. Recently George Stephanopoulos asked the POTUS if he “had heard of any reports of extraterrestrial life:” Cheeto-in-Charge responded thusly:
“I think our great pilots would know,” he said. “And some of them see things a little bit different from the past. We’re watching, and you’ll be the first to know.”
Really, nothing to say here about this. I mean . . . we just can’t . . . it simply is too damn crazy.
It seems when I sleep in the afternoon, the dreams are weirder. I’m recovering from oral surgery, feeling sloggy and groggy, and so, slept for a couple of hours. (And when I woke up, thought it was time for work and had a moment of confusion on what to wear.)
So, the dream. I’m working away on writing, reading, researching all about This Stuff. UFOs, aliens, with a few cryptids thrown in. The usual. It’s night; outside the window I can see the dark night sky, a few stars. A knock at the door, I answer. Three males, all very different and very odd, are standing there. Without a word they just come in, pushy!
They act like MIB but don’t look like MIB. (Men in Black.) One looks like a boy of about sixteen, but I know he isn’t a young boy. He’s not even human. In fact, I know that none of these “men” are human. The other looks somewhat like an human, except the he’s really tall, and the other, about five foot nine, well. He’s simply a humanoid outline full of purple glittery shimmering material that keeps swirling around.
These men warn me in very strong terms not to discuss my experiences, my research. They know all about what I’ve written in the past. Everything. Every blog post, every article, every reference to me, every journal entry, and every discussion I’ve had with others about UFOs.
I am very offended. I ask them, “Just who do you think you are?!” and they don’t answer. They then walk right through the wall! Now that terrifies me. Then they walk back out, into the living room. They tell me “Don’t fuck with us, lady. We’re serious. You CANNOT tell anyone about us!”
“Then why,” I ask, “Are you showing up here at all, and showing off your wall trick?”
That, they ignore. They just walk through the wall again.
Later, I’m at work, I think. Somewhere. I get a few people close to me together, tell them they cannot, CANNOT, tell anyone what they’re about to see. We’re in a room, locked door, paper over the peep hole.
I am telling these people because the “men” later told me I could, but only if we promise not to tell others. Turns out I have video of their going through walls.
After I show the video, some tell me they don’t believe it because it’s easy to fake things. True, good point. I don’t know what to say.
Then the “men” show up and go through walls again. That gets everyone’s attention.
What I found interesting in this dream was the show off nature of the aliens, or whatever they were, along with their warning not to tell anyone. I asked what I considered a very reasonable question: then why show me all this?
True, as we know, when weird experiences happen and we tell others about them, many times we’re not believed. But many of us are compelled to tell our stories anyway. And there is certainly a trickster element in the UFO/alien paranormal realm. Lots of bizarre actions — performances, really, by “them” — often with warnings of keeping the experience secret.
Labels. We all use them, in every situation and context. Labels help us. They also manipulate us. We need something to hang onto, something to help us make sense of things. A handy quick label keeps us moving. We assume we all know, all agree, what we’re talking about when we use labels. Of course, most of the time that’s not true. We don’t agree, we aren’t sure, and we just want to get to it. Not get bogged down with defining our labels or explaining ourselves.
When it comes to UFOs, well, the word itself is a label abused. Both debunkers and believers (more labels!) assume UFO means aliens from outer space. (My theory is “they started it” meaning the skepti-bunkers, who insist that UFO of course “really” means ET, and therefore, let the scoffing and mocking begin.)
What labels to use when talking about people who’ve interacted with UFOs and or entities? Experiencer is a big one. Abductee, contactee, … the edges blur with those two, though of course those words help us identify witnesses who have been contacted, or taken, by entities. (And I do recognize that I use entity more than alien, certainly more than ET, because, well, we don’t know they’re literal ETs.) I will not ever tell someone who’s gone through encounters what to do; never suggest they take a specific approach or use only certain terminology. That’s up to them. For myself, I think simply using the word witness is enough. Yes, I’ve experienced things as well, but for me, that word in this context seems clinical. The use of the word experience removes a complicated mass of emotions and responses, it sets the self apart from the crazy mysterious scary weird exhilarating thing that happened.
It is up to each one of us who have witnessed these things to use whatever terms makes sense to us at the time. And the researchers who work with witnesses need to respect that, using their own language as they see fit, but allowing the witness her or his voice as well.
Clearing off a few shelves to make room for more books and vinyl (Santa brought us a new turntable) I came across a folder of cartoons I did decades ago. Just silly things. I did a few of a character I came up with; Pongo, the Neurotic Dog. (The quality is awful, I know, not much I can do with a built in Mac camera.)
I don’t remember if I was aware of it at the time, but “Pongo sees his first UFO” is dated 1954, the year I was born. And a lifetime of UFO and related experiences ever since.
Another silly one, about the great Cosmic nature of it all:
Moon in Gemini, never a good thing for us Pisces:
And finally, beware the Radio Active Cows. Maybe that’s why the aliens are abducting them.
This just in. And after listening to Adam Gorightly and Greg Bishop the other night on Coast to Coast talking about contactees. Synchronicity!
Miami Herald’s item on Bettina Rodriguez Aguilera, political candidate, who has been in communication with ET since she was seven years old:
Florida has a U.S. senator who once flew aboard the Space Shuttle.
A congressional candidate from Miami can go one better: Bettina Rodriguez Aguilera says she’s been aboard a spaceship too. But this one was crewed by aliens. As in extraterrestrials.
Three blond, big-bodied beings — two females, one male — visited her when she was 7 years old and have communicated telepathically with her several times in her life, she says. (Sen. Bill Nelson served as payload officer aboard the Space Shuttle Columbia in 1986. All seven people aboard were from Earth. As far as is known.) More here.
Three sketches I made last night while listening to Adam Gorightly and Greg Bishop on Coast to Coast last night. Good program; Gorightly and Bishop discussed their new book, A is for Adamski, with host George Knapp.
I wanted to make sure I didn’t fall asleep while listening to the show so I stayed up and sketched. I didn’t think about what I’d draw, just let myself go where my subconscious took me.
The first sketch I call “My invisible dancing aliens.” Years ago I started a painting based on this same drawing but never finished it. This is a sketch of the little foyer in the house I grew up in in Los Angeles. There was a little window in the wall, as you see, a closet door on the left, and across from that, the front door. This is the house where I waited for my little alien friends to come and float me out the front door. I also have memories of dancing with these creatures. No faces on the beings — I don’t remember their faces, or much at all, except that they were. About my size, almost see through. Airy, fragile, friendly. Same ones who floated me out the door, into the large tree on the corner where I’d wait for … more. More beings, ships. . .
This is also the house where my mother saw a UFO hovering over the apartments across the street.
This next sketch is of my bed. I’m not in it. The aliens (or beings, or entities, or angels, or elementals, whatever it is one wants to call them) are not looking at me in the bed — not anymore. I’m gone to what ever place they took me to. They are looking up, away from my bed, to the skies, and pointing. I’ve noticed that in this sketch, and another I did of my bedroom and the aliens, some of the aliens are tall, and clothed.
The last drawing surprised me; it’s a version of my “patio alien” a creature I saw when I was about four. This was in another house in Los Angeles, on Corning Street, not too far from the house referred to above. I tried to capture the nasty nature of this thing but I don’t think it comes across. Although, I showed it to my husband who just shook his head (I didn’t tell him what it was.) I asked him if he was referring to my artwork or what; he said no, to “it.” “Not good,” he said. “That thing is not good.”
This thing was about four feet tall, all in silver and a hood or helmet, red glowing eyes — more like lights then eyeballs — and had a wand or gun type thing in its hand. When I saw it I first thought the thing was holding our hose, messing around with it for some reason. It saw me, was very very angry I was watching it, and pointed the “hose” at me. Turned out to me some kind of ray gun (as hokey as that sounds) at me. I was terrified.