Memories of My Father

When my family lived in a small neighborhood outside Langley, Virginia, I didn’t think it was odd that we never saw a police patrol car, or that our ice cream man wore a pistol under his white coat. [This is a long one. If you click this, settle in.]

I was too young to notice anything peculiar about our neighborhood, a place called Keystone Court, because I didn’t really have any references to go by. It wasn’t until years later that my sister made the comment, “Didn’t you find it strange that we never saw police in our neighborhood, just unmarked cars with guys in suits inside?” That and the strapped ice cream man were just minor forerunners of some strange recollections that would gradually bubble up to the surface.

Keystone Court was an exclusive neighborhood inhabited by CIA agents and their families. It was a long row of close-knit townhouses that lined a circular drive that wound around a small forest. The forest was a popular play place, an area of imaginary adventure for the local children, of which my sister and I were two. Our back yard was gravel, with a short set of steps that led up to a wooded path that wound behind the houses. Just beyond the path, about fifty yards from our home, was a river. We children were told to stay away from the river, so we usually played in the street in front of our houses, or in the woods at the center of it all. On lazy summer evenings, as we children raced our Big Wheels and bicycles, the parents would gather in lawn chairs in the driveways and yards, sharing a few drinks and innocuous conversation.

My memories from that time are piecemeal at best, and come bubbling up like flotsam from a sunken ship. They are disconnected, and I cannot be entirely certain of what is real and what is imaginary, or placed in my mind as disinformation. However, the drugs are kicking in again, and my memory centers are lighting up, and these are the moments in which I am compelled to write as much as I can remember about anything that, in hindsight, might seem out of the ordinary.

I remember there were sometimes lights in the woods. I would wake up with lights shining through my bedroom window, and the woods at the center of our neighborhood would be lit up like a football stadium, bright white light shining through the trees.

I remember there was a tunnel somewhere by the edge of the woods if you walked away from the horseshoe curve of our street towards the hillside. The tunnel ran under the hill, and we would play Secret School in that tunnel sometimes. We were detectives solving a mystery. There was a playground near there, just above the tunnel, with a terrific swing set where the swings would wing out over the drop of the hill and you could feel like you were flying. You could get to the playground by walking up a set of cut log steps leading into the trees.

Sometimes we would watch videos of different aircraft, lights landing and men in suits and dark sunglasses walking around them, identifying different features. We would be told time and again, if you see a craft, or if it is emitting sound of any kind, it is having technical difficulties. You’re not supposed to be seeing or hearing that. Leave it alone! Rest assured, the occupants are working as fast as they can to fix it and they DO NOT NEED YOUR HELP. What kind of help do you think you could provide, anyway? Even with an advanced degree in theoretical physics, it would be like a gopher trying to fix an internal combustion engine. Just pretend you don’t see it, and move along.

I did not know what an internal combustion engine was, so I figured if I ever saw such a thing, I would put it out of my mind and go focus on something else. Return, report, retire. That was it. And after the nap, it was just a forgotten dream.

We were a cultural observation site, and we were observed. Sometimes, there was interaction, usually near the river when a little fellow would walk over to us children and ask us what we were doing. They showed us a very nice tree fort, a wooden structure that had been built in the forest somewhere along the wooded path. It had a lot of steps, and thinking of it reminds me of that M.C. Escher drawing, the one of all the stairs. It smelled strongly of hickory, and to this day, that smell sends me reeling. I like the smell. We could never find the tree fort when the little guys weren’t there. I think they were sent to us because they were our size, child sized, and they didn’t seem so scary to us. They were actually pretty nice. They could move things with their minds, although they didn’t do it often, only when we pestered them and they wanted to make us laugh. They wore body suits, uniform in color, black or dark blue, and the fabric was stretchy but it felt hard when you touched it. Some had what we called a Z or lightning insignia, a symbol I recognize now as the Sigma. I also know that this symbol means “unknown” in mathematics, but I don’t know why I know that. I am not good at math, and I never took a math course beyond college algebra.

My father was injured in a training exercise. He was forced into retirement after that. He was offered a desk job, but he didn’t want that. So he retired. We moved north to live with my maternal grandparents in a small town. They had a large house, three stories if you included the furnished basement, which had plush carpeting, a full bar, and lots of family photos on the wood-panel walls. There was a bedroom on the first floor that my parents used, and my sister and I had our own rooms upstairs near our grandmother’s and grandfather’s rooms. They had separate bedrooms. I am told that is a key to a happy marriage as the years wear on. Everyone needs their own space.

My father was from Alabama, and he did not like living “up north,” nor did he like living under the roof of his in-laws. He sank into depression, and I realize now that he missed the life he had left behind when he retired. He missed the excitement. He missed being on the inside. He was out, but apparently, I was till in.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was always being watched by something. It got to the point that I would put on shows (I called them “funny shows”) by myself in my room for the entertainment of whatever it was. It didn’t seem unfriendly. However, at night, it was unnerving, and it scared me. I was afraid to look out my window for fear of seeing something looking back, something with a thin face and huge eyes. My sister also had a fear of huge eyes. There was a painting hanging in her room at our grandparents’ house that showed a girl holding a puppy. Both the girl and the puppy had huge eyes. They eventually had to take the painting out of her room.

I was around 8 years old at this point, and I wouldn’t stay in my room and sleep unless my mother sat with me. She would sit in a large chair at the foot of my bed, reading the Bible, until I fell asleep. She said she could always tell when I was asleep because the bed would shake with a quick jolt. And then I would be out. I recall having a reoccurring dream in which I was climbing up an ivy-covered trellis. As I neared the top, the trellis would break and I would fall backwards and hit the ground with a jolt. I think that was why the bed shook. To this day, I sometimes wake up to my bed shaking, but I don’t dream of the trellis anymore.

Sometimes, I would wake up and it would be dark in my room, but then a light would fade in through the window. I wouldn’t want to look at it, so I would crawl out of bed and walk to the bedroom door, where there was sometimes one of the little fellows there, peeking in at me. I would follow him. I would jump down the stairs, and feel like I was floating, with a weird sensation of falling in the pit of my stomach, and land safely in the living room below, outside my parents’ room. Sometimes I would go in there and sleep. I could hear strange sounds outside the window, like large feet clomping on the sidewalk outside, walking up and down outside the house. Sometimes I would hear eerie music.

Other times I would turn away from my parents’ bedroom door and go outside where the lights were brighter. My grandfather said I was sleepwalking. My sister did it, too, and sometimes we would wake up with our eyes stuck shut from conjunctivitis. Sometimes, I think my grandparents were worried about us, but my father would tell them to forget it. I don’t think they liked that, and this may have added to the tension in the house. A depressed ex-military and intelligence agent, two down-home jovial grandparent types, and some occasional weirdness, perhaps? Anyway, soon my father had rented us a house on the edge of town, and we moved out of my grandparents’ house. We still saw them a lot, since we lived so close.

One day, I took a friend to visit my grandparents. I took him upstairs to show him where my room was, and when I got outside the door I felt such a strong wave of déjà vu that I almost passed out.

The new house was very new — part of a new housing development in what might have been the suburbs had the town been a lot bigger. Behind our house was a huge field, where further development was planned but never seemed to happen. Beyond that field was a large hill known locally as Pickle Hill, because there had apparently been a pickle canning factory up there at one time. All around us were the great rolling hills of Pennsylvania.

Two things on friends I had. The first, there was a boy with very curly hair named Dwayne that had lived in our neighborhood in Virginia. When I started the first grade in the small town in Pennsylvania, I remember him being there on the first day of school. I spoke to him. I told my mother when she came to pick me up at the end of the day that I was going to like going to school here because Dwayne was here, too. She looked at me with an expression of disbelief, and said, “No, that must have been some other boy that looks like Dwayne. Dwayne’s in Virginia.”

“No,” I said. “I spoke to him. He’s here now.”

Except he wasn’t. I never saw him again after that first day.

I did make a new friend who lived on the street that ran parallel to the big field behind our new house. We used to play in the field, catching fireflies and toads and running amok as boys of that age do. He was the one who told me about the Men In Black. I had never heard that expression, but both of us were very interested in UFOs, and when I told him some of the things I had learned about them at Secret School, at first he didn’t believe me. His disbelief was so strong, he even got angry and stopped playing with me for a few days. Soon, though, he was back, with a simple warning: “You shouldn’t talk about that stuff, or the Men In Black will take you.” I asked who the Men In Black were, and he said, “Silencers. Intimidators. I don’t know, but I don’t think they’re human, and you don’t want them coming to your house.”

I had a lot of questions about this, but I didn’t want him to get angry again, so I let it drop and we went back to building a dam in the creek that ran near his house.

One day, I went down to our garage, and it was full of flies. I mean, swarming with them. They were all over the walls, the garage door, the windows… there must have been thousands of them. Quite a few of them were big, fat black ones that flew sluggishly. I tried to swat some of them with a broom, but it was making a mess of the painted cinder block walls, so I left them alone and just opened the garage door. It was disgusting. They were everywhere, so I just left. I don’t know what happened to them all. That same year, on December 12th, my dad died from a heart attack. I often wonder if the flies had been an omen.

Soon after my father died, I had a dream in which I had woken up in my room to the sound of the TV. I used to fall asleep listening to the sounds of my dad watching some cop drama or detective show on television drifting faintly from the living room. This sounded like that. I have no idea what time it was, but everyone else was asleep — except for my dad. He was siting in his favorite chair, and Sam, our dog, was at his feet, doing the usual tail-wagging wiggle she did, she was always so excited when he was paying attention to her. When I walked out into the living room, he looked up and saw me, and he stood up and started coming to me, smiling.

“Hey, kiddo! Check it out! They stuck me with a needle at the hospital!” and he showed me a small bruised mark on his arm. I knew he was dead, I knew he shouldn’t be there, so I ran back into my mother’s bedroom and woke her up. When I said, “Dad’s here!” she got concerned, and followed me out to the hallway. The ruckus had woken my sister up, and the three of us walked to the end of the hall and looked into the living room, where dad was playing with the dog. My mother grabbed my sister and I and ushered us into the bathroom. I can still clearly see the blue and white square-to-rectangle tiles on the bathroom floor as my mother cried, trying to collect herself. I was scared. Did this mean dad was going to haunt our house from now on? I asked her if we could move. She nodded and said, Yes, we’ll move.

I don’t remember how the dream ended, but later that year, we moved to a house just up the street. I didn’t like the new house at first — it wasn’t brand-new like the one we were leaving — but my mother invested a lot to fix it up and make it a lot nicer than it was when she bought it, and I could still play in the field with my friend.

Sadly, Sam died later that year from doggie leukemia. I remember my mom took her to the vet, and the vet offered to put Sam down, but my mom didn’t have the heart to do it, so she came home. Sam sat in the back yard for days, just looking at our house. Each day she sat a little farther a way. One day, when she was at the edge of our large yard, I went and sat with my arm around her. The next day, she was gone. Soon after, my mother found her body lying beside a pond atop a nearby hill where I used to take her hiking, and she buried her there. We adopted a new dog from the local ASPCA a few months later. His name was Duffy. My grandmother named him on Christmas day when she and my grandfather came to open presents with us. The new dog, a mid-sized fluff of long, white hair, ran over to them to say hi as they walked in the door. My grandmother looked down at him and said, “Well, aren’t you a duffy?” The name stuck.

Memories are fading a bit now. A few clear ones. I remember them clearly because I have mentioned them a lot, usually when someone asks me, “Have you ever seen a UFO?”

One summer night, about a year after we had moved to the new house, my friend and I were playing in that same field below Pickle Hill. It still hadn’t been developed. As we played, we noticed a white, glowing oval shape moving silently overhead. It slowed above us, and I jumped up and started waving at it. My friend grabbed me and threw me down into the weeds and hissed, “Quit it! You don’t want them to see us!” I asked, “Them who?” I knew, but did he? I also knew they were nothing to be afraid of, but maybe he had different ideas. We watched it silently turn, and then slowly disappear over the hills.

Years later, when he and I were in college, he told me that that field was strange. It was right behind his house, just like it had been behind our brand-new house before my father died and we had moved. He said one night he had woken up, and the entire inside of his house seemed to be glowing with white light. He went to his mother’s room (she was divorced) and saw her standing by her bedroom window, looking out at the field. There was an incredibly strong white light pouring in from there. He asked her what was going on. He said, “She didn’t even turn around, she just stood there, staring out the window, like she was hypnotized, and then she spoke in a weird voice and said, ‘It’s nothing. Go back to your room.'” He said he was so freaked out by the sound of her voice — it had sounded almost mechanical — that he went back to his room, locked his door, and spent the rest of the night sitting on his bed with his baseball bat in his hands. He said the white lights went away after about thirty minutes and his room went dark. He switched on his light and kept up his guard until sun-up, when he finally fell asleep. He and his mother never talked about it again. She died from ovarian cancer a few years later.

When we had first moved into our brand-new house on the edge of the field, my family used to sit on the back porch and have a nice family time. My sister and I would sit in our bean bag chairs — green and orange — and my parents would sit on deck chairs and we would just enjoy the early summer nights. One night we were looking up at the stars. It was a clear night, and in the Pennsylvania countryside, away from the lights of the town, you could almost see the entire Milky Way, the sky seemed more white than black with all the stars. My mother said, “Now what do you suppose that is?”

We all looked and saw a red light, about the size of a basketball from where we sat. It looked like it was just over Pickle Hill. It didn’t blink, it just zig-zagged across the sky in what appeared to be a random pattern. We watched it for a few minutes, and then the next thing I remember, my father was on the kitchen phone, talking to someone “back at work” and my sister and I were shuffled off to bed.

After we moved to the new house up on Townview Drive, I started spending a lot of time in our back yard, staring up at the stars. I felt a deep connection with something there, and I had a lot of illuminating thoughts as I watched the shooting stars. Turns out, they aren’t so rare. If you take the time to watch the skies, you’ll see a lot of them on a clear night. A few other things, too, perhaps.

I became interested in my father’s life. I started digging through his old papers and a black brief case at the back of my mother’s closet. I found letters from overseas. He had been a field agent for the CIA in Vietnam, parachuting into Song Be. My mother said he was involved in the assassination of South Vietnamese president Diem. Later, he worked with the CIA using a hospital in Song Be to move weapons into Cambodia. That was where he met my mother, who was a volunteer nurse at that hospital. She had returned to the U.S. to give birth to my sister and my father had stayed in Vietnam for another year or so before returning home. He didn’t stay long — just long enough to see me born a year later, and then he was off again. My mother had help from some other company people, a young couple around the same age, and she looked after my sister and I in the same apartment complex as that couple until my dad returned and moved us all to Virginia. I found a lot of other stuff, too, that I still wonder about. Assorted drawings, stuff about Native Americans (my father had spent a lot of time with the Lakota-Sioux during his time away, it seemed, even smuggling supplies to them during the uprising at Wounded Knee), a black and white photo of dead men in suits lying on a dirt road somewhere.

Anyway, I spent a lot of my adolescent years sitting in our back yard at night, looking up at the stars, feeling like there was someone up there watching over me. I hated going to school and began to miss a lot of it. I would instead go to the local university library and read everything that I felt I needed to read. Not just books on The Unexplained — UFOs, ghosts, the Bermuda Triangle — but classic literature as well. Some very creative people over the centuries had very creative ways of hiding information not meant for the general public in great works. The Bible is full of secrets… at least it was before the Council of Nicea butchered it, and all sorts of kings, tyrants, and other corrupt officials edited it and mistranslated it. There is still a lot of stuff in there, but only pieces. In the tenth grade, they wanted to hold me back due to all of the days I had missed. They called me to the principle’s office one morning, where they had my mother and a truancy officer waiting. He showed me his badge like I was supposed to piss myself right there and then.

They said, “We know you’re not sick. We call your house and no one answers. Where do you go?”

I told them I went to the library and read. They didn’t believe me. They asked me what I read. I mentioned Shakespeare, Steinbeck, James Joyce, Edward James, Charlotte Bronte, Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Mary Shelley, Louisa May Alcott, Thomas Pynchon, anyone that came to mind. I was a tenth grader at the time. They said they would have the twelfth grade English literature teacher put together a test for me, and if I passed it, they would let me continue with my classmates. I took the test and I passed it, but they said state law required that I remain behind. My mother, incredibly, let me drop out. I guess she was tired of fighting with me about going to school. I feel terrible about that. She was an excellent, hard-working, devoted single mother and she deserved a much better son.

She was delighted when I got my GED and dropped back in to college through the Act 101 program that was available in Pennsylvania state universities at the time. I maintained a straight A average all through my freshman year, and was a fully-instated student for my sophomore semesters. The truancy officer they had sent to scare me had kept tabs on me, and he, too, was very happy that I had gone back to school. He was a solid guy. I liked him.

I continued to feel that connection to SOMETHING… something beyond the edge of normal perception. I continued to read, and I followed new discoveries in the world of physics, even though I had no mind for the mathematics of it all. I noticed a lot of things that I had been “told” in secret were bearing out in the sciences. Multiple dimensions, faster-than-light travel, quantum theory, wormholes… and now the Navy has finally admitted that “UFOs are real,” for whatever that’s worth. Of course UFOs are real — Unidentified Flying Objects have been around since humans first noticed there was a sky above. People today are so blocked in their thinking that they equate “UFO” with “alien spacecraft.” It’s meaningless.

Aliens are real, however, as are ultra-terrestrials — intelligent entities from other dimensions. Some are from right here on Earth, just a slightly different version of it. This planet is a sort of hub. The Men In Black are real, too, but they are a type of avatar (Hey, who isn’t?). The ones you read about on those “wacky” websites are a poorer quality, however, made to be just below standard enough to put people off by obviously not being human. They are meant to trigger the ‘uncanny valley’ response in people, to instill fear, but they don’t really hurt people. Well, very, very rarely. I can only think of one case, and even that is… foggy.

I kept up my occult studies. I read “crackpot” books, like John Keel’s The Mothman Prophecies. There is a chapter in that book, I believe it’s chapter 9, called “Wake Up, Down There!” It details strange phone calls people have received in which they hear someone speaking a foreign language very fast, or they hear a random series of beeps and tones. I read that book when I moved to Pittsburgh after college, and was up alone reading at night as I often was. My phone rang, and when I answered, I heard a random series of beeps and tones. I just said, “Thanks for calling” and hung up. I felt like someone was trying to tell me they were still there. I still had a landline back then. I’m not sure if they call cell phones. I never got another call, anyway.

I went back to grad school, and was on my way to completing my doctorate (I wrote my master’s thesis on conspiracy theory in literature, and it had been extremely well-received, and I was encouraged to turn it into a doctoral dissertation) when I got a sudden feeling in my mind that I just could not shake. It got to the point that it kept me awake, and I had a long period of insomnia. I was a nervous wreck, carrying a feeling of dread all the time that I couldn’t seem to shake. It just felt like GET OUT OF THE UNITED STATES.

And so I did. I left in 2007. At first, I hated the idea of living in a foreign country. It’s scary, going someplace new and trying to start a new life. But once I did it, I met a lot of great people and have had a great time. I even visited Song Be, the little Vietnamese town near Cambodia where my parents met. I was able to send pictures of it to my mother. I went home to watch her die of Parkinson’s disease a few years later. She truly deserved better in all aspects of her life. My sister settled down and started a family with a lawyer she met when they both worked for the U.S. Justice Department. When they decided to have kids, they left D.C. and he took a university job and my sister became a consultant. They are now thinking about leaving the U.S. I hope they do.

I have traveled to over 23 countries so far, continuing my search for… SOMETHING. After living in Oman for a couple of years, I moved back to the U.S. and took a university job there myself, teaching English, but that feeling of dread returned, and I left again a year later.

Now I just feel like I am waiting. I wonder if I am still a part of anything. I can’t shake the feeling that something has gone wrong, or that I have done something wrong. I wonder what will happen next. All I know is that I have a very, very strong feeling that I am near the end. I wonder how it will end? It’s like that board game, “Clue.” Will it be me, in the desert, with a handgun? Hiding my body and killing it where no one will find it? Or will it be something else? Will it be THEM, with a bio-nuclear weapon, everywhere? Or will it be that SOMETHING… will it intervene?

Long ago, humans were created as a hybrid slave race. Our progenitors broke some sort of galactic law by creating a species like us. There was a war, and possession of this planet — and of us humans — changed hands. Whose hands took control? I don’t know. I know that their hold is tentative and contested, however, by entities and people on both sides of the veil. We are currently under some sort of quarantine, and any cross-cultural contact has to be done covertly, clandestine. A lot is at stake. We already know that some of the powers involved would have no problem wiping our entire species out. They’ve tried it before, but we were spared by the intervention of a more merciful “god.”

There is a hidden history. It goes back millions of years and may spread over two or more dimensions. Some of us were taken to the other side of the veil and are now far, far more advanced, but are still human. Then there is us, on this side of the veil, and we are a mess. We are not the dominant species on this planet, but we are allowed to think that we are. Those higher up at the top of the pyramid — the Elites — they know the truth, but they will never let the mehumes — mere humans — know it.

Deals are being made. Decisions. And something is going to happen soon. I wonder if I am still safe? I can’t even look at the news here anymore. I know this will make me sound like an ungrateful, terrible citizen to many, but I don’t give two tin shits about Republicans, Democrats, or America. That shadow-puppet political show holds no interest for me, really. It makes me mad, and that’s why I need to stay away from it. It causes me to generate negative energy.

We are very close to a very low, dark frequency, what the Judaeo-Christian religions call  “Hell.” And negative energy brings us closer to that frequency. So I need to avoid that negativity, which is hard to do. I need to try to create energy that raises my spirits, increases my frequency, points me toward those higher fields. This whole world now seems to be generating negative energy, pulling everyone down to Hell. I don’t want that for anyone, but try telling people any of this. Remember my friend who lived on the other side of the field? How angry he got? He did eventually disappear from my life. After college, we grew apart. No idea what he’s up to today. But most people are like that. They don’t want to be told anything other than what they already believe, and if you tell them something else — something that contradicts their system, they get angry. And more negativity is created. I need to stay out of it now. Looking back over some of the posts on this blog, I can see the effect of that negativity. No more politics for me. I need to focus on the bigger picture, the higher frequencies.

Believe me or not, this is a lot of what Yeshua (Jesus) and the original Bible taught. Of course, they can’t have that kind of information floating around, so they cut it up. The people that go around calling themselves “Christians” in the U.S. today disgust me as they are the farthest thing from, and they move farther away with each evangelical day of their hypocritical, hateful, ignorant, judgmental little lives. I have written somewhere in this blog before about how the Serpent of the Bible was originally the good guy — the good “God.” The “God” of the Old Testament was a slave driver. He wanted humans naked, subservient, and ignorant (much like the current powers want us). The Serpent tried to tell us how we could rise up and become like the “gods” ourselves, if we accessed knowledge that was forbidden to us. He was a liberator.

Look what these people and their subservient evangelical idiots are bringing this world to, how they are dragging us all down. We need to get away from all of that negativity.

SOMETHING is coming. And what it is depends on YOU.

In closing, I will just say that I still feel connected to it, whatever IT is. Sometimes, I still receive notes. I saw this the other day, and when reading it, it sounds like your typical religious dogma, but if you read it while thinking of these ideas of negative energy and frequencies, about our world being not far above “Hell” and in danger of our collective consciousness bringing us all down to that… give it a look. There is a science to it, to the power of the mind and the type of energy or frequency it creates and with which it interacts. I think this is what the Good Teachers like Yeshua and Buddha and Melchizedek had in mind for us mere humans.

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Who knows? Perhaps there IS a “Rapture” coming? But I GUARANTEE you this: It will not take the hateful, ignorant, judgemental, hypocritical right-wing “Christian” evangelicals in America who are always blathering on about it.

Those fuckers are damned.

 

 

1 thought on “Memories of My Father

  1. Pingback: Just a Reminder: I am full of Sh*t! | thecontemplativeape

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