Great news, everybody. In the last book update post I said I was waiting for a certain someone to review my book before I announced a release date. This is the only person I know who (sorry, everyone else) is qualified to tell me whether the book works or not because he gets the nuances, the humor, and the depths of all the subjects addressed. Whelp, after reading only half the book—not even the good half!—he has decided he wants to do me five better and write a foreword to it. Quite the honor for yours truly, so it was a quick yes on my part.
Fear not. I am still on schedule in my beady brain to publish this decorative art piece disguised as a ufological book in September. Originally, I wanted to release it at the end of August, but September was always more realistic. Barring any unforeseen setbacks, look forward to it in September!
In other news, remember when I asked you whether or not you wanted to read a sample chapter on this here blog? Well, naturally, some said yes and some said no spoilers, please. It’s a tough call for me because there is no one chapter that exemplifies what the book is about. It’s got a certain movement, an unexpected arc to it, and wherever I pull from only tells you about a depth in the flow, not the whole stream. Plus, I hate ruining surprises even for those who love having them spoiled ahead of time.
How about a happy middle ground? How about I post a few tidbits that did not make it into the book? We’ll start now and if you dig this, I’ll dig up a few more. Just let me know in the comments.
We’ll start with this. It was going to be its own chapter until I realized two things. One, I had enough is-this-more-than-a-dream-or-not material in the book already. This chapter, short though it is, was not moving anything forward. Two, I published it previously. I can’t remember if it was on this blog or in a UFO Magazine article, but if it looks familiar to some of you, it’s likely because you’ve read it. I felt I had enough UFO Magazine essays gussied up and made to look shiny and new again, I didn’t need this one. And with that, I also realized I had new things to say and therefore enough material to do away with this and not miss it.
Still, after taking it out, I debated wedging it back in. At the end of the piece you’re about to read, I’m including my notes—my raw instructions to myself on how to do this. I think these notes may be as thought-provoking or more than the chapter itself. And yet… and yet… none of this made it into the book. If you like what you read, know that it’s not even the quality of the stuff that made the cut.
Besides puffing myself up and getting you psyched for the book, I hope this provokes discussion here and elsewhere. In fact, that’s what the book is for, ultimately: to illustrate the depths of discussion that are missing from deep and deeply mysterious subjects currently relegated to a series of fetishized suppositions masquerading as answers. But funnier than that.
Enters The Cave
Last night I was in the middle of this dream where I was explaining to some dream gal how this male researcher next to us was studying women’s body movements. The dream man was trying to categorize each articulation, looking for a hidden code, an unconscious language. Something like that; the dream itself grows vaguer by the second.
While I was explaining this to her, an older friendly male voice with a slight accent said, “Hi.” This voice was not part of the dream—it pierced through the dream. “Hi,” was all the disembodied voice said. It sounded kind of like a monotone Ringo Starr. Or, you know those toy canisters that moo like a cow when you flip them over?—like that. The voice trailed off like that toy does, too, like all the air was getting sucked out, or maybe the word was being exhaled.
The moment the friendly voice said hi, a jolt of fear from the bottom of my depths surged up and through me, reflexively waking me that instant. I jolted up and alert, gasping in horror, with my arms flung out in front of me, either shielding me from this fear or grabbing at it, I can’t remember which.
What the hell was that about? I immediately wondered. I looked at the clock: 3:30 am. I was still scared and groggy and couldn’t figure out why. All this voice did was greet me and I freaked. “Hi,” I said out loud, feeling bad for my negative reaction.
I went to the bathroom and lay back down in bed. I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Unable, really, to stop thinking about this and still quite scared for no reason. After maybe five minutes of ruminating I heard two short computer–type beeps in my head. They were different in tone, the first higher than the second. Maybe a closer analogy to the sound is that of a heating pad on one’s ear—it was that electric noise, but in my head. I could even feel its location in my head: perfectly centered in the back of my brain.
I could not make sense of this. Who was this friendly voice that I was so deathly afraid of? Was he part of the dream, even though he seemed separate from it? Why did I immediately wake up flailing and gasping? I’ve never done that before that I can recall. I know I’ve woken up babbling and screaming from a nightmare or two, but this wasn’t a nightmare.
Was I choking or smothering myself in real life? If so, would just some dude saying Hi be my unconscious call to deal with it?
3:30 am. This time has deep significance for me. This is the time I would always spontaneously wake up for most of my high school years. This is the time I always associated with my early alien abduction experiences. I read somewhere that 3:00 to 4:00 in the morning is a powerful time in the occult, a real witching hour. Does that have anything to do with this? Why am I still talking about this?—It was just a friendly voice greeting me!
What of those curious beeps, though? I was on a live radio program once where a listener called in and asked me seriously if “the government” (whoever that is) planted a chip in my brain to monitor me. I said no, that sounds schizophrenic to me. Did I answer too soon? Was Don Rumsfeld checking in for a quick hello?
Well, it was a foreign voice so maybe not Rummy. Maybe Kissinger? Is Henry Kissinger stopping by my brain because he has insomnia and just needs a friend? He is monotone and…. No. Wait. That’s silly. Besides, Kissinger is long-winded.* Also, I can see him funding a project in which Americans are secretly implanted with computer chips, but I can’t see him just saying hi without then pressing a button that would implode our skulls.
So, I don’t know. The mystery continues. Maybe the voice will come back. Maybe the voice is Death itself, maybe that’s what frazzled me. Of all the strange things that have happened to me, this in its simplicity is the most mysterious.
If I may address the paranormal force in my life here: For future reference, I generally prefer my terrifying situations to make sense. Unless they involve talking dolphins.
*UPDATE: And dead.
NOTES ON ABANDONED CHAPTER
—Do the “Hi” essay.
—Tie in ending where I promise to not write this in a book, I swear, just like the first chapter.
—With the above tie-in, write a bit about how we common folk are not a cargo cult to the language of science, ultimately. That’s a piece of the short story. But the long story is, Science is seeing us as material only—consciousness is neurons firing in the brain. And they are doubling down on that with each new discovery. So, even our science gods see us as just stuff. And they can do whatever they want to just stuff. If the people themselves are going to behave “like animals” anyway, experiment away! In other words, if the masses will no longer keep up the appearance of civility and unity, then why should scientists treat them with civility and unity, when they now KNOW for a fact—a false fact, but a fact nonetheless—that we are all just meat?
Of course they would never treat themselves this way, or even their loved ones. And that’s how psychopathic selfishness trickles up to the top of your so-called consciousness pyramid and then cascades down to your demise.
That’s how you are able to even make a choice about which “elites” get to leave the planet to grow this cancer anew elsewhere in the race to Mars fantasy.