

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Then, the tragic result of a transfer of ownership of the aforementioned "universe," the whole of my acreage of "Experiential Park" was moved, abruptly, to another spot in a new virtual universe. This rendered all of my  relevantly cross-connecting teleportation coordinates false, useless, and meaningless.

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There were many hundreds of those coordinates, into the teens of hundreds. All are Required and Key for accurate pin-point teleportation providing for ease of movment.  All of them were now delivering the participant, not to other examples of 3D art and immersion in it but to a flat green "obliviate," presently, where those constructions should be.

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A lot of the magic of the place... just went away, reader.  A little like a defaced painting...

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I started to go back through those errors and correcting them, but what would I do if I was unceremoniously moved again! I understood then.  Where is the confidence laboriously correcting, and for many hours, what can be erased so effortlessly in seconds by errant, arbitrary, and thoughtlessly unilateral and artless philistines.  Harsh... but damn!

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A shadow of that world remains, though, and is assess-able still. It's wander-able and there is plenty of stuff to see, only, stay out of the water, away from fountains, named transporters, and shunts. They don't do what they once did; gone's the magic there... once.  Now, you are inexplicably transported to oblivion.

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Additionally disconecting, the code and software used to gain admittance to this world was sold to a third party... in Germany... so the interface is now in German. Ouch. Another hurdle. I've asked the new owners to put me in the "new world" where I was in the "old world." Pick one set of coordinates in my world, place my corresponding construction at that coordinate, line up north and south... ...and all my coordinates work anew!

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It is not permitted.

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I've been to every spot in the new world where my constructions should be... it is nothing but nothing. There's nothing there. I could be there. But no. So know, you know?  No?

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Sincerely, you used to be able to go to some pretty neat places—a parapet where you can stand with friends and watch ... too many UFOs careen around in front of you [Picture #8]... for instance. The whole park was a gallery and an expression of art, itself.

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You can just wander around in it is all, wander around and talk to other people in real time. ...And verily... While you're "there"... are you not "there"?

• 
  

Terrence McKenna talked about virtual reality extensively.Ralph Abraham and Rupert Sheldrake back him up in finite if informative "Trialogues" (sic).  I know what I'm doing would have knocked his sox off. Search ITune podcasts for Lorenzo's "Psychedelic Salon"...

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Graham Hancock alludes to it. Daniel Pinchbeck sails fretfully on its surface, and I aspire to illustrate it. Perception is the reality, and that is not bad news.

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See, aspiration can be composed of photons and electrons more economically and expansively than it can be made of platinum and diamonds, eh? Or wood and concrete. Or—well... anything you could care to name.

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Verily—buried deeply in McKenna's cold-soaked moonlet of Neptune at near absolute zero one could download themselves, their friends, and their loved ones into a grown quartz crystal a foot across and live in a manner that suited them for all time, 'real' as one wanted to be, in a virtual universe as palpable as the one strategically and profitably retreated from, eh? What else is required for existence, after all but the perception of existence?

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Perception is all that is required for "reality." Indeed, we could all be in a virtual universe right now and not remotely know it...

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Restore John Ford!

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...Spark Of Hope...

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Johnny Ford—still locked away? Still kept from freedom's dawn, you say! ...Still eating tasteless gruel he's served with hapless ladles crusted, lurid...
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Bullied by some cell block thug, he's driven down with slaps and slugs? Remember, he's a cop to them, a target for the fix they're in, and sleeping on his fetid mattress, he lays awake and smells the madness; bad enough if he deserved it—UNBEARABLE, he didn't earn it!
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...And he didn't, I'd suspect. For "law" and "order"? He'd had respect. ...And there was irony, sharp and quick, that Ford's accuser was the prick! See? Ford should not be doing time! It's one John Powell committed crime!
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...Crimped and weak Ford's fingers curl around the bars that cage a hero? Damn that sinful, unjust steel removes him from the free and real!
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What's he doing, how's he hangin', listening to a cup put bangin' from some distance he can't get to—he's restricted, tied—denied you! You won't hear what he might say. It questions ways you'd think, OK? See? You got tired, and with no emotion (basing such on foolish notions) condemned a *saint* to thick brick walls while mayhem, outside, howls and crawls!
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Still and all, and not a peep... of John Ford's status—such vast conceit! You think that he's forgotten, lost, that he has come to bear the cost of what it WAS that he got close to—let licking flames of shame engulf you!
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You think that it is unremembered, you called him *crazy*, then reconsidered? He's well enough for trial, you say? Well—when's he going to have his day? And there's the rub, you craven bastard! You won't hear his harmful answers! His trial might embarrass you, but worse than that—the death of you!
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It's gone on now for sixteen years!  That gadfly Ford you've tried to steer? Quiet now within his cell, but bet he has a tale to tell!  ...And he will be, at least, litigious, and, in that way be most prodigious!  That's what Joe Zuppardo claims while speaking out and naming names.
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You'd argue that I "feed his madness" when it's you produced his sadness—slandered him and took his name; I hope that, soon, YOU'RE made to blame.
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Everyone is most surprised that he'd contrive what you've described! All who know him, friend or foe, all know that he was framed as though... a mad man walked inside his clothes—because he looked for UFO's!?!
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Your case is stupid, uninspired... a contrivance you have made—conspired! ...And getting older by the minute, hard to prove the way you spin it.
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...Maybe, hoping soon he'll die! ...Maybe, help him make his try!?!
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Yea, if he dies in jail friend, I'll know YOU did it—comprehend!?! That he's there is YOUR disgrace; I'll hope to see you take his place... among those inmates of contrition—those deserving their positions.
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Months, and we have had no news that's news about John Ford, in view. The reason for that silence glares, and challenges with steady stares reluctant to speak up one word... where freedom is, in fact, deterred!
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But is that freedom you can cherish? So quickly lost, so quick to perish—evaporating like a dew on desert flowers. Yes, it's true.
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When we are at, as much, a risk to not speak out, then, sharp and quick, to bellows of these arbitrary—these tyrannous or darkly scary! Let them bring just one down low, and they're emboldened—don't you know? Then it's us they finally get to, our freedom a mere sucker's bet, too... at the whim of your convenience to make me live your inconvenience!
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You don't get it, that's your error! John is you; he lives YOUR terror. YOU'RE the one interred alive. YOU'RE the one in jail, Clyde!
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It's YOU who's eating awful food. It's YOU forsaken, betrayed—abused! It's you without a spark of hope! It's you who lives John's tragic joke!
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It's you who lives a life despised as harmful vermin—all contrived! It's you who shuffles for the man from cell to yard, to hall—all planned. It's you without a moment's peace, it's you who's driven to your knees! It's you who suffers needlessly. It's YOU in torment—YOU not free!
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Just lately there's a spark of hope... that hope is more than mere soft soap... some promise that the end is near for Suffolk County's reign of fear.  That justice might be done at last... at least as far as Ford is cast; and he's released to reinstate his RESTORATION, not too late!

• www.AlienView.net
• alienview@roadrunner.com

Misery!

You...

Restore him!

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Yes, you.

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No, no, not *you*, don't be foolish, how could it be *you*? ...

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...But _you_... now _you're_ a whole other toxic bag of lurid excrescence... _altogether_!

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You are as beyond guilt as you are shame! May I live to see your eventual comeuppance and anticipated demise!

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Even now I suspect you're feeling a growing dread that you "backed the wrong dark horse" and you're not going to get away with it, after all. Blood runs colder than usual for Suffolk County psychopaths, I'd bet.

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Sneer at _that_. You know who you are.

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...Yo' John!  Be restored!

...Revive, Refresh, Recharge ... Renew...

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There's a stairway in my yard to move you up, from "here" to "there," but the movement's through a portal like a Stargate, friend — I swear! It looks just like a staircase up a level from the ground, but it's *looks* which are deceiving when you slight the grand profound.

Slighted is potential to affect the existential with an efficacious meme that you'd provide. Slighting you forget you hold the keys to every kingdom you'd required if you really want to thrive!  

...Climb these steps before you, and you see the UFOs that are flashing through the darkness as they tread denying toes. Take the steps before you and provide for change of heart... with the evidence apparent? You've a horse before your cart!

Take these steps before you when you find you crave the truth! See, you're fooled by them no longer. Why? You're longer in the tooth!

Take the steps discovering the length and breadth of now; things are so much larger, quicker, brighter, newer — how?

Admittedly a state of mind, it's a useful acquisition. It's a doorway into thoughtfulness, meditation ... acquisition. It's a way to help your consciousness expand to cosmic reaches... ...it's a way to capture peace of mind from that which oft times freaks us!

See? It's a place you've made inside your brain, the only place that's real. It's real 'cause you make it so; it's real what you feel.

What works? It's what's imagined — what's created in your mind. Your force of will provokes this, friend, and it works you'll come to find.

Create a door in front of you, build it out of wood; fashioned out of stone, or not, you made it and it's good.

That door can take you places you had thought were only dreams! Departing from the 'man' you rise above his spiteful screams. You soar on space-time wings of light, past chasms made of stars. They're red and green, and blue and white — exploding crystal shards! Everything you see is light, even matter it so seems. Matter is this light at rest, and from it... ...shapes your dreams.

Dream you are a sculptor — build an archway in your yard, and through that arch you travel to the places you'd regard.

To slip arcane defenses, and they never know you're there; you plunder jealous secrets, then depart.  You dare to dare.

...Or through that arch you travel and some mystery's explained, the detail all accounted for ... now who would then refrain.

Through this arch? Fresh outlooks which provoke/demand respect; it's found there 'cause you need it. What you need, you truly get.

Oh... ...you've got to need it bad enough; you've got to really want to see ... just set your course and walk on through, and sit here, friend, with me.

Walk on through your archway and see the sky, brand new. See pinpoint lights flash different strobes, and sense a brand new you. Perceive what you've been missing in the dark skies you'd avoid, pushed away 'cause you felt threatened, over anxious, or annoyed.

Know that this is timeless, that it just goes on and on ... and if it does then you do too ... I wouldn't steer you wrong.

Know that *anything* is out there, and what's there deserves respect. Know that feeling is believing, you can join-up ... reconnect.

Shake your own hand; it's forgiven! What you cop to's in your past.  Forgiveness? A delectation, it's a stone groove; it's a gas!

And all this through a doorway that you've made from common things. Revealed! Discover peace of mind... and the calmness that it brings.

One finds they're, really, not alone; there're others in there waiting ... for you to wake up self-aware, is what they're contemplating. You go there through this door you make ... completely up to you... ...Return and step back through that door; be revived, recharged... renewed!

• alienview@adelphia.net
• www.AlienView.net

• Budd Hopkins, assisted by one John Velez, built one of these things for a commission in a client's yard last century. Mr. Hopkins, one discovers, is not so much the Alien Abduction guy. No, rather he is more like what Terence McKenna correctly identified, I suspect, as the true engineer for the fast approaching future. He’s an artist.
• Fear not. To some degree everyone is. One has to be... ...to be! ...To navigate a 21st Century day.  See, you very likely live a longer life, reader, unrecognizable to people of just a hundred years ago.  You live a potential of enlightened effication undreamed by near term forefathers, as angels even!  That seeming near god-hood has responsibilities also undreamed.  21st century existence requires art for both relevance and meaning leading to satisfaction.  Life requires art, even if only the art of mimicry, to survive — sentience to thrive.  I digress.
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• The generic artist produces art of divergent quality, sure, but then how many pieces of the ready critic's expression have been featured in the collection of the Guggenheim Museum of Modern Art? No, Mr. Hopkins is very highly regarded as an artist — this is beyond question. I suspect, also, that Mr. Hopkins has never lied in a piece of art he’s produced —unless it was the allowed artist's lie as a device for telling a more ultimate truth— just as I suspect he’s not lying elsewhere...
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• This aforementioned piece he conceived? It's a portal to a state of mind, and is still a real place, made real in the real world in a real way. Here's how Mr. Hopkins did it, here's how it's done. Here’s how you can do it.  I did it, myself.
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• Make the "place."
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• Find a "location", a sheltered, comfortable spot in a remote plot ... a convenient lay. A sentient place for serious sentience. Mr. Hopkins chose a location in a large, circular, and level field on the client's property.
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• Into the center of this field he had rolled a large, disk shaped stone, a nod to the megalithic perhaps, and solidly set it up, table fashion, on rocky supports. This established the locale. This was the place in Mr. Hopkins mind, made real.
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• Now. How to get there...
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• Build an arch. Build a door. Build a portal, gate, hatch or transom. The *point* is that it signals a spot of transition between the inside and the outside, the here and there, or even the before and the after.
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• It only looks like a door minus the surrounding structure, and is actually more along the lines of the archway Kirk, Spock and McCoy leaped through, to wondrous and exciting locales, in an ancient Star Trek episode.  Just go with me.
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• The portal is in fact a teleporter to a state of mind ... a dimensional wormhole like of that cutesy "Sliders" series on the Sci-Fi channel. I can't call it imaginary; I mean, your most outlandish conjecture is happening somewhere.  There's far-flung space/time and surface area enough to have monkey beings two-fingering Shakespeare somewhere, you recall. 
• These are just examples, mind you. Your place has a similar reality (what ever that may mean) remember, and has utility for that. That’s a good thing.  See, it can happen there, so, why not here!
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• To get to your ... place ... you go through the *door* to it, and you are, of course, *there*. To leave the place, and this is important, you go back through the door, even if you're going to end up going into an inconvenient direction. The door is the only entry and exit to an intellectual location that can be anywhere in space, time, or mind, as these might all be the same thing anyway. The reader might begin to sense the possibilities here. 
• Remember: "It's a place you've made inside your brain, the only place that's "real." It's real 'cause you make it so; it's real what you feel."
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• Yeah, yeah ... yeah ... I hear your internal dialogue, "It's.  Only.  Pretend"! You're wrong. Shut up. 'K? ...'K.
•  
• The sound of one hand clapping is, decidedly, not the sound of one hand trying to clap. Reality is dictated by the memes transmitted as a result of language, reader, and language is provoked solely as a result of imagination. Revel in yours. It’s a key to the kingdom and it can’t be taken from you, you can only give it up...
•  
• When we were kids we had a marvelous capacity to suspend disbelief that is, to our aggregate cultural detriment, burned out of most of us before we leave middle school. The crime of sick culture. ...And what a crime!
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• As a child I had a space ship. Oh sure, to you it looked like a tall stack of wood and rusty nails — filled with old radio dials, wooden levers, and bottle lids painted like *drive* instruments... ...But to me it was a battle star-wagon. I used it to right the wrongs of the universe just like my heroes "Rocky Jones", and "Captain Video."
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• When I entered my ship, I was there! ...Even if I had to fly back, quick, because I heard mom calling on the "space radio".
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• The point? "It's" as real as you make it. "It" has EVER been as real as you make it! A further point: your idlest thoughts are TRUTH REVEALED somewhere in a universe that just goes on and on in an appalling (and I mean that in a good way) if seeming infinity of space/time... and surface area... ...well passed the point of a billion-billion-billion fertile imaginations. Sincerely!
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• Tell me dreams don't make it into the real world! ...Then think of computers, space shuttles, cell phones, everlasting flashlights, and living power from the sun — mere pie in the sky dreams of the erstwhile "trendlessly fluctuating" past. Stranger than these are ushered into reality by irrepressible imagination, rest assured of that, reader! Somewhere a hundred monkeys are banging out Shakespeare...
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• It happened in our own history, verily! Additionally, we humans are our own proof of concept, our own indisputable evidence of the "other" ... that the other exists in fact! See, without the *other* there is no... *us*! What has happened once... ...has happened... and will happen again! We are somebody else's monkeys! I digress...
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• We never lost the capacity to exercise imagination on an individual level, we were just discouraged away from it by the actions of an unjust society, a bone-head society frankly jealous that our individual energies would not be used, solely, to secure conveniently exclusive and callously disrespecting ends for a sociopathic few who manipulate that *society*. ...Not in my world!
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• I mean, let's face it. If the shadowy elite had any respect for the sum total of us (you and me), they wouldn't allow the overpopulation (they encourage!) which discourages and limits the individual respect we all deserve just for plain, unvarnished, and garden variety existence ... for condensing out of the ether as mere biological facts produced by the imaginations of un-loving parents, even ... ...for just successfully clearing the breech of a mother’s womb! Respect presumed initially, reader. Individual respect that one should just be able to take for GRANTED!  Respect the default initiation, respect that can only be lost!
•  
• Budd Hopkins, artist/engineer, only continues a tradition of efficacious consciousness altering that has been carved in stone at disparate locations, all over our globe, by wildly divergent if creatively intelligent peoples, throughout time! I allude to the arcane paths one walks to get to a location vis a vis the spiral labyrinths traversed in ageless meditations, labyrinths which have been around for an unguessed at length of time — usages lost to a completely mysterious and totally forgotten past.  Labyrinths used to focus the mind for intellectual travel?
•  
• The labyrinth takes the place of the door, but the idea is the same: a journey to a healthy, positive, and very REAL state of mind — an alternate place, a hyperspace, from which you may return... with something real that can work... or from which you might learn.
•  
• Imagination is all things, reader. See it in your very individual mind, and make it so.

...Strange Treasure...

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L. Moulton-Howe? I'd surmised she was heavy. By that I mean plump, ponderous ... weighty. I'd thought she was mannish, had gained *too much* weight? ...Since beauty queen days she’d emptied some plates. A butterball picture preceded her lecture, I'd thought her an endomorph—too fond French confecture...

And what's wrong with that—well, not a damn thing; it's preferred is the point—as a way to still think.

Oh, don't get me wrong ... I'm making no judgment — I fight it myself — I'm as fat as da' gub'mint. It's just that it's better to get the full message unfiltered by beauty's beguiling advantage. Balance ... confused and derailed enough by diversions inflicted to shake it all up!

I don't want her to *thrill* me... but that I'd want her to share... all her travels, conclusions, and what she's found where. I don't want a romance, or a man/woman thing, but I do want her mind and the songs it could sing.

I wanted her portly, to give her words weight; all 'prettiness' suspect! It changes things, mate.

She'd been just a voice, but I'd heard its expression; its concern, its grand sense ... its truthful connection. She was honest, and forthright ... brave to bring light to a darkness we're facing... ...all near the same plight...

...Our world is dying; her words were its tears. She clearly contends valid reasons for fear! The lungs of our planet are burning up daily, the fish are expiring! She points it up plainly! Conspiracy's real, and it gushes from founts! Enigma's approaching — anomaly mounts!

T'was then that we met, and I've got to be truthful ... transcends the ethereal; good Christ... she is beautiful! She was standing, alone, in front of the lift as I turned a sharp corner — struck dumb and bereft!

I held out my hand and tried to say something; God knows what came out; I felt speechless ... presumptive. See what I mean? Beauty is tyranny! I’d comment to make, but I'd lost all epiphany!

"...You are Ms. Howe..." my question a statement, she said, "why, ah…yes." And her smile was radiant. Her dress was so light, and it moved without breeze. As we walked to the lift? ...I was weak in the knees.

I was fifty years plus, with a seasoned immunity to "the ways of the flesh" in our human community.

...Still, I'm swept up, beguiled, in the scent of her clothes, the wave in her hair ... her pedicured toes. My mind was in hyperdrive, and I grokked her detail... those alien eyebrows, the questions entailed.

Then the way she regards you, your secrets laid bare; I felt compelled to cover up, ashamed what she'd find there...

...See, I'm unimpressed by General Officers! I bow to few women, no strutting, proud man — but something about our Ms. Howe is quite different, and it sails passed beauty ... she's sincere — understand?

...Well, she was on two, and I was on four; we've one floor together, then she's out the door. The time that was spent in the short little trip? I'll remember a while. Though it went by so quick.

I thanked her, her courage, and I lauded her book ... "would you autograph it please," and she said she surely would. ...And then she was gone, and the doors had rolled closed — Linda Howe's a strange treasure, a flower...

...A dark rose.

• alienview@adelphia.net
• http://www.alienview.net/

• She really is incredibly beautiful. Pity. I would just as soon it not get in the way.  This sentiment could have been made similarly were she to resemble a mossy sack of stomped frogs...
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• See, "warts" — imperfections likely shared in humanity's aggregate? These are reassuring, actually, and imply a potential for approachability. Beauty can be tyranny, as may the contrary physical ugliness, eh? This is even when it’s not the tyrant's fault. More's the pity.
• The perception with regard to Ms. Howe; however, is an inverse in some unexplainable way because, somehow... on anyone else? Her brand of personal loveliness would be an unwelcome distraction.  An exception proving the rule, she's the kind of person, you see, who makes her physical appearance fade in the listener's appreciation of what she has to say.
• Remarkably, she has plenty to say. I’m asserting that, verily, and especially in comparison to her impacted detractors, there is a much more satisfying and efficacious beauty in her expression than can be found in her mere appearance, and I say this remembering my own converse turn at how all I've here-to-fore described can turn cross with you. 
• See, she's not a woman you trifle with, clearly and decidedly.  I trifled to the smallest degree and its me in smoldering crosshairs... cut off at the presumptuous knees.
•  
• It remains the preceding was my fault, so working it into an appropriate appreciation's evalutory equation is redundantly dishonorable. So?  So, call her gullible, non-discerning, or credulous in my presence and court your back-sides loss.
• Say she has no filters, is not scientific, and is too self-involved while I'm listening to invite a lesson on ignorance of spirit and mind, n'est ce pas?  Imply she’s mendacious, obfuscating, or misleading to be found mendacious, obfuscating, or misleading, yourself. Call these bogus charges, say these thoughtless epithets, imply these canted assessments until cows return as prodigals... ...and get it as wrong as an out-of-control 720 degree turn from the truth could ever take you... verily.
•  
• No, rather... ...she trumps her too often conflicted, presumptive, and suspect detractors with sincerity, imagination, and bravery. Moreover, she is subject to the dismissive slings and arrows of these detractors (agency, institution — status quo) only because in many cases these lack her courage, intelligence, and earnestness. Finally, she is a woman making her way in a male dominated field, and is remarkably even given that fact, in my opinion.  The Dolans, and J. Vallee share a similar opinion.
•  
• Frankly, operating as she operates would make her just one of the boys if she was male. But she is female... so assertiveness becomes stridency. She is female... so thoroughness becomes obsessive-ness? She is female... so she’s not passionate... she's emotional. She is female so she’s not served by strong convictions... no ...she’s a "bitch"?
•  
• Not at this station... too wary boys and ever warier girls. You know who you are.
•  
• True, I usually have to make an effort to be *nice* to unusually pretty people ... by any stripe or definition of prettiness (charisma just pisses me off much to the horror and chagrin of the charisma-tized).
•  
• See, I feel many of these are so used to deferential treatment they have (many of them) lost the capacity to respectfully appreciate it, graciously. Ms. Howe is certainly attractive enough for me to dismiss, out of hand.
• ...But Ms. Howe also has unusual courage (I’m uniquely qualified to know what courage is, Sir and Madam!), plus evidence of putting herself in harm's way (...think about it...), and her obviously uncontrived and (cleanly healthy) passion for her subject is honorably admirable. I am loath to not appreciate what she has to say and the effort made to say it.
•  
• And I do appreciate her, share her concern for an abused Earth (the only home we've currently got), and support, in a material way, her ongoing investigation into that which should be of critical (gainful!) interest to every one of us.
•  
• I buy her books and eschew M. Shirmer's.
•  
• Why? Because the earnest report is preferable to the axe-grinding and exclutionary one. I'd rather have "the truth and a half" than "half the truth"... ...And dead wrong? I suspect she’s still more *correct* (whatever that may mean) than her canted, conflicted, and intellectually constipated opposition.  That's the long and tall right there.
•  
• God's speed and cleverness, Linda Howe. It's apparent you're one of the few who's at core as pretty on the inside as you most certainly are on the outside. Lovely, and still a minor god in my personal pantheon, and, currently still (...even if under original protest...)?
•  
• "...Reporting my skies."
•  

...Who Starts The Fire...

.,¸¸,.»§«,¸¸,.·´¯`·.,¸¸,.»§«*¥*»§«,¸¸,.·´¯`·.,¸¸,.»§«·.,¸¸,.
With apology to Billy Joel…

.,¸¸,.»§«,¸¸,.·´¯`·.,¸¸,.»§«*¥*»§«,¸¸,.·´¯`·.,¸¸,.»§«·.,¸¸,.

Flying saucers, small grey men — folks abducted ... not pretend. Saucer duels? Ford's not free, Mitchell, Hall, and Sitchin — see? Maytag washers, life on Mars, baby ET's plastic jars. Stanton Friedman, Jacques Vallee — only guessing on their knees...

We didn't start the fire;
it was always burning and we're never learning...
We didn't start the fire;
it was always burning and we're never learning...

Message traffic disappears; end time talk is full and near; comets fly across our skies and take those persons living lies. Johnny Ford is painted nuts. Still, we're mute; we've got no guts. Watch and all reports come in; saucers fly for sure, my friend!

We didn't start the fire;
we're never learning so we're keeping it burning ...
We didn't start the fire;
we're never learning so we're keeping it burning ...

CIA gives self-reports, laughing up my sleeve, I snort. Agents give kids drugs to sell. I wish these Agents fulsome hells. Uni-bombers and McVeigh, sure and they have hell to pay — but we're not hearing all the facts, just the *phacts* to stay the "track"!

We didn't start the fire,
and the fire's still burning... because we're not learning.
We didn't start the fire,
and the fire's still burning... because we're not learning.

Laying gutted, breached, and gored... on the knives of landed lords, in a cell that you'd deplore, lies the frame of Johnny Ford. Lost and most alone is he, he who worked to set us free (?); soon it is they'll come for YOU! What will, then, you think to do?

We didn't start the fire,
but it's churning burning's confusing our learning.
We didn't start the fire,
but it's churning burning's confusing our learning.

Heard it first on old Art Bell, deformed frogs, and cells from hell. Corporate madness gives offence, Suffolk County's made no sense... Hoaxes, frauds, and misdirection coming to an intersection, bearing down like there's no blessing! Here it comes! It's most distressing!

We didn't start the fire, but, still, it is burning...
...and still we're not learning.
We didn't start the fire, but, still, it is burning...
...and still we're not learning.

• 
  
  
  alienview@adelphia.net
• 
  
  
  www.AlienView.net

Stanton Friedman, one whom I respect, observed to me that our government might need to have some secrets. A Republic (he says, though I would argue oligarchy), requiring immunity from the *lone crazy* an accommodating democracy "suffers," needs to keep secrets from its enemies.

I can only offer that our now too often un-elected, and so then unconstitutional government —a government warned against by many notable Americans from Abraham Lincoln through Dwight Eisenhower to Edgar Mitchell— has so far and away abused that prerogative that the original reasons requiring that secrecy is straining relevancy! 

See? They've abused their relevance where they gladly betray their sworn charter to protect and serve the Constitution, and by extension, us!  Secrecy must presume that it NOT be practiced only where the greedy needs of the few are facilitated.

It's that bad.

It's a corporate driven government and a private wheel of shadows making more wheeling shadows, confirms Richard Dolan!  This puts the weaves of our social systems, he points out, at risk! Moreover, it's plainly NOT the persons who are ground up in corporate wheels making the shadows — they only endure them even as they believe they are served by them!  These are the persons poisoned, disabled, or killed outright at Area 51— ...or walled away like our own John Ford. The wheel grinds its way to you and I, good reader. Search your heart.

It is an unjust wheel, I'll wager confidently. It is a wheel we would not remotely energize if we knew what was required to keep its psychopathic roll.  A soul is legal tender in this contract with reptiles to power dehumanizing wheels facilitating the ongoing death of the aforementioned Republic.

To wit: A meltdown of the current system in its present form is abundantly forecast and probably inevitable. It is unfortunate that the reptilian minority most "inconvenienced," if largely unaffected by this meltdown I add, has to make it so tough on the majority... that is the rest of us!

Why not a controlled melt-down now in a time of relative prosperity when we have the extra wealth to weather the possible storm — grease for the dry socket that is not really required by the approaching future bearing down upon us like a train... Do it now coming out of this current disaster — in a year the dust will have settled a little and we will all be on much firmer ground.

We'll be READY for the next winter! Think of it fellow motes! We could be ready for far more than a mere winter!

Consider! We enter a time when we become more and more afraid of our government when the only government that remotely works is the government that is contrarily afraid of its people! We must have firmer ground with regard to our government, you and I, as regards a very necessary informed consent; it's the only place one can find any real and lasting satisfaction.  It is a place of bi-directional cultural respect bridging gaps between classes —a conduit between the left and right halves of Bell curves— and the only place we should be compelled to stand.  Mammalian institutions are preferred to reptillian ones for obvious reasons.  Lizard's institutions are not evolved and non-evolving.  These would de-evolve.

Restore John Ford.

I Had A Dream

Woob doots and _fab_ didly (pronounced "did-ly" with accent on the first sill-la'-ble), but what a dream!

Stanton Friedman, Robert Hastings, and Richard Dolan participate, one night, in a ufological equilateral Venn diagram of such profound symmetry and prime factual overlap that they are compelled to take it on the road!

In the tradition of the Tri-dialogue -or Trialogue- of 21st Century thinkers McKenna, Abraham, and Sheldrake, but minus the entheogens (I think!), Hastings, Friedman, and Dolan produce a dazzling multimedia program of such artful economy and poignant explication that the observer is able to think more holistically about everything after experiencing it!

_

Together, in some strangely new and felicitous synergy, Dolan, Hastings, and Friedman usher a transition from the reptile group brain currently employed by humanity into the mammalian brain we now only enjoy individually.

Overjoyed, a plethora of races descend from the sky and together we celebrate the end of Human history and the beginning of our Galactic one. I wake smelling coffee.

Wasn't that sweet?

Hey! There's no _limit_ to the progress that can be made if it doesn't matter who gets the credit, eh?

alienview@roadrunner.com

http://www.alienview.net/

Pyramids of Maslow (II of II)

...Now the seventh tier is greater 

than the pyramid implies! 

Greater than its sum of parts: 

a synergy's contrived!

.

It's here there comes advancement 

as one cuts away ones fear. 

It's here there's elevation 

that your *God* has even feared!

.

It's here there is progression 

as the grasp achieves its reach. 

It's here, perhaps advancement 

as those reaching turn to teach. 

It's here, perhaps, improvement 

of an efficacious kind; 

it's here one knows the pleasure 

of the perspicacious mind.

.

See, at seven one's *self-actualized* 

...as good as one can get, 

and is reaching for the very things 

we can't conceive of, yet.

.

"Reach" and "grasp" become as one, 

and magic happens fast!  

Reality is sorted out, 

more firmly gripped at last. 

"Acceptance" is the stock in trade 

for "others" as they are—

themselves, the world or what's outside 

... that mind that is not ours!

.

Preferred is spontaneity. 

What's novel is the creed—

the evidence considerable 

...for routine there's little need. 

It's novelty conserved at last, 

the yin to yang of entropy, 

chaos is what rules supreme, 

for habit they have enmity.

.

The problem's at the center 

of the point of the concern; 

the self is secondary—

that's the hardest thing we learn. 

Desired? Oh, rare detachment, 

the forest for the trees. 

Gestalt is common—usual... 

but they're off their bleeding knees! 

Requiring modest solitude 

so the thinking bubbles up, 

the actualized are worth the time 

they spend apart from us!

.

They change the world's thinking 

as they think the thoughts they do. 

Improving our humanity, 

they can see a problem new!

.

Required? An independence 

from distractions lower down 

on the levels of their pyramid 

that they've built on quaking ground. 

They NEED their stark autonomy 

they will EARN by giving back... 

useful fruits of thoughtful labor 

as they take us "there" and "back"!

.

Too, resistance is the reflex 

given dogma one has brought. 

Stereotyped behaviors 

are eschewed as more than not.

.

They don't judge, 

but don't participate, 

not flamboyant, 

they don't try... 

to stretch the unconventional 

to a point one could despise. 

They seek the common welfare, 

and an increase of the same. 

They live within an empathy 

so they suffer more, our shame.

.

Relationships are deeper 

(with a few), and less is more. 

Superficiality is detested to its core.

.

They see the democratic 

as the path to be maintained, 

where misery is shared on out, 

thereby: relieving needless pain. 

The joy is shared the same smart way, 

but increases for the sharing! 

The reward's a satisfaction 

we achieve for all our daring!

.

Too, then comes their transcendence, 

they don't cope, they SOAR and CLEAVE! 

The soul must slip its surly bonds 

to strive and to achieve!

.

Creation is the answer 

and the fund of real wealth; 

it satisfies the "hunger," 

and provokes for mental health.

.

It brings a "PEAK EXPERIENCE"; 

it is RAPTURE ; it is JOY; 

it's self-regenerating 

so there's independence, boy! 

It's excitement, and it's insight, 

and it's not for just a few! 

More could well achieve it 

with their structures so imbued.

.

Imbued with what, you're asking? 

Well, imbued by what supports! 

A better wage, paid time to think, 

clean WATER, by report!

.

The path is self-constructed 

in a pyramid one makes 

to reach the sky and grasp the truth 

from charlatans and fakes! 

Expand upon potential! Elevate your mind!

.

...Soar and cleave unlimited, 

unbound, and unconfined!

lehmberg2002@gmail.com
www.AlienView.net


Self-actualization. More could (should) have it, and all would (shall) be IMPROVED for these having it and the mere aspiration to it this writer suspects. It'd bring the saucers down, but they're coming down anyway, right.

• 
  

Artists and writers—artists of any type actually; these should get a stipend from a progressive government. That's right. Poets should be supported by the state.

• 
  

Seriously, the creative should be encouraged to create. There will be crap. There's always crap... ...that's not news to anyone when it's 90% of everything?

• 
  

Our salvation is in our creative artifice, and that's it, is my best guess. Unfettered intellectualities are required. Yeah boy! Gimmee summa dat!

• 
  

Increasingly, father science is beginning to seem like it's not going to be able to pull off the big enchilada all by itself, eh? Aristotle and Plato are going to have to reconcile—create a synergy.

• 
  

Aristotle can't go it alone. He would if he could. But he can't. It becomes increasingly obvious to him and flop sweat slimes his countenance. Sure, you need science, but Science or nothing?  Then you have nothing.

• 
  

Exactly.

• 
  

Restore John Ford.

Pyramids of Maslow (I of II)

It's called "self-actualization," 

and it comes to one with luck—

if one aspires to it, 

and one's courage measures up...

.

You build it like a pyramid, 

just one level at a time, 

and once it's been constructed 

there's a treasure one might find! 

.

Atop it one can see for miles, 

and perceive the grandest things; 

one could feel very deeply, 

but could still detach from things. 

Too, one sees, at last, the cosmos—

for what it really was, 

and writes it down for you and me 

describing what it does.

.

The first tier of this pyramid's 

a wide-based broad affair. 

Requirements must dictate 

what the *real world* bears.

.

Food—and plenty of it. 

Food for health, and day to day. 

Food that feeds the body, 

so the mind I need to say. 

Food that's never-ending. 

Food that's always there, 

but food that won't distract you 

from that *upward* path you dare!

.

Sans a meal one must perish; 

without food one's driven down; 

without food all one thinks about: 

its taste and smell confound. 

Sans food there's no cognition; 

you will think of nothing else, 

so at last one's too distracted 

as one tightens at one's belt.

.

The next tier of this pyramid's 

*almost* as wide and harsh. 

It presupposes shelter, a roof, 

some clothes—a hearth.

.

One's life requires sanctuary, 

security—retreat. 

Refuge and some cover 

are essential basic needs. 

Without it, one's distracted 

from that "self-affirming trail." 

Without it one is dispossessed, 

sans a lodging—failed!

.

Without it, one will suffer 

while his future is refused. 

Without it, one is lost at sea 

without a hook to use...

.

The third tier is relaxing 

and it gives one time to think. 

It hinges on security—

how closely lies the *brink*?  

It's SAFETY that concerns one—

no 'gators in the swamp... 

as one might work to drain it (?)—

be undistracted by that "romp"?

.

It's protection from disaster, 

and defense against disease; 

it's redress from all the worrying 

one procures upon one's knees. 

Not a ramp-up of one's anxiousness, 

that distraction from the path... 

which ruins satisfaction—

runs a motor out of gas; 

in safety, one has time to think—

to ponder, more, our stars... 

to give some thought to flying things, 

like saucers and cigars!

.

The fourth tier is a puzzle 

and maligned—misunderstood. 

Worshipped and detested, 

call it lust or something *good*.

.

It's tumultuous, a wildcard. 

It can make you sick as hell. 

It's like dancing with the stars 

and hearing ringing—pealing bells.

.

Providing for one's basic drive, 

it's woven into love, 

or pounded into sabers 

used to strike that spark above. 

One shall not rise above it... 

this tyranny of genes—

denied, it sneaks upon you, 

and shall visit you with *dreams*. 

A column of one's total drive, 

it shall not be dismissed. 

This tier of your potential 

is the tier that would be *kissed*.

.

...But, then one wants "belonging" 

as a fifth tier finds its place. 

One wants to feel useful and... 

a PART of something graced! 

And, this is fine and dandy 

'till it's used to take your hand 

and then lead you down some primrose path — 

mere fodder to be damned!

.

One finds belonging to one's SELF 

the better path, you see—

a path so ever upward 

in a climb to make one free. 

Yes, free from grievous despotism 

that takes away one's edge, 

free of harsh elitists 

who would have us live THEIR dread.

.

...Free from all behaviorists, 

their programs and their chains, 

free from all the guilt imposed, 

the charges, and the blame. 

Belonging's fine until it's used 

to cause one further pain. 

It's, then, a mechanism 

and a collar on your brain.

.

Oh, then there's recognition 

and rewards that that entails. 

A sixth tier may be added, 

and one reaches, grasps...and sails! 

It's here there's contribution. 

True ACHIEVEMENTS can be made! 

One provides for an endowment 

which is loath to dull or fade.

.

One's competence unquestioned (?) 

and esteem needs justly met (?), 

one looks around for what is left, 

to pick up, savor—GET! 

Perhaps one takes the high road 

and decides, instead, to give... 

in a manner self-providing one—

with WHAT one can't pretend.

.

Perhaps it is the time one has... 

to hear a different drum. 

We need unique perspective 

for the future that must come!

. 

Perhaps it is the time achieved 

to clarify one's mind, 

to look instead into that light 

we're *warned* would strike us blind...

.

Pyramids-Of-Maslow-II-of-II

lehmberg2002@gmail.com

www.AlienView.net

Maslow's Pyramid. From the golden age of psychology... but still considered today. ...But, still!

Amazing, the stuff that must come to light in that self-actualized brilliance—what that journey portends. Why, even a super powerful gestalt humanity linked efficaciously with computers (and suggested first, imo, by Theodore Sturgeon). Oh, to reach up and touch THAT on its shining face. ...And that just a facet of our potentiality...

Likely it is the potential of which we cannot yet conceive ... some new thing used in a way as yet unpredictable...

Back at the ranch... A key condition of Maslow's Pyramid seems to be that as the preceding level is consolidated there is time to consider the formulation of the next level. There must be, though, that consolidation. People want to self-actualize, are predisposed to it I suspect. Only, hindered, betrayed, abused, and cheated... most must fail, eh?

What advantage and advancement is pared away when a "sociopathic society" pounds a "square" peg into a "round" hole... or the inverse of that. Whatever is least attractive to the pounder I'm betting — who should really just pound sand.

"[We] coulda' been somebody. [We] could have been contenders... not bums, which is what [we] are..."

Restore John Ford.