Chasing UFOs

The Snake That Ate It's Tale:

In the dead of night two mysterious shadow figures slowly meander clumsily up a hill with bright lights illuminating their faces while each are furiously waving various sorts of equipment pointed haphazardly at the ground. They have a full camera crew following them as they make their way up to a road where a car has stopped amidst this activity to momentarily reconnoiter a atypically surrealistic scene in white bread suburbia that was presented last night culled from the National Geographic Society's cynically ludicrous "Chasing UFOs."
A driver stops momentarily out of obvious curiosity as to what is happening on the this hillside and the UFO Chasers label this as "government surveillance" without any consideration of any another possibility such as their obvious out of the ordinary activity would perhaps draw curiosity from lets say, "a soccer mom." who is perhaps thinking these woebegone explorers are space creatures.
Perhaps federal doubly top secret agents who lost their car keys.

One UFO Chaser illegally jumps an public airport fence on this educational program because the UFO Chasers "think" flying saucers are taking off and landing there. I am thinking this would be a great animated cartoon then I realize in a sense it already is, uncannily stretching my patience, akin to waiting interminably in line for a serving of  lukewarm junk food..
One sees a storage building and pronounces it as suspicious, perhaps holding a flying saucer, while a camera crew follows her with this light still shining on her face, hiding behind a wall as the music swells in a threatening manner. I am not making this up. This cheaply produced and delirious scene was staged at the Fresno, California Airport.

They look at a river levee and pronounce it "perfect" for hiding activity, perhaps from an underground base. A white van makes a right hand turn, and they immediately identify it as a surveillance vehicle, while the perhaps painter or plumber inside is blissfully unaware he is part of a massive coverup. They go into an old ammo dump or spillway in this area only to scare themselves silly and run off as if chased by the Devil.

The woman of Chasing UFOs, who was compared to Laura Croft, is visibly shaken when told there are perhaps wild pigs in the vicinity.

The music swells in anticipation as she approaches a moment of sheer terror. Her companion breathlessly warns her to run if this turns out to be a wild pig. This is a slapstick farce that is educational in a manner unintended. Our intrepid investigators are frightened of their own shadows, in a manner reminiscent of Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein.

They interview several people who claim the government is watching them over either a Youtube video or speaking on the subject. How do they know this? Because white vans sometimes park in front of their houses. Aha another white van. There is more than one. None of them call the police and report they are being stalked. None of them walk up to the van and ask what they are doing there. None of them even bother to write down a license plate number. The UFO Chasers nod there heads in unison. Yes, the government is following their prosaic movements Perhaps to Piggly Wiggly. I am not making this up.

I could go further, but why? People have asked why I stopped writing about UFOs. Watch UFO Chasers and you can find proof that idiocy has an audience ripe for the lowest common denominator of feigned seriousness.

Money talks and bullshit walks. Yes, Virginia, the esteemed National Geographic Society now has it's own end cap shelf at your local Walmart, to bottom feed on sleep walking morons using their shills to offload exploratory science at cut rate digestibility to the point of crossing the Rubicon into pandering The Dukes of Hazard to promote a higher bar for the subject matter. Die hard skepticism gets down and dirty as the NGC has proven time and time again and this time, good heavens, it has a trick new bag.

Give the people what they want.

A Multiverse of Images

 Last night I imagined a lighter than air lifting body carrying a payload into space, which in retrospect, seemed tantalizingly ridiculous due to my lack of knowledge on such a possibility. Neither the application of this technology or the craft itself does not exist, nor am I aware of any such concept of a non tethered space elevator.

“Time is the moving image of reality”
― Plato

Conceptualizing the non existent from the ether of images having a strange internalized existence as , raw material to rearrange by organizing puzzle pieces in a relationship that has no basis in the empirical, or materialized nature of solids or semi-solids  brought me to the odd physics of information, and how wondrous, the blatantly commonplace is really anomalous ...in a non repeatable, immeasurable, sort of locking thread, networked yet a work of pointillism and pixels, that becomes flesh like or dense depending on where it lands by relation to other transceived energy waves in space.
Subatomic navigation and mutilevelular boundary layers of surfaces appended by strange geometries, like the living cellular organism making hay from seedlings while the sun shines down on our little planetary farm...filled with pigs and plasmas. The water filled donut of the membrane known as a human subject with a digestion tube drilled through the center, from the mouth to the anus, to eat and be eaten, by equal phantasms of our animal senses.......
creating fertilizer for bacterial insects while surrendering more images to the library that creates the images of bacteria and a motorcycle as is ourselves as participants akin to composites, the Tinker Toys of energy, that we use as tools to bring forth a toolbox of physics of what are essentially images, that promote imagination in order to create more images that exist and yet do not, as if becoming rather than any given state is a mold or a template in of itself, whether it is a toaster or a wren, Dracula or your next door neighbor.

“Is", "is." "is" — the idiocy of the word haunts me. If it were abolished, human thought might begin to make sense. I don't know what anything "is"; I only know how it seems to me at this moment”
― Robert Anton Wilson

We contingently appear to exist in an odd isthmus, equal parts images, imagination and semi solids that is narrated in transit by a conglomeration of fairy tales, from the Three Little Pigs to Nostradamus that serve as metaphors for the animated state of the images we navigate, and then the question is posed, what exactly is intelligence?

Would a non human life form consider us to be sentient by their images of ourselves that we have created in the absence of no known comparable examples? Do they speak by images, and leave out the middle man of pushing air in a repeatable pattern by way of a tongue, and do they require tongues? Perhaps they are not the same digestive donut we are by way of the artifice of personality, another middle man...of images.
Perhaps they navigate images and not soil, perhaps they see us as we are to them, largely cellular and hive like, constrained by images, constrained by a tiny world of provincial possibilities, like we envision a squirrel or a earthworm. A limited vocabulary of non verbal images.like ..instinct or empathy, or revulsion..not too many strings or are there simply too many hammers on the piano hitting too many wires? Oddly we have no control over images as we are an image to ourselves.that is borrowed from other images.
The transition boundary of a strange gravity adheres us to one  image or another as composite cut and paste jobs to an alien mind.The spaceman eyed me warily from a distance and began following me and as I picked up my pace, his own increased until he caught up with me. He demanded to know why I was not a pineapple.
I said I did not know why I was not a pineapple.

"Exactly!" he said.

A Rememberance of What Will Become

Here at the boundary layer, through the polarized dust of the resonating frequencies of a planetary sheath, the Schuman-Telsa Cavity is lit within the black void of space as a proverbial transducer, a vacuum tube filled with the noise of electromagnetic storms in centripetal diffusion, whirling and animating lifeforms created by this membrane. As the gravitational return of energy pulls to the push of starlight reconciled by our steps along this spherical surface, the lone voyager asks can the mind exist without relationships, referents and comparisons? Is it an illusion as Time itself has proven to be? A biochemical fire that is the mind that eats and is eaten, suspended by a strange digestion process for a time in a medium, propelled by a momentum that is as impersonal as a pebble? The attraction and repulsion of a contingent state makes the cellular nest of the mind spin in it's rotation in the context of a transmigration to a new context of materiality in a universe of universes where one fits as a state and station upon a forest of trees that are the planets we alight upon as stepping stones in becoming the chessboard itself whose riddle has no destination, no end game in mind in the provinces of worlds.

Perhaps in a more macrocosmic aggregate sum, of  such relationships the geometry of the vacuum tube is the boundary of this Universe as it expands in the complexities fed by suns that are fed and eaten by the conducting wires of black holes rent into the fabric of yet other variations of our own. Perhaps a T is not crossed, an I not dotted, a comma inserted where a period should be a state and station of  transception, an element created or unnecessary....One could assert that nothing exists without contingent relationships and yet the patterns the shadows of the material at hand assert a incommensurable sum, leaving the lone voyager to discount his provincial solipsism of the rube, despite the underwear of his neurology having the stains of self reference and it's aggrandizement,  in attempting to have a peek at the non existent world that now becomes all around him without a path, without repeatable results or fitting comparisons.
The village of humanity is nestled in the flanks of cartography, distant, vibratory, resonant with it's networked conduction of starlight with the particulate matter of dust called forth from decayed vegetable matter, to animate a snow globe shaken by the waves of sunlight pushing clouds across it's dome without a predetermined destination.

A voice said you must surrender all that you possess to purchase life, for as a transactional commodity your currency has no worth other than what you discern as being pragmatic tokens of a valuation in order to be understood by your own kind.
How strange said the voyager, a kingdom without territories, ruling monarchies, any set ordering, no languages of comparison no foundation for a foothold yet to be imagined, a place that is becoming rather than a marked geography.
The boatman sat on the flank of the bowsprit smoking his pipe as the ship rocked gently to and fro docked as it were in the ephemeral realm of empirical  phantasms that the imaginable had constrained to be tied with as a rope holding the transit in a dream scape.
"It's a gift not to be held." He said somewhat impatiently.. "It belongs to no one and cannot be possessed unless one is possessed by it, depended upon whether you are the hunter or the hunted.. Neither will do."

The Strange Ecologists of A Fruitful Rock And The Alchemist

The Unpredictability of Becoming What is Unknowable At Present

Does a seed grow from the soil or does it appear from the consequences of a nearby sun?

In the study of my sanctum ,the tripod can either go here or go there wherever I chose to place it, and wherever I place it, strange flowers grow only to be transmitted to the genome of a library to which I can only access by artful stealth, to ruminate upon the heaps of dust, to wipe it away from the odd volume of a collaborative reality where the alchemy of becoming is a dimly lit corridor, a deeply buried bone who is found with the dog that retrieved it.
Knowledge is a dog, perhaps a domesticated pet to keep us company on these endless sojourns through the fabric of space itself, where the silence as well as the thrumming of a great artistic achievement is being painted by a hive of supplicants.
So says the old Alchemist who stirs the flask in a centripetal dance of water molecules, animated by the sunlight as a beam that penetrates the bones of his dry skull. Muttering to himself, absent in his placement, a chart here, a diagram there is lost in the piles and heaps of days that he cannot count against some clock he cannot envision.
To dare, to will, to keep silence is an old dodge that propels odd conversations with ghosts, phantoms and the dispossessed he calls forth as augers and portents of The Work.

Perhaps an extraterrestrial knows better when it comes to planting them by tampering with the relations between the two as a analogous metaphor in the consequences of dropping a word there, or adding a comma here in a sequenced program. Nothing exists without relationships in of itself, and while they may be more than capable of playing with fire as some misbegotten existential game for sociopaths, they know full well, one would think, that if you break it, you own it. A socio-political tract slipped under the radar of those who have presumed to rule, has a chorus of a million children, who know the precarious balance of positivist fibs always has the same result in the recycling programs of history dictated by biology, whether it is Rome or further back into the Garden of Eden.

"All the King's horses and all the King's men could not put together Humpty Dumpty again."

 It occurs to these strange ecologists that the seeding of unpredictable biological diseases by way of multi -leveled plants in the form of a plaque upon the indigenous tribes of Earth makes even a arm's length transactional exchange, a non starter as postulated in the aim of exploration. Even so scant as a footprint in the dust can create a veritable hurricane here on Earth when it comes to our species. The aim of the evangelistic mission to "educate" the Aztecs decimated by erasure of disease, the very seeds of their positivist creeds.

These strange human dreams, they say. Inbred in their isolation, their pretensions of naivete as provincial and upright mobile flowers of sleep go round and round s surely as the ground beneath them rotates against the cycle of the axis of the Sun. Worshiping themselves through totemic proxies, the extraterrestrial ecologist studies them as one would the dances of the inhabitants of a mad hive gathering the resources that constitute their existence in order to extinguish themselves by way of their self harvesting programming.
Wheat that carries itself to the grist mill. The Wheat thinks it's bread, the culmination of what is in reality, a misbegotten sequence carried by them as a narrative of their independent causality.
In sleep, they reconfigure the ground that they stand upon for a future which belongs to the planet, and they, it's sheep have a role to soften the ground for a species to come. Nothing personal mind you, its simply the way such business is conducted as a transactional exchange. Dreams for the labor to till someone else's field, until the task is done when they have erased themselves to make way for an evolution whose circumference is a sphere . A fruitful rock in the maw of Space.
These strange ecologists watch understandably from a great distance is not measured by miles or light years and make notations as if listening to the cacophony of a symphony plated on the apex of a very small needle to make comparisons, make see relations, to learn about such a self sustaining living system as a distinction in the Multiverse.
There is no haste to make, they say, as what they observe has already happened. I close the book to look away at the bird perched upon my window. As our eyes meet, the bird vanishes, leaving no trace except that in my memory that I have seen it. An odd genome indeed to be planted without any repeatable measurement or basis of comparison except as a expression of the day to come. This is a cause for a contemplation not to be shared by the bird itself, he thinks, as he straightens out his ruffled thread worn robe, garbed against the damp rising in his marrow as if to eat him as a snack. Alone in this study he shouts to no one as he is fully conscious of this folly, he says again, "Not Yet!"