Wednesday, August 28, 2013

INTO THE UNKNOWN

 
                                       ( Image altered using iPhone UFO Camera app )


   Picking up where we left off in last week's blog, this one also first appeared in my SIGNS OF INTELLIGENT LIFE column from January, 2008.
 
 

   I never know how each of these stories will conclude once I find the sacred space with which to write them.  I know only that their theme will be based on the supernatural ( for lack of a better word ) events which I believe will ultimately wake us from our subconscious slumber.  Civilizations in previous ages have all witnessed their own share of miracles, usually heralding a new age.  So what miracles, technology aside, are taking place in our modern world today?  And are we too pessimistic to even notice them?

   I write about a lot of seemingly miraculous events, I can't seem to get enough of them, but more importantly, I think that one should expect them to happen.  Before our Age Of Reason, which I have faith is drawing to a close once more, people spoke with gods and angels frequently.  For some reason ( there's that word again ), most of us would believe such things simply can't happen today.  Regardless of how we view God, if at all, or angels or devils or spirit guides, we are still viewing through finite human eyes and then processing information through a human mind.  Extracting our ego, in a world that was still flat not that long ago, one which made up the center of the universe, with people jailed for thinking otherwise, is still an issue.  That which we deem coming from the divine will never make any sense to us, we will never recognize all of its faces, and we will run in fear from it, throwing rocks at the moon, unable to make out Magellan's passing ships until it is too late.  Because the divine is without reason, and if it's not in popular media, cannot guarantee us a job, a mate, catalogs of frivolities, or even revenge, what good is it to us? 

   We have our own human construct of the mystic, and mystical events.  Perhaps we ultimately feel we're not good enough for miracles, and that if it doesn't, for whatever reason, happen for us, then it shouldn't happen for anyone else either.  After subtracting such ego, I began to experience some profound things.  I realized that some form of divinity was always attempting communion with me, however weighted down in my Age Of Reason I happened to be.  Quoting Caroline Myss, of our modern age, "we are all mystics without monasteries."

   A mystic then, the following is another example of the world I have shaped through the expectation that miracles do indeed continue to happen.  We each have our own truths, whether or not they incorporate a god, and this is how I have sought mine. 

 


  
   I marked the page I had been reading, closed the book and looked out the passenger side window, yawning.  We'd been on the road for a couple of hours and I was getting drowsy.  Every few minutes, I'd gaze out toward the night sky for any sign of movement.  I was reading Christopher O'Brien's The Mysterious Valley, about the unexplained paranormal activity taking place in Colorado's San Luis Valley, near the Sangre De Cristo mountain range.  There had been hundreds of reports of unidentified lights in the sky, bizarre cattle mutilations, poltergeist phenomena, strange sounds, and sightings of unknown life forms.  I was watching the highway for those, too, as the high beams of the truck eerily lit up the dark road before us, guiding us out into the great unknown, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, as my friend Wayne and I made our way south toward The Valley.

   I held up an audiocassette I'd labeled with a question mark and waved it before him.  We had been listening to an audiotape of a psychic reading he had with a woman he was going to introduce me to when we got back.  It sounded interesting, but I hadn't known him for very long, and had no way to authenticate the validity of the information the woman was giving.  Wayne assured me that the psychic had told him things she could never have known, including the sign language he used with his former partner, the nicknames they adopted, and illnesses they bore.  I'd had a couple tarot readings previously, but only for the novelty, and so far not one so-called psychic I'd ever crossed paths with had ever given me reason to believe in a sixth skill.  Right now, I wanted only to listen to the compilation of dark industrial and techno music I'd made, enhancing the already sinister atmosphere and helping to keep me on my hunting toes.  Staring out the window again, all I could see was the reflection of my face softly illuminated from the booklight in my lap.  I looked hopeful, and my eyes were wide with excitement and wonder.

   Was there truly a place, a paranormal Disneyland, where just any Joe Blow could experience the plethora of supernatural activity said to occur there?  A Native American, I was more than well aware of the existence of a spirit world, and the thin veil between that dimension and ours.  Even though all of my family had experienced strange phenomena wherever we'd ever lived, I wanted communication with something other than your average ghost.

   There were supposedly portals to other places in The Valley, and I thought of the black and white lodges portrayed in the television series Twin Peaks.  Could it really be as easy as that?  Like slipping through a membrane, parting a curtain, stepping through a stargate?  U.F.O.s weren’t anything new to me, as they had fascinated me since childhood.  Hopi creation myths had spoken of the Star Ancestors, and I thought of all the Kachina dolls I'd ever seen, robotic and alien, their Native patterns resembling ancient circuitry, often technological in design.  What we were heading into was high strangeness, and what was once believed to be events concerning off-planet intelligences was now suggested to be interdimensional in nature.  Something was slipping through veils on their own side to our earthly plane and I was willing to release anything I knew or thought I knew.  Something had the technology to mimic our aircraft, and our people, and too many of them were witnessing something to not take notice.

   Born in Pine Ridge, South Dakota, with many in our poor tribe still hunting for food, we were exposed to the cattle mutilation phenomena, having found dead bovines and horses which had undergone impossibly clean and precise surgical procedures.  In most cases the blood was completely removed, as were eyes, tongues, rectums, with no footprints leading to or from the animals.  This baffling work was not being committed by predators, and because the surgical procedures suggested that some form of laser was being used, and because sightings of mysterious orange lights in the sky were being witnessed, many believed, and still do, that extraterrestrials were responsible. 

   I found my beliefs in friendly, benevolent ETs steadily evaporating, being replaced with something far darker and unsettling.  Shadowy government affiliations and reverse-engineered technology, underground bases and genetic experimentation gone awry were becoming the new myths of our age.  I was deep out in the San Luis Valley, where the stories incorporated all of these things, driving down spooky backroads , squinting up into a pitch black sky for any indication of the high strangeness Christopher O’Brien, Linda Moulton Howe and several others had for years been reporting.  In the Pine Ridge of my childhood, I had once owed a horse, completely white, whom we had named Snowball.  We set him and the others free when our families migrated toward Denver, Colorado for better opportunities in life.  I thought of him as I scanned the dark heavens, hoping he had not met the same bizarre fate as the countless mutilated animals found here.

   The destination Wayne and I had decided on was San Luis's Greenie Mountain, where the most dramatic of U.F.O. sightings, as well as a purported crash, had occurred.  Apparently the military had picked up the craft on radar, and when private investigators radioed in with their own information from their helicopter, they were deliberately misdirected to a location several miles away while the military either shot down the craft and/or collected the remains.  Had a crash actually occurred, I knew the military would have been more than thorough in picking up any debris, but I wanted at least to stand in the place where such an event had occurred, absorbing its energetic echo, getting an intuitive feel, a reaffirmation that our age was truly one of signs and wonders and how I might find the means to fight the future.

   I turned the volume dial up and rolled down the windows as a remix of the X-Files theme song blared from the speakers.  To have a book in my hand, whereby I could read the outrageous claims of San Luis's residents and then looking out the window to see the Sangre De Cristos in all their mysterious, moonlit glory was like walking into a story, waking up in a dream, engaging in a call-and-response with another form of the unknown.  I was near spiritually bankrupt at that point, having an Indian name but not knowing where to go from there, filling the absence of spiritual guides in my youth with those from Denver's nightlife: party people, d.j.s, bartenders, rave organizers.  Because I had been moved from South Dakota early, I had also been deprived of the elders, vision quests, sweat lodge ceremonies, sundances and powwows that may have shaped me into someone else entirely.  Whoever he might have been, I was looking for him now, praying for illumination, turning away from the false light and dead ends of discotheques and underground parties, when a trail of synchronicity had led me to Wayne, a fellow adventurer who was game for anything.

   He also seemed a little fed up with his own circle of circuit party snobs, and so we became fast friends, watching Laurie Anderson videos in his basement, trading ghost stories over turkey dogs on his deck, holding mini sweat lodge ceremonies in his little steam room, laughing over vegetarian meals in his kitchen.  He'd also heard of the "Taos Hum", the inexplicable and untraceable low-frequency sound heard by many of the residents and visitors of New Mexico, and I had just picked up The Mysterious Valley after reading an article about recent phenomena there in a local paper.  Wayne had experienced much of the same paranormal phenomena I had, and we decided immediately that we would have to see these places for ourselves.

   I tore through my closet the night before our trip.  What did one wear when meeting with The Great Mystery?  Of all the archetypes in my life, the most prominent was that of the Magical Child, who through imagination makes his world into one of exciting opportunity through great improbability.  In the last years of my childhood, I was refining those skills, desperately hanging on to any magical shreds as my body, my environment, and my friends, became gradually unfamiliar.  I was in Ohio visiting my cousins for a month during that time, the last of those mystical Indian summers.  They lived in a haunted house near a dense forest.  We'd explore this wooded area looking for our own Terabithia, with Goonies-inspired handmade treasure maps, chasing ice cream trucks, piling into their station wagon at twilight for a drive-in movie, listening late into the evening for ghosts. 

   Their mother was an armed guard at a local mall, and we'd often accompany her to work, playing spies, slingshots and cheap plastic handcuffs in our back pockets, my 007 combination wrist watch / gun always poised.  We posed as bellhops at a hotel, sneaking into the elevators, pressing floor buttons for guests and holding their luggage, graciously collecting tips to support further summer outings.  Late at night my uncle would recount the ghostly goings-on he had experienced living in the house, pulling up the carpet to show us the blood stains of the woman who had been shot to death at the top of the stairs.  He showed me the god’s eye which used to spin by itself, pointing out the exact spot where their backyard met the forest where the spirit of the woman had beckoned him to follow her.  We would sit at the top of the stairs listening for the ghost of the man who had shot his wife to death in a jealous rage, the same one who had called out to my aunt as she returned home from work late one evening.  From the bottom of the dark basement steps my aunt would whisper up to us, just as the man had to her, “Sherry…”  “Sherry…”
 

   As terrifying as those nights could be, we still wanted more.  Perhaps we were used to growing up haunted, but our perception truly was different than that of the average person, for we had seen objects slide across tables in the dark by themselves, doors opening and closing, lights turning on and off, people crying or laughing in the night when no one should be.  We each had access to a paranormal playground, though as an adult, I was forgetting how to alter my perception, to view life as a playground again.  My magic child, having a game of marbles with my cells, shook a stout finger back and forth at me.  I'd forgotten how to play.  Seduced by false, fast-moving currents of energy, I had nothing to show for my life investments save for a catalog of old rave fliers and a technopunk wardrobe that had quickly turned passé.  More than that, I was having a hard time identifying with people.  Friends weren't really friends, you just happened to look good standing next to them, and deep inside I understood I wasn't learning anything new from them.  Starving for the sacred in my late 20’s, in tattoo and piercing parlors, I was beginning to bore of myself.  I didn't know what I needed, but I needed something, and I was yearning for direction and meaning.  Something within me must have just decided, must have really meant it finally, to hand over my reigns to a higher power.  I began asking the right questions, and began opening up to difficult answers.

   It instantly became clear that I would have to leave the unfulfilling job I held, as well as the unfulfilling relationship I was in.  Neither were doing anything for me, and the city had become stagnant.  I was taking night drives often, devoid of any destination but looking, and although I was more than familiar with Denver, Colorado, I found myself getting lost often.  In an instant everything appeared unfamiliar, as became true with the people I'd known.  It appeared there was some mysterious restructuring occurring in my life, and I knew it was high time, so I didn't resist.

   I began meeting other people, older people, attracted to the wise elders I had missed, who were intelligent, easygoing, and spiritually minded.  One of them did something called "light body work", kind of like a masseuse for the spirit.  He was able to locate and remove negative energy blockages in the body that could lead to illness.  He seemed very perceptive, and we began a sort of intuitive game where we would psychically guess things about each other's lives.  The results were fascinating, and eerily accurate.  I understand now that he was an earthly guide, preparing me, as life always does, for what was coming next.

   I soon discovered a little metaphysical store in an old Victorian building on the outskirts of the city.  Walking inside was such a wonderful escape from the torrent of my gritty reality as I was greeted with the smell of intoxicatingly rich incense, soft chimes toning in the background, walls full of images and sculpture from world religions I was unfamiliar with.  Everything was devoted to spirit there, the friendly staff and its customers all resonating with a different level of consciousness I both admired, deeply respected and envied.  I began purchasing crystals, candles, esoteric books and new age music, filling the empty void where my former life had been.  The pace of my life was beginning to slow down, as my mind adjusted to another way of being.  I was still confused, but felt more at peace, and I began to feel as if I were actually being guided to someone or something, laying the groundwork for all that was to come.

   Giving up on the map, Wayne and I decided instead to use our intuitive skills.  This proved difficult, as it was pitch-black and cold outside, and the road we thought would lead us to that magic mountain had abruptly ended.  We found a large mound nearby, and decided to camp.  The sky had become overcast.  If there were anything flying around above our heads, we'd be unable to see it.  We were still having a neat adventure though, so we planned to look for the Taos Hum in New Mexico, leaving early the next day.

   I awoke on a dewy, mist-enshrouded hill in the mountains, still not knowing which one was Greenie, a little deflated about the lack of activity the previous evening, but we'd be on our way to New Mexico, as well as more mystery, shortly.  I checked my nose, neck and arms for any signs of medical procedure, only finding a couple of mosquito bites. No, I had not been abducted by aliens in the night.

   "Damn," I whispered, looking around the truck for any mysterious tracks.  In the valley to my left, a cowboy with a black hat was nonchalantly riding a horse with his eyes to the ground.  On the right was another, with a white hat, also scanning the valley floor for something.  I felt like those treasure hunters they speak about, bitten by the gold bug, no matter how deep they dug, the treasure was always three feet deeper.  I wanted to stay, I was sure we'd see something if we just gave it another night, headed deeper into the woods…

   I vowed to return when I had more time, and so we were off to Taos.  I'd never been there, but I was by then used to the unfamiliarity of everything, including my own reflection, which I noticed was gradually changing.  I began to feel a heightened perception, a sweet, nurturing energy as we crossed into New Mexico.  I wondered if there were crystals underground, amplifying everything, able to alter one's perception…

   I fell in love with all of the adobe, the simplicity, the wide, open landscapes and mystical mountain scenery.  We found a hotel and walked around the Taos plaza.  From deep within my cells crept the familiarity and the feeling of home that had been absent from my life.  That night, we visited a health club set against the face of one of the mountains.  I sat in one of the hot tubs, looking up at the milky way, not, with all of the city's light pollution, having seen it so clear and luminous since my childhood.  I felt bathed in its light, reenergized, altered somehow, perhaps even down to the molecular level.  It felt like it was aware of me, in the way one might befriend someone similar to them.  I felt an odd connection, a feeling that I had found the right place to be, the right place of being.

   I stepped out of the hot tub and, by way of daring myself, jumped into the "cold plunge" of icy water nearby.  I quickly popped back out, sputtering, the stars above me brighter than ever, breathing in the night with an exhilaration I'd never felt before.  I knew my former life was finally falling away, the heavy weight going with it, and I was beginning to know what it felt like to truly live in present time.  There was a radiance to things, one I'd never noticed before, and I didn't want to go home ever again.  I thought of Erasure's song "Home", partially inspired by the musing of Dorothy choosing instead to stay in Oz.  My soul yearned to stay in this dream place, I was afraid of returning to nothing. 

   As it was, Wayne and I had been watching the Out On A Limb miniseries, in which Shirley Maclaine's spiritual journey takes her to Peru with a guide who shows her a new way of being.  She experiences a number of fantastic incidents which show her how much more there is to life and a generic god, involving synchronicity, a sixth sense, astral travel, past lives and proof of extraterrestrial contact on our planet.  In the end she must return home to apply what she has learned, despite a great fear of returning to nothing except ridicule.

   People had most likely always thought me odd, so I didn't care what people thought of my own personal spiritual quest, wherever that might lead me.  I was going U.F.O. hunting, I was going to meet a psychic, I was going to listen for a mysterious hum in the earth.  I was having more fun than my inner child ever thought possible and the experience was real and entirely rich with possibility.  I was beginning to see that which I deemed God in another light, and I realized we had never had the closest relationship to begin with.  It was so cleansing to shed everything I knew of "Him", of all "His" supposed anger, wrath and judgment.  My image of God had been shaped for me by others, and, letting go of those suburban myths, I felt like a deep relationship was finally possible.

   Wayne and I never did hear the hum.  I would hear it myself on a return trip several years later, but after returning from New Mexico he introduced me to the psychic Josie, who was unlike anything I had expected.  She felt oddly familiar, as if I'd known her before.  It was like meeting a long-lost aunt, and she hugged me warmly.  There was a white candle on the table between us, as well as a collection of quartz crystals.  She placed a cassette into a nearby player and began recording the session, beginning with a simple prayer.  Because I was at a loss for words, she started by collecting information from my energy field and higher consciousness.  Later, one of my spirit guides would appear with information.  I was ready for carnival tricks, so I kept my body language neutral and shared no personal information with her.  I didn't necessarily need to know my future, I was looking for proof of psychic ability, a glimpse of the other side of our three-dimensional world, a wave hello from a divine being.

   The information she began to reveal about me was accurate.  She knew I liked playing a lot of games and was interested in creating one of my own.  She knew I was composing music.  In my Gen-X youth these could very well have been lucky guesses judging by my appearance, until she spoke the first and last name of my first love, popping in via spirit to say hello.  I had never shared this information with Wayne, and I was startled into silence.  She went further, with information about a half brother I'd never met.  She also gave me his first and last name, another piece of info Wayne knew nothing about.  I remember how startled my mother had been when I approached her with this name. 

   Josie informed me about the spirit parasites I had picked up in my last unhealthy and unfulfilling relationship, and the need to be conscious of my every thought and act, as everything I sent out would return threefold.  She had a lot of amazing, practical spiritual advice, even regarding health issues, diagnoses which were absolutely correct.  She remained humble, but motherly, and I did feel that the information coming in was indeed from a spirit plane.  She even spoke about the lights I had seen in the sky, a program about U.F.O.s on her television set when I walked in, with her asserting that she never watched television before a reading.  I was stunned, as the reality, the realization of the truth, began to seep in.  All of this was real, all of this was really happening.

   According to her, I would meet my twin soul in my lifetime, not too far off.  She gave me three things to look for, as well as traits of the person.  A twin soul was one who was created with you, agreeing to reincarnate with you again and again as a teacher and pupil.  Josie believed all souls are basically without gender, able to incarnate in both male and female bodies lifetime after lifetime, informing me that I had been a woman in the life before my current one.  She described her physical appearance, which matched the type of women I had always been inexplicably attracted to. She then informed me I had known my twin soul in that particular incarnation as well.  He had played the piano for me in a saloon back then, as he would again play for me in my current lifetime.  She said he was full of humor, and would be trying to "get the hell out of Chicago" before I met him, and that he was with someone named Michael.

   She described his deep brown eyes and saw him, of all things, making grilled cheese sandwiches.  She also gave me the name of a spiritual teacher I would want to look into, a woman by the name of Caroline Myss, who was a medical intuitive, able to detect illnesses and dis-eases in a person.  I thought of my old friend who had done light body work, and my first love, who had introduced me to the spiritual works of Richard Bach, both helping to pave a way to this moment.  It was so much information, almost too much, yet I breathed in all of its truth, understanding there was no going back from here.

   Years later, I met someone whom I instantly suspected was the one Josie had spoken about, entering the metaphysical store I was managing at the time.  I knew we were going to be great friends the moment I saw him, knowing, from a very deep place, that I already knew him.  As he was paying for his pile of books on the human energy centers of the body, I commented on his Snoopy checkbook, and he flashed me his Joe Cool tattoo.  I flashed him my Star Wars tattoo.  After leaving, he returned an hour later with a Star Wars calendar he had found.  At lunch that day, the toy being offered in the kid's meal of the restaurant was a Snoopy soccer ball.  It was synchronicity, and I caught a flash of a new path quickly unfolding before me.

   Mr. Joe Cool had actually been trying to "get the hell out of Chicago", just as he described it, after 9/11.  He was afraid of being stuck there due to more possible terrorist acts while visiting a friend named Michael.  His name is James, the same one who I have been spiritchasing with all these years.  His eyes are deep brown, and he does play the piano, with special attention to "The Entertainer" and other old wild west saloon hits.  He's delightfully funny, refreshingly crazy, and was a stand-up comedian for three years.

   I still wondered about the final sign, the grilled cheese sandwiches, as if I hadn't been given enough evidence already, and the first morning I sat before my computer to email him, an internet pop-up ad appeared on the screen before me.  Apparently, the image of Jesus had been sighted on a grilled cheese sandwich, as well as Mary, Mother Theresa, and other saints.  The ad contained many different kinds of grilled cheese sandwiches, each bearing a different likeness of the divine, with the final one featuring St. James.



 

   By 2013, James has proven to be an excellent fellow adventurer, and we have gone U.F.O. ghost hunting on numerous occasions, returned to the San Luis Valley, attended powwows and met several inspirational figures, including Caroline Myss, Linda Moulton Howe and Christopher O’Brien, not to mention the sci-fi celebrities we are granted an audience with at any number of the conventions we attend each year.  He has watched me on television being interviewed about some of my synchronistic experiences, perused through the material I used in my U.F.O. lectures, witnessed dreams and signs I've had spring to fruition, and was there with me when innocent photographs we took together first revealed the presence of spirits around us.  He was with me at a L.A. studio last year when we were being interviewed about similar photographs for the Biography Channel and raced about with me through Disneyland and Venice Beach as life became a playground once more.


                                                ( Meeting Linda Moulton Howe )

                       ( Meeting John Burroughs of the Rendlesham Forest incident )

                                                 ( Meeting Christopher O'Brien )


   He has become my brother, my best friend, my greatest ally.  I sit in our kitchen having lunch with him, watching an old Unsolved Mysteries episode filmed in our city. It concerns an unknown life form witnessed in the woods here by many 'Springs residents.  So many, in fact, that a crossing sign was erected for it on the road up to Pike's Peak, a mountain James has successfully climbed.  The magical child within finds this all terribly exciting, and I look over at him, my mouth full of grilled cheese, his deep brown eyes already holding the answer to my question.


                                      ( Image altered using iPhone UFO Camera app )

   "Are you game?"

   - Christopher Allen Brewer,  August, 2013.

Thursday, August 22, 2013

SIGNS OF INTELLIGENT LIFE


  

 
   Over this past weekend James and I attended a UFO skywatch hosted by the Paranormal Research Forum in Colorado’s mysterious San Luis Valley, a high strangeness hotspot I have visited several times.  My interest in paranormal phenomena is very broad, and from childhood has included any number of its manifestations, from phantoms to the cryptozoological to aliens.  My interest in the San Luis Valley began after reading an article in a local newspaper which featured author and investigator Christopher O’Brien ( The Mysterious Valley, Stalking The Tricksters ).  This area includes any number of said manifestations, and while driving deep into the unknown from Manitou last Saturday morning, I pondered why I was being pulled back, and of the catalog of events that began my own journey into high strangeness.

   The following story was originally featured in the June, 2005 issue of the Celebration Conscious Living Store newsletter, under the heading, "Contact With Off-Planet Intelligences - A Personal Memoir”.  I later shared it on my former “SIGNS OF INTELLIGENT LIFE” blog from January 18th, 2008.

 


   This week I offer more strange-but-true tales from the archives.  These stories represent yet more baffling reflections from the multifacetedness of the human condition.  When philosophically proposing "for what purpose was I born?" and, "what is God,” you never actually expect to get an answer, nor do you know in what form that answer might come.  SIGNS OF INTELLIGENT LIFE is a showcase of my own questions, and the answers, however odd, that have come to me.

   A brilliant harvest moon hung like the end of a giant orange exclamation point to the left of my father and I.  What are we doing here?  Night fishing?  Camping?  I recall only the moon in this early memory, hovering in the blackness like a massive pumpkin.  This jack-o-lantern, grinning the occult back at me from dark space, was mystifying enough to have been remembered thirty years later.  Back then, in my trusting childlike wonder, I had offered no resistance to mystery, I simply smiled back at the face looking down at me, wanting to play.

   "Daddy, it's smiling at us!" I exclaimed, pointing it out with a short finger.  It was huge, and was either growing in size or moving closer.  The memory terminates there.

   My father was hosting a barbeque.  Our small apartment is full of family and family friends.  Amid the commotion, a single shriek from a cousin snaps me to attention.  I race down the hallway toward the porch where I find her looking up at the sky.  There is that light again, that same deep orange that stirs within my soul every Halloween.  This time it has structure.  It has solidified into a luminous spherical object which is silently rotating far above the courtyard.  Neighbors are stepping from their balconies and front doors as if moving from the darkness of ignorance into a light of full awareness.  My father appears at my side, tall and warm, approaching a confounding situation as he always does, with humor.

   "Hey, Chris, doesn't that look like R2-D2 and C-3PO?"

   He is referring to the humanoid figures we can clearly distinguish from the windows of the craft.  At seven years old, this is quite an exciting proposition to hear, though I know these figures are not them.  And I know that they're watching me, too.  The memory terminates there.

   For two nights in a row, the pair from the craft windows appeared to me again, shortly after the mass sighting.  In a hypnogogic state I would hear voices, electronic in nature, instructing me to meet them at a particular location close by.  This place was known to us children as the "Big Park", which was a wooden playground and basketball court, nestled up against a grassy hill at the end of a wide field.

   The Big Park became the setting for further unusual encounters that continued to defy the logic of my young mind.  It was the large mound of earth I remember most, similar to those which lie along the English landscape - not quite as large as Salisbury, but seeming to possess a similar mystical energy vortex.  I could feel the two trying to communicate with me, parked within the mound, repairing their vehicle. They will be here for a short time only. I am needed. What would such an advanced intelligence need from a kid? I have to decide. My mother is very strict. I am more fearful of her discipline than being swallowed up by the unknown. Apologetically, I lied my head back down upon my pillow, deciding instead to go in the daylight hours, anxious to see what was there.

   I studied the grounds on my way to school the following day, finding nothing and feeling that I had nothing but a very vivid dream. That line of reasoning was easier to contend with, and even though I felt a tremendous guilt in giving up, it felt better to put it out of my mind.

   But that evening, a familiar hum roused me back into wakefulness. They were still there. They were almost done with what they had come to do and their invitation was still open.

   "Are you coming?"

   I still regret that point in my life, when fear began to dictate the course of it. What would have happened, I will always wonder, if I had gone? If I had managed to abandon my bed, creep silently down the hallway and step into a night dark with ignorance into a light of full awareness? I have heard the strange electronics from time to time but never again that pair of voices asking to meet with me. I had stayed still under the heavy hand of fear and I was left behind.

   I spent a lot of time in the Big Park, lying against that earthen mound.  My father bought me a model of a U.F.O. which most closely resembled the one from the barbeque incident.  The top popped off and you could play with the little humanoid figures inside.  I was just beginning to cope with the feeling of abandonment.  It was in this field that I believed I had discovered a remnant from the landing.  The day after that last static transmission, I had raced there before school and found, lying on the ground not far from the luminous mound doorway I had dreamed of, an unidentifiable insect.  It appeared to be dead or stunned, as it did not move, but I was too afraid to touch it.  It was longer, and larger, than one of my small forearms.  It most closely resembled a dragonfly.  It was not plastic.  It was not a toy.  I remember most vividly its eyes, large and round and open.  I've never seen anything like that since, but do recall one occasion when a giant moth appeared at the screen door of the home of one of my cousins.  They thought it was a bird, flapping around the porch light, until it clung to the screen, staring through the mesh.  My uncle ran outside and tried to catch it, a wing in each hand, attempting to pull it off the screen…

   …which would later lead me to ponder "screen memory", a psychology term referring to a traumatic event distorted in memory into something more acceptable to the conscious mind.  What do we really see, without the distortion of fear, without the mind's slight of hand?  I remember being in the rotating ship, all copper inside, smelling an unpleasant odor, surprised to find my cousin there, too.  And yet I think I would have remembered something as significant as an alien abduction.  I really think I would.

   "So, Christopher,”, the teacher had asked, "how was your summer?"  I allowed the slightest hint of a smile to escape from the corner of my mouth.  I knew I couldn't share word of my adventures with anyone, and only had with Pooh, my companion of the stuffed, furry variety. I'd lost him over the course of my summer vacation but my father had found him sitting on a bench next to the mound.  I was still very young, having to process information that didn't make sense, and having to deal with keeping some things a secret.

   Another recollection from this mystifying period involves going to some sort of school with my little sister.  I would actually accompany her to pre-school classes in the event I was out of school, so that my mother needn't worry about a babysitter had she afternoon errands.  I remember the toys we played with there, the soup kitchen in the basement, the finger paint on the walls.  I also recall a room which supposedly never existed, one with what looked like stained glass on both sides.  We would be instructed to walk down this hallway and stop at each set of transparent panels, each set having its own color scheme.  Sunlight would be shining through the glass as we stood there, doing something to our bodies on a cellular level.  I remember dragonflies on the walls.

   My sister recalls more, such as bright white lights shining down on me through the windows of the bedroom we shared together, or those that appeared when we were outside playing together at night.  I clearly remember the friendly police helicopters which used to circle above, how we used to wave them over, then run from their spotlights, making an exciting game of hide and seek.  Were these also screen memories, were we really playing with helicopters?  On one occasion, an uncle was babysitting for us when one of the great beams of light came through our window, lighting up our living room.  He never sat for us again after such an experience, and was later plagued by strange poltergeist phenomena in his new home.

   My sister also remembers the barbeque, the preschool and the Big Park.  As an adult, I've done my own investigation of my old neighborhood.  The preschool didn't appear to contain the multi-colored inner temple of mystery room I remembered.  It had been converted into a church.  Looking through the microfilm of the period at a local library, I did find reference to U.F.O. sightings in our area the year the barbeque would have occurred.  And the Big Park, well, it didn't seem so little anymore.  The wood had been replaced with more kid-friendly materials, but the mound remains.  I long to ask other children if they have shared the same adventures and invitations I did in the wee hours of night, but looking at the area now, in our modern age, I feel the energy has left.  I feel that a window, a portal, was open for a brief period of time only.  When we moved from that apartment complex into another home, however, the electronic sounds and the bizarre dreams continued.  My mother and father still live there, and it was there I found evidence of contact with the twilight sources which continue to keep tabs on me through dreamtime and synchronicity.

   Like finding the key to a secret garden, I found proof of my encounters in a childhood relic.  I was commenting on my mother's rare blood type, informing her that, according to a book I was reading, she may have actually descended from an off-planet source.

   "Cool", she replied.  She knew I had visited the preschool and our old apartment complex, and, perhaps seeing my eyes glazed over with nostalgia, brought out an old album which was full of my childhood drawings, photos, old report cards, macaroni craft and the like.  I didn't know she had this, and when turning over one page in particular, my heart stopped.  I remembered these, where they came from, the faded craft lying at the heart of the great book.  I remembered the teacher responsible for their creation, the one who gave me the assignment, and who coincidentally moved in next door to us when we left the apartment.

   "I'd like to know how you spent your summers", she addressed our class, winking back at me like starlight from the depths of consciousness, "but let's have fun with it. Who likes stained glass?"  I raised my hand, remembering how it felt to stand in their light with my sister.  She showed us how, by cutting shapes out of black construction paper and gluing colored tissue paper to the back, we could make our very own "stained glass".  The shapes would match our summer activities, and so there were diamond kites, pointed oval footballs, colorful beach balls…and my own, which contained some unknown constellation made up of stars and other odd shapes meticulously cut out of the paper.  Among my strange Indian summer scene were other celestial bodies, some type of flying craft, which were orange, solid, unknown, alien.  I remember the furrowed eyebrows of other children as they searched their database of symbols for these and came up at a loss.  I remember the disappointment I felt in the understanding that no other classmates had similar experiences, then something else which stirred in my soul when I realized I had been shown something they could not be.
 
 

   I Pulled the two paper stained glass crafts from my mother's book, my vision blurred, watery prisms in the afternoon sun.  I still have them, their playful shapes dancing about the rooms in which they are framed before the window, the little shafts of colored light wide on wooden floors, climbing up my arm in the late afternoon sun where I work at my computer, absorbed into my pupils at sunset.

   When our family moved into our new home, the orange vehicles began to invade my dreams, almost as if they were trying to locate me.  I was afraid of them by then, suspicious of their motives.  During the recurring dreams, I'd see them coming in the late evening from the backyard.  They'd always spot me, and from then on it was a slow-motion chase, and I would find myself trying to outrun them, attempting to get inside the house and into the basement before they arrived.  Sometimes they wouldn't notice me, creating geometric points of light in the night sky, forming perfect mathematical shapes I couldn't identify.  They would always appear, but they could never catch me, and in my adult years they began to appear synchronistically, programs about them popping onto the television sets of friends I was visiting.  I might walk into a hotel restaurant and find they were hosting a U.F.O. convention.  Or, even more brazenly, a stranger would simply approach me out of nowhere, stating that I was a starchild, or Pleiadian.  And how does one respond to such statements?  “Oh, yeah?  Wow.”

   By 2003, I was comfortable enough to give a lecture about them, per invitation by the owner of a metaphysical complex.  My presentation concerned the influence of extraterrestrial visitations in ancient cultures and their representation in art through the centuries.  I was both surprised and elated to find a close-knit circle of supportive abductees in attendance, fascinated by the pictorial evidence I had compiled.  In both of my lectures, I had incorporated a slideshow and video compilation of ancient and modern day alien craft and their occupants.  The slideshow was a photographic collection of renaissance paintings, cave paintings, ancient sculpture, steles, woodcuts, and scenes painted onto animal skins.  All showed the same odd, spherical craft, unknown figures wearing what resembled modern day space suits, and unknown figures which looked entirely off-planet.  Some of the craft, whether carved or painted, were detailed enough that cockpits, weapons, instrument panels, alien insignia and mysterious propellants could be distinguished.  I found the stories of the abductees interesting.  They had, like me, seen a lot of strange things in the skies, and we traded the locations of hotspots one could still visit to view them.

   One of them asked me a question I did not have an answer for, and a proposal I had never considered.  She wanted to know, in my recurring U.F.O. dreams, why I had always ran away in fear, when I had apparently never been harmed, and what did I think would happen if I simply stood still and let them meet me.  A week after this question was presented to me, I dreamed of again standing in my old backyard at night, watching the orange disks beginning to move through the sky toward me.  For some time, I thought they were simply a symbolic interpretation of God, but I was never afraid of God, and had always embraced various forms of spirituality and religion.  Perhaps they simply stood for all of the unknown in my life, and that night, I would finally find out.

   It was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do in my life, albeit my dreaming one, standing as still as possible, fighting a very visceral fear, as the craft lowered and came to a gentle landing before me.  Its windows were tinted pitch black, and I intuitively felt that I was expected to approach it.  I slowly, carefully, walked around to its right side, fully expecting some grotesque creature to be there waiting for me.  Instead, there was only a small doorway, almost a hatch, that opened softly as I neared it.

   I fearfully craned my neck to see what was inside, and saw what looked like an old fashioned radio, full of dials and glowing meters.  There was a metal armrest attached to the front, which I understood was molded specifically for me.  I put my left arm into it, causing the dials on the panel to glow brightly.  Clear, soft plastic tubes gently snaked from the back of the console and painlessly inserted themselves into my forearm.  One the face of the unit, a word appeared, which said, "COMPASSION".  The tubes warmed up where they met my flesh, for every word that appeared on the small screen.  I understood this was a gauge, a probe of some sort, as several other words glowed above the dials: HONESTY, TRUST, FAITH, SELF ESTEEM, IMAGINATION.

   Judging by the position on the dials, I was scoring either higher or lower depending on how I had applied each to my life.  In this way, I remember fully realizing that I needed to love myself more, as well as to let my own intuition, not fear, motivate me.  After the test, the tubes retracted and I stepped away from the vehicle.  It closed its door and began to rise, eventually joining the other Herkimer points of light in the night sky.  The following evening, I became one of those lights, giving a glorious lightshow for a crowd of amazed campers around a bonfire.  Eventually, instead of one of the craft, an alien appeared to me, showing me how it could camouflage its skin, climbing trees with its long fingers, mischievously pointing at the headlight in my car I had replaced twice in the same week.

   I think of the people I have known and still know, who coincidentally have family members involved in classified military projects involving air and space craft, those who bear unknown scars, those whose fathers and uncles have lost their livestock to strange mutilations.  I look over the N.O.R.A.D. military installation on Cheyenne Mountain, clearly visible from my current backyard.  How have I come to know these particular people and why was it that I would come to live in such a location?  When I first moved here, from the little mountain town of Manitou Springs, it didn't take long for the dreams to return.  Not three blocks from my house, I found the sparkling amber lights forming new shapes above my neighborhood, majestic and perfect, spelling out another chapter of communication and higher consciousness.

   From time to time, I still bump into the occasional witness of some inexplicable celestial phenomena.  I love sharing stories with them, I love hearing theirs, I love laughing with them at the continual insistence by others that what we have seen was nothing more than the planet Venus, the reflection of light on flocks of birds or those from automobiles, projected onto the clouds under just the right circumstances.  We laugh when their explanations include the Aurora Borealis, shooting stars, satellites, space junk, the light emitted from the compression of underground crystals, or generic bizarre weather patterns.  And we nearly pee our pants when hearing the term "swamp gas".

   I think of that glowing dial, its needle straining to the right as the word BRAVERY shone next to it, already calling upon the architects of my next dream, hoping to stand under their Herkimer prisms again...
 
 

   In our next blog, we head into the mysterious San Luis Valley, to finally catch up with author Chris O’Brien and high strangeness itself.

   Keep looking up.

    - Christopher Allen Brewer, August, 2013

Monday, August 12, 2013

LIVE AND DIRECT



   It's finally up and I made it with my own two hands, despite knowing zero about web design.  Thanks to the problem-solving skills I inherited from my father, my mother's determination, Jeremy from Dreamhost, and Weebly.

   Thanks for all of your encouragement, interest and participation.  It will be raining new business cards soon.

   Labor of love, - Christopher ( and James )

   www.thespiritchasers.com

Saturday, August 3, 2013

SAVE THE ORBS!




The following is a new campaign of ours you will no doubt be hearing about later this year.  To better describe our mission statement and give you a glimpse of what we have coming this fall season, we'd like to introduce our newest spokesperson and mascot - Orby!  His campaign slogan is currently being printed on several t-shirts, flyers and other miscellaneous SpiritChasers swag we plan on giving out shortly.




Our dance card is rapidly filling up with private investigations, ghost tours, radio interviews, the launching of a new website ( hopefully more television appearances ), an upcoming weekly comic, another paranormal convention in Cripple Creek next month and a special presentation of our own on October 30th, not to mention the completion of the seventh episode of our yearly SpiritChasers documentary.  For the latest updates and light paranormal entertainment, please visit our Facebook page at www.facebook.com/thespiritchasers.



 


What I have been withholding in new blogs is being gradually applied to a book, hence the irregularity in our postings.  And yet as the veil draws thinner the closer we move toward autumn, we will have many entertaining and thought-provoking blogs for your enjoyment.






So, without further adieu, here's the lowdown from our new MC:








Can you guess what I am?
 

A.      Dust

B.      A Ghost

C.      Swamp Gas

D.      Depends

E.       Cute
 
   If you guessed cute, you guessed correctly!  But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so it depends.  Go outside at night and pick up a handful of dirt, then throw it in the air and take a picture with the flash on.  See all the orbs?  But sometimes I show up when there is no dirt or dust in front of the camera.  What am I then?  Again, it depends.  Everyone has different beliefs.  I’ve been called a ghost, an angel, a demon, a fairy and more, but most times people say I’m just dust.  It’s a popular belief, and it makes people feel safe to think I’m something they can easily explain.


 
 

   Still, we live in a world full of mystery, and there are so many things, both beautiful and strange, that we may never have the answers to.  If everyone dismissed me as no more than dust, then they’d be a long way from the answers they seek, from the greater mysteries staring them right in the face.  It takes courage to believe in something different and to commit to that belief, but when you do your perception widens to accommodate a larger vision of existence.  When that happens, I’ll be able to introduce you to some of my friends!
 

 
 

   Right now, I’m becoming an endangered species.  There are so many people into “debunking” as opposed to exploring that I may disappear from your reality entirely.  It makes people feel smart when they play investigators, just like the people on TV.  The big trend now is for others to prove that something is not what you thought it was - even if they weren’t there when it happened!  Although a healthy dose of skepticism is good for you, many people take it too far.  Unfortunately, their “scientific” minds will always search for rational solutions to their problems, but my friends and I come from a place uncharted and unknown - a realm that can never truly be understood.
 
 
 

   No matter the latest technology or agreed-upon consensus, I delight in living outside the borders of the quantifiable .  And yet, the spirit of things is gradually becoming erased, as is the sense of wonder.  This truly is an age of signs and wonders, but only for those who can recognize them as such.  In this day and age, people get to be instant scientists, instant detectives, re-enacting the things they see on television with blinking tools and the sense of power they feel in taking something away from others ( personal experiences, for example ).  It can get them a lot of attention, because it is in your nature to judge, and to cast out or demonize the things which reflect the parts of yourselves you don’t want to see.
 

 
 


   But what if some of those things were actually miraculous?  What if there were misunderstood pieces of our DNA just waiting to be activated, waiting for a great shift in human consciousness that could take us to the stars, to new dimensions, to discoveries too great to fathom?  What if something was orchestrating bizarre events in an effort to get our attention, to help get us ready, but there were too many non-believers claiming these were simply hoaxes?  And what if one day it all just stopped?  No more miracles, no more mystery, no more hidden wisdom or hidden treasure just waiting to be found.  Every legend and story stripped of its soul so that everything could be explained in the most sterile, tidy, neat and convenient pieces of information.  And what if a millennia later, when science had failed to save humanity from itself, those orchestrators returned, and we asked them where they were when we needed them the most?  And what if they told us they had always been here, and they did everything they could to get our attention, but we wouldn’t believe them?

 
 

   Fortunately, there are still a great many of you who delight in playing in the twilight anyway, during those times when the veil between our worlds is at its thinnest.  You are the people me and my friends look for, because you are the most fun to play with!  So in the meantime, if you happen to take a picture and you see me in it, you are entitled to believe whatever you wish.  If you saw me in a sacred garden reportedly inhabited by fairies, I might just be one!  If you saw me in a haunted house, well then I might have been a ghost!  But if someone tells you all you got was dust, just tell them that it was your experience, and you don’t require anyone telling you how you actually experienced it.  It’s yours and yours alone, and no one can take that away from you!  Leave others to their smelly swamp gas, we can have fun playing where our two worlds meet, where stories, legends and myths grant immortality, adventure, and wonders too amazing to fathom.  I’ll believe in you if you believe in me. 


Save The Orbs!

 
 


- Christopher Allen Brewer, August, 2013