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From: Alfred Lehmberg <Lehmberg@snowhill.com>
Date: Sat, 21 Feb 1998 07:46:14 -0600
Fwd Date: Sat, 21 Feb 1998 11:28:19 -0500
Subject: Alfred's Odd Ode #225

Apology to MW #225 (For February 21, 1998)

I'm borne away, and floating to the house sized flying saucer! Then
through it's hull, I'm drawn inside like so much smoke or vapor!

I'm on a promenade (?), somehow, a vast surreal structure, weird *beings*
are walking past me unconcerned. I'm about to shout excuse me, what the
HELL is going on, and one comes up directly, unobserved. It's *hand* is
on my forearm, it *says*, "please to come with me", and I wonder that
I've had a stroke, or dream out right, indeed.

I've read of this, a cerebral accident, when part of your brain just
implodes. With brain cells requiring free-basing oxygen, strange visions
leap forth and explode. Remaining moments linger in this weird
hallucination, then comes the dissolution and the final obfuscation.
Unconsciousness then slips right in and no one can detect you, and as far
as is determined you're then buried -- beyond use, Stu. <g>

Still, did I linger -- and explain what I saw, led, by an alien, along
like a dog? I stopped, for a moment, afraid and pissed off, "When was I
asked "?, I sputtered, and coughed. "Where was my in-vite, why'd you pick
me? What is that smell? What do I see"? What is your program, what is
this place, why are you suddenly up in my face"?

"We like your poems (?)", appeared in my mind. "Every *thing* was
alright, every *thing* was just fine. This can still work", was then sent
as a post script, "we've so much to show you, you asked for your up slip!
Could it be we don't know you -- a mistake has been made"? We've watched
your beginnings -- you asked for this, mate."

"There's little respect in result of a snatch", I replied in blooming awe
at what my eyes could touch and scratch! I shook off the little alien and
walked off to the edge. This was really happening then, I began to self
allege. I felt my arms, and smoothed my hair, and rubbed my face too
hard. Well, I'll be blessed, and filled my lungs, such smells then came
like shards. Unpleasant AND enticing completely strange, unknown, pickles
in old cinnamon, old pyramidal stone.

Surreal and otherworldly like an international mall, the smells of
different shops, other markets, different halls. And then completely
pleasant, that I filled my lungs like friends, and asked the little
alien, what was that smell again?

"That is simply ships air -- and different through the day -- the ship
itself's a living thing, the smells from faraway. This ship has spanned
the galaxy, and has lived apart from us, they've spanned perhaps a
billion years, alongside us, two million plus."

I was standing at the rim up high, before me spread a basin. It was
perhaps ten miles across, but hard to judge, I hasten. A city miles below
me, and was grown it seemed from crystal, but blued with reddish
highlights like a flashlight or a pistol.

I felt the alien's hand, again, so lightly on my arm, "We must go now,"
it said tersely, did I detect it was alarmed? "How long have you been
watching us"? I asked, but stood my ground. "We watched your dim
beginnings. What you'll learn you'll find profound."

Lehmberg@snowhill.com

History has always been written by the winners. Just the winners -- not
_necessarily_ the ethical, or the just, or the educated, or the wise --
or even the brave =85 just the winners. We have no idea what actually
occurred before a time when actual sounds and images could be committed
to some kind of durable record of tape, disk, or stone; and much of that
has been hidden or otherwise destroyed by, yet again, the ubiquitous
winner.  Hitler won in the short term; Stalin won in the short term for
as long as he was alive. Saddam has been winning for decades his
pestilent, short term, and parochial little gains. All write their
histories as they would have them written in the same manner as winners
in the United States will write theirs. Not as it occurred, naturally,
but as they would have had it occur --incomplete and complimentary. It's
why our kids hate us. We feed them a thin gruel of impossibly noble and
largely fictional role models to measure themselves by, and the kids know
(on a level they cannot yet articulate) that it MUST be complete bull
shit. For my part, having bought in for so long -- reading some primary
references has ignited in me a healthy resentment! And I can articulate
mine.

What if there was an off planet repository of what actually went down=85
I'd like to see it, wouldn't you?

Free John Ford!

--
Explore the Alien View?

http://www.fortunecity.com/roswell/arecibo/46/

"I cleave the heavens, and soar to the infinite. What others see from
afar, I leave far behind me." - Giordano Bruno, while burning at the
fundamentalist's stake for going aboard.