After a few years of being gone from the Fortean blogosphere, Lesley Gunter has returned to blogging at her blog The Debris Field.
Speaking of dreams (see my post below) Lesley had one about the BEK: The Debris Field: My Black Eyed Child Dream
Saturday, September 16, 2017
Another strange dream of aliens the other night. This one contains one of my many dreamscapes, or "stage sets" -- recurring locations, with a new scene. The recurring dreamscape is of a large, rustic, two story building. A combination of house and school, apartments, conference rooms, theater. Large but also comfy. Some people live and work here, some just live here, others just work. The added element is the ocean -- I dream of oceans all the time, but this time, this house/school was on a small island on the ocean.
A group of us are standing outside, at night, looking up at the starry sky. The sky is full of stars! Aliens descend. Between six and seven feet tall, humanoid looking but with a very slight reptilian look. The aliens are greenish-black. Nasty bastards. Very nasty.
They attack us. They're very intelligent; more so than us. But they're vindictive thugs. We fight back, but we're losing. These aliens come and go. They'll arrive, attack, then leave for a few days, then they're back. They mostly come from outside but now and then, as we're going about our business inside, one will just appear from nowhere -- like a ghost -- and be intimidating, aggressive.
After a couple of weeks of this, I am fed up. I am in a small amphitheater on the stage (theater in the round kind of thing) and many of the residents are in the audience. I just stand there, look up at the night sky, and scream. I mean, scream. A long scream that also is a song. I know I have a lousy singing voice (true) but I don't care. It feels powerful to do this. As I stand there, screaming-singing, one long drawn out note, a beam of yellowish-white light shines out from within me and into the sky.
This is pissing off the aliens. They do not like this one bit. My "song" and beam of light keeps them at bay. I tell the audience that "if I can do it, you can too." I encourage them to try. Doesn't matter if you know how to sing, or don't know what to do, just start.
People start to do this, and it keeps the nasty aliens away. For the most part. Every once in awhile, one appears but we can now defend ourselves with our scream-songs and beams of light.
Tuesday, September 12, 2017
Roy Horne was a guest on Coast to Coast a few nights ago, discussing "The Mandela Effect." Interesting concept; that we misremember things. It goes deeper than that however. For example, Horne references our memory of the J.C. Penny brand. Except, it's not J.C. Penny, it's J.C. Penney.
Most, including myself, remember the name as Penny, not Penney. I've looked at that brand name for decades -- we used to shop there frequently when I was a kid -- grew up around that name. And yet, many of us do not see the name as it really is.
I fell asleep during the program, so don't know if this was mentioned, but a similar false memory concerns obituaries of the famous. Many times I've come across the obituary of a well known actor and was amazed, because I know I had read five, ten, three, whatever number of years ago, that this same person had died. Not only that, others around me when hearing of these deaths would say the same thing; that they know they read so and so died a few years ago. They, and I, even remember where we were when reading the obit, and how we felt upon reading it.
Adding to this memory oddness, is my memory of Marshall McLuhan's The Medium is the Message. And indeed, that is what McLuhans intention is: that the medium is message. It is a familiar phrase. Except, the title is actually The Medium is the Massage. Which makes more sense. The medium is indeed the "massage" massaging us every day with disinformation, trivial and frivolous "news," and propaganda disguised as feel good platitudes verging on the religious -- and the right religion at that. Yet, the title was a misprint; it wasn't intended to be "massage" but "message." Either way, few remember the title as appears in print.
Friday, September 8, 2017
Aside from my writing about UFOs and the paranormal, supernatural realms in general, I also write fiction, poetry, prose. (If so inclined, you can visit my fragments, found blog.) I rarely write about the fringe, anomalous stuff in my fiction life, but, occasionally I do come up with something. Here's a prose-poem I wrote recently about UFOs:
an orange orb, silver sphere
beam of light
paralyzed, silent screams
beams of light, again, so bright-white, vision transcends the norm.
awareness of cognizance, familiarity from the Other and yet,
memory plays tricks,
missing time, a lost drive begun
on a late summer afternoon.
waiting for a friend, a heavy sudden wind in the woods, a no show.
finding ourselves back home, hours later . . .
watching the orb stop, hover, drop in a neighbor's yard.
Do I follow? Call an authority? Instead, I dream
of orbs and spheres, lights
and enormous spinning shields above my head.
something intelligent, aware, knowing, follows,
tracks my journeys on the astral.
so what? where? who, how, why?
questions, decades later, answers