What Does The End of The Age of Visual Evidence Mean To Ufology?

Now that Photoshop is no longer the special domain of photographers and analysts, cameras run at unlimited frame rates, everyone with a computer has access to special effects suites, and Google Earth is Google Earthing, I’d say the age of visual evidence is pretty much over for ufology, wouldn’t you? But is that a bad thing?

One could suppose that advanced aliens would have the means to make their craft invisible, rendering the question moot–but if they do they certainly haven’t used their cloaking devices liberally over the years. Maybe they want to be seen. Maybe they don’t care either way. Or maybe, just maybe, they don’t exist at all.

What if the end of the age of visual evidence means this: we can prove that ufological phenomena belong to the trickster realm more than alien? We will know this if, for instance, ufological evidence stops being visual and starts taking place in the other senses. Already we’ve seen people talking about mysterious booms and mysterious trumpet noises. Phantom sounds. And as our attention spans have been decreasing, we’ve been asking ourselves if time is speeding up, right? Some people link this and deja vu to interdimensional beings, parallel worlds, time travelers, and aliens or future humans fixing our timeline, whatever that means. I imagine the next big thing will take place through touch: people claiming to be knocked down by a mysterious invisible force. A phantom sucker punch, if you will. Or perhaps a light tickle on the back of the neck that feels like a finger. Maybe it starts out nice but grows violent until you have a story to tell.

I can also imagine an entire town waking up from the same strange dream about grays and talking to each other about it. Then someone calls Coast and it goes viral.

Is that us searching for an unknown to explore in the face of the “alien” unknown growing quieter and quieter as youtube hoaxes proliferate? Or is the phenomenon doing that? It could be both: as our visual tech renders photo and video evidence moot, we create several new mysterious options for the “alien” to appear in our lives and whichever one becomes the popular norm is built upon by the enigmatic other–if there is an enigmatic other. Perhaps that other is no more than the human collective working in a way we have yet to prove, creating tulpas that act out our agreed-upon mystical fantasies in a concrete way that today’s materialism demands.

We won’t know what the definition of the enigmatic other is if alien ships get replaced with sound, touch, taste, dream, time, or other  phenomena, but we’ll know what it is not: what we thought it was, believed it was, and fought over deep into the night for the last 60+ years. And when the hurt wears off from realizing we’ve wasted our lives believing self-woven fantasies about the other, that’s when we’ll see we’ve actually taken one small step closer to seeing it as it is by having dramatically peeled off a huge layer of what it is not.

The Goddess Pele/Feral Chicken Auditory Hallucination Story

By popular demand (or like 4 people on Facebook) here’s a little something funky that happened to me a couple of mornings ago….

Never Look A Gift Cock In The Mouth

I was awakened really early by a woman’s voice. It was probably the crack of dawn but I was too out of it with the tired to check my clock. I just heard this woman talking. She kind of sounded like one of my roommates. I have two, both female. They have real bedrooms. I have a dining room converted into a bedroom, which means that where a wall and a door should be there is a bookcase and a curtain. I hear everything. It sucks. But don’t cry for me Argentina, because while you’re stuck in Argentina, I live in paradise.

Except paradise comes with a severe cost–one worse than dining-bedroom. That cost? Feral chickens who never know what time it is.

Rrr-r-rrr-r-rrrrrr! at all hours of the day with these friggen roosters. The only time of day they can agree on is crack of dawn. That’s when they’re like, “TIME TO GET UP! HEY, EVERYBODY! TIME TO GET UP! REMEMBER MIDNIGHT? FALSE ALARM! NOW GET UP!”

Rrr-r-rrr-r-rrrrrr!

Many are the mornings when I slog out of bed and chase them out of the yard rattling a rake and cursing these loud, shrill, atonal opera singers. As I type, I hear two of them crooning right now. But distantly. They aren’t in the yard. In fact, they haven’t been in the yard since the morning I heard that woman talking. Now back to that….

The voice is not my roommate’s after all. Is one of ‘em watching TV? Are they up this early? What time is it?

I listen closely. Finally, I can make out what she is saying. She’s saying, “Not bad… Not bad…. That’s not bad… Not bad….” over and over. I realize it’s not a roommate, not the TV… holy crap!–Is there someone in the house? Or do we have a ghost?

Now I’m lying there scared listening to this. I’m still half asleep and not attempting to get up. I’m like asleep but paranoid. It’s weird. And then it gets weirder for I hear this woman’s voice saying, “That’s not bad” morph into “Rrr-r-rrr-r-rrrrrr!”

That’s right, I am hallucinating, turning the distant call of a rooster into a woman’s voice. And I realize this at that moment, that very tired-yet-alert-enough-to-be-paranoid moment. And as incongruent as this all is, it gets incongruentier, to… make up a word. I actually find myself saying to the rooster chick, “No, it’s not bad, Pele. But I can still hear them.”

Goddess Pele When She’s Not Doing The Funky Chicken

See, even though I know I am hallucinating a woman’s voice over a distant rooster, I am also still in the middle of hallucinating. And so, me, in the middle of hallucinating, believes that the woman is the Hawaiian volcano goddess Pele and that Pele took time out of her busy morning to come to my apartment and use her magic to keep the chickens a safe distance from the yard so that I may sleep. And now she’s saying to me, “See? That’s not so bad.” Like, “Look, I’ll make sure the chickens stay away from your window so you can sleep.” And me, always one to look a gift horse in the mouth–I’m whining that it isn’t good enough. But, because it’s Pele and she’s a goddess and I’m living on her turf, I’m whimpering with all due respect.

Anyway, I thought that was interesting, especially given that the chickens really have stayed away from the yard for the last few days. When I’d rattle a rake at them, it just emboldened them. I think they came back in the mornings for their daily chase. Honestly, I think they kinda liked it because they would come right up to the window and Rrr-r-rrr-r-rrrrrr! for as long as it took to respond with a chase. Sometimes I’d wait a half hour, forty-five minutes, just to see if they’d go away. No such luck. Then I’d chase ‘em and they’d shut up. So who were they talking to if not me?

Whelp, at least now we’ll have what esteemed doctor Tyler Kokjohn calls “scientific proof” that Pele is real or not. If the chickens stay away, she’s real and I’m turning into Hank Wesselman. If they come back, she’s not and I’m turning into the man who mistook his wife for a hat. Yup, that’s science. Right, Tyler? (Ssshhh… don’t answer. You’re just a humble, small town doctor from a… small town. We know. Or is that someone else I’m thinking of? Only one way to find out: gun show. )

Not Tyler Kokjohn.

Boom! Gun Show, Bitches! The Challenge Has Been Made, Tyler, Doctor To Doctor. (William Henry–Make Me A Sandwich!)

For my own public image of sanity I will not be updating this story if they come back to roost. But I’m still publishing it, so what does that tell you?

Rrr-r-rrr-r-rrrrrr!

What If Missing Time Is Supposed To Stay Missing?

Dimensions book coverAccording to a report in The Houston Post of April 22, 1897, one Mr. John M. Barclay had an extensive interaction with a man from an airship who didn’t give his name. “Never mind about my name, call it Smith,” he said. Mr. Barclay asked him where he was from and where he was going. Smith replied, “From anywhere, but we will be in Greece day after tomorrow.”

God I love that. It’s a bit out of Jacques Vallee’s more-relevant-than-ever Dimensions. More relevant now because it was so ahead of its time when it came out that many ignored it and few of those who didn’t knew what to make of it. Now that quantum physics has hit the mainstream and the popular culture is prying itself off of Newtonian physics, perhaps some of the ideas contained in the book will make a little more sense to a lot more people.

But that’s not why I quoted the above. I think “Smith” gave a brilliant, truthful answer. Whatever this enigmatic other is, names are irrelevant and so is location. Therefore, so is space-time. In a roundabout way it reminds me of something a disembodied female voice once interrupted a dream to tell me: “I understand hither/thither and in that understanding shall neither be swept away nor carried on the seas of time.” (Into The End readers know what fun I had with that one in the realm of fiction.)

If you need a reminder of what great theater this “alien” enigma truly is, read Dimensions. He has a piece in there about alien abductions, basically saying that if we ignore all of the pitfalls of hypnosis and take the stories given under hypnosis as accurate, we still must see them for their symbolic value, because advanced aliens would not need the crude tools they are said to use, nor would they need to do the surgical procedures they are alleged to perform. These are antiquated by our scientific standards.

Dimensions was first published in 1988. Knowing what we do now about hypnosis and about the (not to be) trusted men who used it, I wonder if he’d even allow for that premise in a 2014 edition. Has anyone ever consciously recalled the alien doctor scenario? If not, we can, as Jeff Ritzmann says, safely attribute it to cultural contamination. And really, when you look at it, the irony is… it’s too logical to fit the scenario.

Go back. Read the accounts of “alien” and “human-from-airship” interactions sans hypnosis. They’re ridiculous. It’s as if the Rorschach test is alive and a few researchers said, “I see a wolf’s head. Everybody? It’s a wolf’s head. Now we’re going to put you under hypnosis and you’re going to tell us about that wolf’s head.” Meanwhile, in reality, it’s an inkblot that can look like a wolf’s head if that’x how your brain makes sense of it.

This gets me to a point about missing time. Missing time is the thing we fill in with hypnosis, right? That’s the whole reason for the hypnosis debacle in the first place: you have a weird experience and there’s a chunk of time missing and you want to know what happened. But if the consciously-remembered events surrounding this missing time are seemingly illogical, should you recall a logical space doctor interaction during the “missing” part? Nothing in past interactions suggests this.

Perhaps Jacques was wrong about the content of missing time being symbolically relevant but right about missing time in general. Perhaps it is symbolically relevant in and of itself. Maybe nothing happens during missing time. Maybe it’s there, like everything else in high strangeness, to keep the person’s focus on it. It can be another way to make the enigma undeniably real to the experiencer.

Or maybe it runs deeper than that. Maybe it’s a message waiting to be decoded, much like that of our friend “Smith.”

What’s missing? Not just time, space-time. Not just any space-time, a person’s or a group’s personal space-time. What’s missing? The person. The observer. You’re there, not there, and then there again. Do you wink out of existence and then back? Just like the very UFO you were witnessing?

We talk about these futuristic craft sometimes winking in and out of existence and how far in advance of our technology they must be and yet running parallel to that is the fact of us sometimes winking in and out of existence during the same experience. To my knowledge, no one has ever picked up on that. It’s easy to understand why–it is far too tempting to ignore the symbolism and say that aliens are using technology to wink the experiencer in and out of existence like they do their craft. Problem is, we don’t know those are aliens, we don’t know those are craft, we don’t know if the alleged craft is even piloted, and if you were to ask a supposed alien pilot, you’d just as likely be offered a pancake as you would be asked, “What’s existence?” It’s only through hypnosis that you’d have a prayer of being given a logical (or at least straightforward) answer by busy doctors.

¿Qué?

Ironically, what’s missing in missing time is missing time. We keep filling it with answers from ourselves. And maybe we are supposed to turn inward and ask ourselves about it. Just ask, not answer. Wait for the answer to come or for the next clue to unfold. And as I wrote that, something fell off a shelf in the next room. I hadn’t planned on ending it here.

And so it goes.

Abruptly into the night.

POST SCRIPT: As poetic an ending as that is, I realize I do need to make the point. Thankfully, I wrote it succinctly on Facebook and can lazily paste it here….

As I was going to get to before I was so rudely interrupted by a crash, maybe it’s a clue that there is no technology here, or if there is it’s one that runs on holistic consciousness (for lack of a better term.) The self “disappears.”

Like the other is saying, “You don’t get it. This isn’t advanced science. You can do this, too. This is how things are.” But we miss the meaning by looking at it the wrong way–as a hole to be filled with memory.