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"The part we ignore…may contain the clue to the whole subject." ~ J. Allen Hynek



Oh, Same Old Disgruntled Crap About Inhabitants in UFO Land


monster outer space movie.jpg

I remind myself: it’s about the data, the research, the search, the journey, the personal experiences, the witnesses. Not whether or not I like so and so, and, if I do, because I respect them, find out they like so and so, who I detest, dislike, spit upon! Even. Yes. I do.

And so then what? Does that color my opinion and trust and respect on their conclusions on research, data, etc.? Or what? Oy. UFO and Fortean World: Welcome to Middle School Melodrama. No, just move on.

Except for certain things, I do not abide. Like threats of rape and other violence towards myself and other women. Or intentionally spewing lies. All your research is then discarded. Because you’re a dick, and will stoop to anything to get your ego driven self out there, propped up by others who dance giddily in your light, not knowing, or caring, you’re a sexist violent pig who puts himself above any witness account, any data, any interesting bit of research. Some days it’s hard being a resident in UFO Land.

Dr. Morgan and the Chemtrails: Pop culture and paranoid thoughts

The 1950s throw back comic Rex Morgan, M.D. recent thread depicting an old coot who’s “paranoid” and thinks chemtrails are real, and, affecting our brains. Dr. Morgan, of course, ever the rational mind, is clearly bemused and troubled. No doubt it will turn out the man has a brain tumor, or early dementia, some type of physical ill that is causing him to think these silly thoughts. Once he’s cured, everyone will have a good laugh over the man’s crazy thoughts.


Synchronicities, China, Dreams . . .

If this keeps up I’m going to have to start a dream journal-blog. (No, don’t do it! Too many already!)

Lately my dreaming mind has been roiling with the supernatural. See my two  previous posts.

Last night:

I’m in telepathic communication with a young man (late twenties or so) who is Egyptian, or maybe Syrian . . . at first, our communication is telepathic, then we move on to face to face time via computer, like Skype. I am a famous medium-psychic-past life regressor. I am telling this young man all about his past lives. He is very interested, very surprised. 

I’ve written a book. A big book, about things paranormal and supernatural. I’m standing in the desert (where the young man lives?) with a few other people. I’m holding a silver wand/staff object. I’m telling these people something about the original book, the manuscript or porto-type book, holds some very powerful and unique information, as well as little objects, that if China gets ahold of it, it’s the end for all of us. The END. Really, really bad. 

China gets ahold of the book somehow. So we go to China, have to sneak around, pretend we’re not interested in the book. Armed police, guards, everywhere. Everywhere. Cameras, microphones. We steal the book, somehow. We’re chased. It’s bad. We get away with the book.

Woke up this morning to read about the million or so protesters in Hong Kong protesting

China’s latest fascist doings:

bomb cellar.jpeg

HONG KONG — Hundreds of thousands protested in Hong Kong on Sunday against a government plan that would allow extraditions to mainland China.

The mass demonstration was among the largest in Hong Kong’s history, and another sign of rising fear and anger over the erosion of the civil liberties that have long set the semiautonomous city apart from the Chinese mainland.

Also read an item in the paper about a Richland, Washington state high school that has the mushroom cloud as its logo! The school is “proud of the cloud!” they chant. Unbelievable. You can read more here  about this incredible lack of judgement, and a brave young woman from Japan who shared her feelings about this to the school.

Later this morning, a co-worker telling me about a film she watched over the weekend where, at the end, the atomic bomb goes off.


My Mother’s . . . Abduction?

Again I say, oh the dreaming mind. The other night, the dream was about Mothman. Last night, my mother.

This is difficult. My mother died four years ago. Her last few years were terrible; dementia. Kidney, heart failure. Not to mention the depression, the anger, the fear.  Since her death, I’ve had several dreams a month about her. My non-paranormal writing has included a lot about my mom. Tough childhood, for all of us. For her, when she was a girl, for us, when we were kids.

Why am I telling you all this? As a bit of background for the following dream. My mother and I would talk about these things; UFOs, Mot
hman(she had a theory about the Moon, Mothman, etc.) She saw a UFO once when I was a kid. I was the only one who believed her. In fact, I told her, she insisted, not to worry, since “They’ll be back. They always come back.” My mother was aware of my interest in this field, and always found it interesting. She never thought I was silly or lying for my interests. She knew better; she had her own UFO sighting, and a ghost encounter. When it came to these areas, she was open.

I don’t know what to make of the following dream. Why two worlds came together: the paranormal-UFO-non-human realm, the working-through-my-mother-issues realm.

My mother is in bed. She’s ill. Dementia has not gotten ahold of her yet, thankfully. But she knows she’s dying. We’re in the home I grew up in L.A. (the one where mom saw the UFO, the one where I’d have all those waiting for the aliens to come encounters.)

My mom is in good spirits, considering. She wants to tell me something. She asks me if I remember the time she went away for a few days, now and then, I say sure. She says she didn’t go where everyone thought — out of town, whatever — but that she was abducted. By “them.” Aliens, for lack of a better word. 

I am shocked, of course. Also terrified. Confused and not sure what I just heard. She then tells me about the “beeping.” Beeping sounds that would pop into her head before a visit from them, before an abduction took place. I tell her about how I hear that beeping too (true.) 

My mom has covered up these UFO-alien experiences her whole life. Missing time, encounters. I tell her of my own. As we’re talking, a huge wind comes through the bedroom, really, a mini tornado. It scares us but we manage to stay in place. Nothing is wrecked. It’s clear this “wind” was really some type of entity, intelligence and didn’t like us talking about these things. Sharing our mutual experiences. 


I woke up feeling very odd about this dream. A little unnerved. Confused. Do I think my mother was ever really abducted? No, — I don’t even think I was ever abducted — but, well, something.

I don’t know what to do with this. Except put it out there. More data. Another angle of approach in our attempts to figure all this out. Which is all we can do, it seems. Share and explore. Which often includes the very personal. It’s scary and weird and one can be accused of oversharing. Well, okay.  True and fair. But sometimes if we withhold some things, we’re only keeping ourselves locked into our present state of Not Getting Anywhere.

Here are links to my other blog posts elsewhere — like on my Saucer Sightings blog — about my childhood memories, dreams and UFOs:

One Hell of a Dream about Aliens

The Synchronicity of Puppet Wolves

Objectivity. Feh. And Meh.

“Meh. Feh. People have experiences. People, being people, then interpret those experiences according to their cultural, religious, spiritual, political, etc. beliefs, contexts, upbringings. Nothing new there. All this stuff about being objective — well, we sure do need that! Except, within this holy chase of being objective, we forget that people have experiences that are, at best, weird. Some of us put those experiences into a comfort box where All Is Explained. Others, like myself, don’t know what the fuck happened, except, it DID happen, whatever it was, and it was weird, and continues, and so now what?” ~ Regan Lee on Facebook, June 2019


That’s what I posted on Facebook this evening in response to a thread about the need, and lack, of “objectivity” in UFO research.

Two minds here. One, sure, I think one should be objective. Especially if you’re a researcher, or simply an interested on-looker of UFOs. You can’t go in there with a pre-determined idea of What This Whole UFO Thing Is All About. You don’t know — you don’t! — and neither do I. We have ideas, theories, speculations, and that is not a bad thing. At all! At all! But it’s not the truth, or that utopian idea of “objectivity.”

The other mind, says, “Oh, well, clearly — CLEARLY!!!!! — it’s angels. Or demons. Or fairies, dark projects, weapons technology, and the list is just endless.

The Reptilian that comes, or the angel, or the alien, or the lovely sexual/asexual Space Sister/Brother, with messages of peace and gentle chidings of care for the planet, may be the message.  But does that mean it’s the truth? The entity may be real (or, not) but its message may be pure bullshit.

Or, it could be, most likely is, a little bit of all of those things: some conspiracy, some non-human entity melodrama, some sci-fi-yet-all-too-real DARPA weaponry, etc.

Meanwhile, we’re still left with experiences. Sightings. Encounters. The researcher out there who doesn’t know me, didn’t see what I saw, can only be “objective.” Up to a point, that’s good. A different perspective, a needed reminder to stop, breathe and think.

Thank you. I needed that.

At the same time, for many a witness/experiencer/your label here, our experiences continue. And we still don’t have answers. We don’t have solutions.

The mystery continues. Many of us are stuck in a created answer. I can’t speak for others. But I also know that many of us remain stuck for different reasons. We don’t have answers. We reject a one size fits all, be it a religious, cultural, or whatever the fuck explanation. All we know is that weird stuff has always happened, and continues to happen. We want to know why, and how, and, what.

So while “objectivity” from outside can add insight, it isn’t an answer.

And this perspective that I’ve presented here is an old one, which proves that we haven’t gotten anywhere, really. Except for, very possibly, the recent revelations of various government data concerning UFOs. While that may be objective, it isn’t an answer. We still don’t know the whys, and the wheres, and the hows. We just know that there IS.

That’s objective. IT IS. Old, old data. Only the most stubborn, the most dense, the most thick headed of skeptic-debunker of the thick-headed-debunkers, can deny the existence of Otherness.

But that’s all we have really. The data that tells us that there is truly other shit out there. Doesn’t take us too far.

We need a kind of Zen approach, a real balance. Get out of our comfort zones in terms of frameworks that make us feel better, yet reject the blindness that can come of objectivity. Because, in the end, whether it’s gorillas or bees or the mating habits of heterosexuals on the west coast of the U.S., there is not true, real, objectivity.

So everyone relax. And listen.


River Voices and, Screen Memory?

Jim, remembering his years living up river, in the woods,  in a yurt. This, decades ago, no cell phone, no computer, no TV, no nothing. Except his dog, his S.O. at the time, and a couple of iron skillets. And books. 

“You don’t want to pay too much attention to what you hear in the night. Probably doesn’t help I was reading Castaneda at the time.”

Jim speaks of whispers, calls, songs, voices to be sure, but not quite human sounding. Imagination? Or awareness of other? (He never saw anyting UFO – ish out there, up the McKenzie River, but he did have some interesting experiences, including a strange energy zapping thing that came through his cabin (post-Yurt) and “into” his body.)

I remember a night in the Santa Cruz area with my father and step-mother. Standing by a river. A very crisp night. I remember the stars; so many, so damn brilliant!  It was the first time, spending time by water that I heard singing. Voices. Angelic. Coming from the water. Distinct. I was about sixteen, fifteen. I remember that night vividly. I think we spent the night there, camping out. I’m not sure. So much about that night is vague. But the voices in the water — I’ll never forget that.

Decades later, I painted a semi-abstract painting of a river, water . . . as I was painting, that memory came back to me. Suddenly, I put in a little silver saucer shape thing in the sky above the water.  I was thinking “star.” As soon as I had done that, I “heard” just outside my head a voice (not the first time this has happened) that “There was much more to that night than I remember,” and the insertion of that silver object in the sky is no mistake or mindless doodle.

“That was no star,” the voice said. “That was a UFO.”


A true memory, literal, or something else? Easy to dismiss or explain away in rational terms. And I would. Except, as always, the life long experiences that puts these seemingly random events into a context. A context that shouts: “UFO paranormal weirdness, sister. Keep paying attention.”

Why Her? Childhood Memories of “Them”

I have a recurring dream. I’ve been dreaming this dream for decades. Goes like this:

It’s night. I’m in bed, watching the yellow light beneath the door, waiting for “them.” The little beings that I can barely see. I have to wait like this, part of the “ritual” although I didn’t think of that way when I was a child. Just kind of excited, waiting to “play.” 

They come. Float me out through the bedroom door, the hall door, through the living room — where I see my mother and grandmother, maybe some others, talking, watching t.v. — and float me out the front door. They put me up in the large pine tree on the corner of our street. The house next door to us, the one on the corner, had a huge pine tree on the corner of the front yard. 

I’m not the only one sitting happily on a branch, high up in the tree, waiting for the rest of “them.” My friend Pamela is here too. We wait together. The two of us are used to this, happens all the time. Soon the ship will come and we’ll go inside and be with the rest of “them.”

In this recurring dream, it’s only Pamela. Not any of my other friends from school or the neighborhood, not my god sister or sisters or anyone else. Always Pamela.

Is there literal meaning to this memory? I still have dreams, decades later, of her, where I contact her. She is far away, and it was quite an ordeal getting her number, etc. to reach her. But I finally do.

We also used to sneak up to the roof tops of the multi-apartment complex she lived in in Hancock Park. Late at night, sitting up on the roofs of buildings. Did something happen on those rooftops, something we, or I, don’t remember?

I haven’t been in contact with this person since my early twenties. No idea where she is, her last name (married, kept her maiden name, what) — and, regrettably, my behavior back then was not the best. (Drugs, rock and roll, the seventies, … enough said.)

Dreams of UFOs, space ships, non-human beings appearing and communicating . . . childhood memories that, when shared with some family members, are met with uneasy and startlingly confirmations of similar memories.

A ghost story’s clues: abduction?

Heard a ghost story today. I will not reveal where, or details, in order to protect the witness. I don’t have permission, so, no.

But the story is a basic ghost story, of an apparition appearing as a “real” person, who abruptly — very abruptly — disappears. As many a ghost story goes, this one took place in outdoors, in an area where, anyone coming or going would have been easily noticed. Also, the witness had given this ghost/visitor physical items. Items which seemed to have left with the ghost. Who disappeared as quickly and oddly as he had appeared.

I related this story to my husband, who asked about the items. If they were physical items, where did they go? Did the “ghost” take them with him? They weren’t around — the witness did not see them.

Was there physical evidence of these items given to the ghost before hand? If so, where are these things now?

My husband speculated if this ghostly encounter wasn’t really, in fact, a cover memory of an alien abduction.

Damn interesting!

Who knows, of course. These seemingly different and specific phenomena often merge; crossing over each other. One playing at being another? Or all the same? Or, sometimes the “same?”

Elk Memory

I’ve written about my elk memory in past blog posts, including here.

The following is a poem I wrote recently about this event:

An elk, so I thought

deep in the woods, at ten

away from my troop — 

what was this huge, silent creature? as I stood

across the highway

still, staring,

regan lee elk.jpgunafraid, but awed.

Why was I there?



Not lost, but

not where I should 

have been.


regan lee

oregon, 5/2019


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