Intersection of Midwich and Innsmouth (2).

Though I cannot say that I have ever personally seen an aura, it does appear to explain the “vibes” that I feel from people and what feels like a subtle energy around all our bodies. It feels like a radiation of some sort, like an energy or light which I am blind to but can “feel” in a way I can best describe as a sort of hybridization of the typical tactile and kinesthetic sensations.

Different people feel different and the same people don’t always feel the same, but they have unique patterns and perhaps even omnipresent individual and group “signatures” beneath it all. I think of it this way: sometimes you can feel someone staring at you from the back of the head, so you can feel foreign energy. Sometimes, however, you can feel precisely who and what is staring at the back of your head: your mother, your dog, an alien, perhaps. General, group, and individual patterns therefore seem to exist in the experience of energy.

You can feel people leaching energy from you, and you feel utterly drained for some time after escaping their presence. Others feel like a psychic furnace, an irradiating sun charging all those who surround them. I can feel the energy of others as it pulls back from my own or as our energies reach out and mingle, resonate and coalesce. Through that energy I feel emotions, more rarely thoughts and images, that I feel certain are not my own. While I feel energy around their bodies, it becomes incredibly more intense through eye contact, almost as if serving as direct interface to an individual’s working memory.

During high school, I could not help but feel that at least to some degree I could tell who were abductees. I even began making a list of people from school that I suspected were having encounters. Despite this inner sense of certainty, I didn’t know why, so tried to find some unlikely common element they all shared. Eventually it came down to the fact that their energy had (at varying intensities) the same characteristic “feel” of the aliens and they even carried some physical characteristics I associated with the creatures.

There was, for instance, Maddox. With his skinny, tall frame and his stringy, light brown hair stretching down passed his long, bony, almost reptile-looking face and intense eyes, yes, he could come across as intimidating. Maddox always seemed strange, but he was also a polite and reasonably-cheerful fellow.

It was during high school that he underwent his grim metamorphosis, one that seemed abrupt and dramatic to me, as if somebody had just suddenly flipped a switch inside of him. Whatever the trigger was, he seemed to transform mentally, emotionally, and even physically he seemed different somehow. He had shaved his head, gotten tattoos. He seemed dark, lost, cold and angry and had isolated himself from his former friends.

One day I remembered him sitting motionless in the art room, arms crossed, staring with remarkable intensity into oblivion as if it were his master. Through word of mouth during high school, there was the pieced-together story that he had taken a drug at some party, which I believe was LSD, and that his friends had turned on him rather than helped him out. There was no way for me to know, because I had never known the guy personally.

It was not until high school, I believe, that I learned that a girl I lusted after was in fact his long-term, on-and-off girlfriend. Her name was Hazel, and she was slender with beautiful, dark eyes and long, brown hair. She, too, had that feel about her. It had tended to steer me away from such people, but with her there was also the desire to plow into her, so-to-speak, for she was strange, beautiful, insatiable — and with me, that only resulted in additional anxiety. It took me forever to talk with her at all, and about every day in the school library I had the chance to talk with her alone, one on one. She always looked near the bookcase that held all the paranormal material — my section — but the tension was high and paralysis always set in.

Then one day I’d gone to the very back of the library, where the Occult section was, and I noticed her quietly walking back there as well. I found her looking at the books right around the Occult section. Damned if I can remember how, exactly, but I ended up talking with her.

Life is full of let-downs. She was not one of them. She was all that I had hoped she would be, which essentially comes down to intelligent, mysterious, dark and damned interesting. She told me she loved reading these books about serial killers — books that were located a few shelves down from my section on the paranormal. Somehow that made me all the more curious about her on multiple levels.

Eventually, I managed to bring up my relatively-recently acquired obsession with the paranormal and asked her if she had ever seen a ghost or anything of that nature. “I’ve seen aliens,” is how she responds, and I didn’t know if I wanted to run away screaming or bury myself in her then and there. While insisting they were actual events and describing them as real, she nonetheless referred to those childhood encounters she had as dreams.

This was the first time I’d ever met anyone else who claimed to have had experiences with them, and I was blown away. Not only was she dark, mysterious and beautiful, but she’d seen `them’.

I couldn’t cough up the courage to talk to her again, though, let alone go so far as to make a move on her. As the years went by, I’d occasionally receive updates on Hazel, as my mother worked with her mother for a time. Mom explained the lady as Hazel had explained her, namely as so incredibly Christian that it bordered on the psychotic. Hazel and Maddox had apparently run off together out of state for a time, but eventually returned and, the last I heard, had broken up.

Though I did not immediately see a connection with the alien-vibes I first sensed from some people in high school and the telepathic child with the Cheshire Cat grin I had encountered, it would begin to set in some four months after the telepathic toddler, on April 7th, 2002.

On my way to meet up with Channing, I had stopped to get gas and cigarettes. As soon as I walked inside the door I met with a pair of vivid blue, piercing eyes staring at me. The eyes belonged to the skinny, bald-headed guy leaning beside the register behind the counter. It was Maddox. I had seen him but once, in passing, since I had graduated high school half a decade back, but we had not spoken.

After a pause for processing, I said his name in a manner as cliché-sounding as anyone who’s bumped into a fellow ex-high school classmate nearly five years after graduation. In a poor attempt to be polite, he returned by confirming he remembered my name as well.

He only lightened up when I shifted into customer mode and asked for a carton of Marlboro Reds. My plan was to ask him about his girlfriend before exiting, but I opened up my wallet to find it empty. Apologizing, I asked him to wait a moment and went to the ATM a pace or two behind me, got money, turned around and he was gone. Some girl had taken his place, and he was nowhere to be seen.

The day following my encounter with Maddox, on April 8, I was back sitting in the same dining room I had seen that kid in, perhaps even the same booth. I was sitting across from Tess, just another girl I had failed to develop a relationship with. We had finally had one successful date — a double date with our coworker, Angela, and her boyfriend — but she had ended up going out with some other kid shortly thereafter. She wanted to exchange writing and comment on each other’s work, and this time instead of poetry I’d given her some writings on my strange experiences. I felt certain she hadn’t read them, and to be honest I really didn’t give a shit.

As her and I spoke, I found myself a bit distracted when this family of four came in. There was a curly-haired brunette lady who I presumed to be the mother; a tall, dark-haired man who’s face I never saw, and two kids. There was a younger one who had blond hair and blue eyes and looked rather frail-looking. His head was kind of big, too. The other was older with dark hair. The mother sat down in the booth behind my friend – booth number five – with the frail boy between her and the wall. Across from her and back-to-back with my friend was the tall man. Across from the blond haired kid and tall man sat the dark-haired boy.

It was the blond that first caught my attention. He was a cute little kid with bright blue eyes, but something about him made me uneasy. Though I was quick to attribute it to paranoia, for a few moments I watched him closely just to be sure. As I was scrutinizing, both kids stood up at one, leaned towards one another from across their table and placed themselves forehead to forehead, like playful bucks locked in a duel, staring dead into one another’s eyes. The mother lightly backhanded the blond kid and told them both to stop.

My attention slipped back to Tess, who was still talking. I had absolutely no fucking clue what the hell she had been saying, and even what she was saying at present seemed to be empty words lost in a jumble. I was getting really, really uncomfortable, and I had no idea why. It all seemed very odd. Somehow, something just didn’t feel right.

Then I looked back up over her shoulder. The dark-haired kid seemed to sense my eyes on him, and he suddenly turned around and looked dead at me and have me a Cheshire Cat grin. When I meet his eyes his pupils grow large, darker-than-dark, and it suddenly it feels as if I’m violently dragged forward and right into them. It’s like we’re in this foggy bubble where we’re only eyes and mind, and only him and I exist, and the rest of the world grows blurred and distorted. It was definitely visual — he looked magnified, abstract and surreal, and I could still see that Cheshire grin, wide and cartoon-like. It certainly wasn’t limited to image, though. It was as if our eye contact had merged us mentally, fused us. I felt as though I was in his mind, or that he was in mine, or that we now shared a mind.

I looked away. It took me a few seconds or so of staring at the table in front of me to realize just what the hell had happened. I knew I wasn’t sleeping, so I couldn’t be dreaming. I wasn’t on drugs. Tess was still talking, but when she looked up at me she did a double-take and then stopped dead in her tracks. I imagine the look on my face must have been about as fucked up as I was feeling. She studied me another moment before asking what was wrong.

Looking at her, staring deep into her eyes, I found that nothing happened. If this was in my head, I wondered, wouldn’t looking into her eyes do the same thing?I looked back at the kid, thinking this might have been something I’d imagined — half hoping, as a matter of fact, that it had truly been something that I’d imagined. Then it all happened again. He goes into my head, grinning again, almost as if he’s a fucking cartoon. If I focused at all, I feared I might be locked there forever; that I might be trapped there and the rest of reality might fade away.

He looks away. While I’m sitting there pale as a ghost and freaking out, he’s sitting there amused. It’s almost as if he thought it was funny that he could do this. He leaned over the table again and whispered to the blond haired kid. Then he turns back to me and does it again, grinning that wide and freaky Cheshire cat grin, eyes as big and black as universes.

For the next few weeks, I began to wonder if all abductees were to some degree alien in terms of psychology, and if the creatures were slowly genetically manipulating us throughout the generations. Maddox, Hazel and I were an earlier generation and these kids I was suddenly encountering we’re simply the most recent upgrade. Still, it terrified me to think their might be adults like them walking around with telepathic abilities just as potent. From the back kitchen, I would look out into the dining room and look at the people ordering at the counter, wondering if some of them may be alien minds in human bodies.

Any hope that I might be overreacting died on May 18th. I woke up late and was in the process of pouring myself a cup of coffee when the phone rang. As my father went to reach for it, I told him, “Tell them I know,” figuring it was work calling. I wasn’t late for work, but it’s rigid routine for me to go their four hours early every day and sit around, drink coffee, smoke cigarettes and write. When I’m not there at least three hours early, they usually call and wake me up.

In response, my father handed me the phone. It wasn’t work. It was Melanie, a friend who I had drifted from during high school, and who had spent the last several years desperately trying to rekindle a friendship with me. I’d accepted that we had changed. I’d flipped out during high school and began seeing little aliens and having out-of-body experiences — I knew I’d be too weird for her now, and I was significantly different than how I’d been when she knew me. I didn’t want to live in the past and try to be who I was, and she seemed to expect that of me, so I had kept my distance.

“Did you hear about Maddox and Hazel?”

“No. What?”

“They’re dead.”

It was the way she said it — with not a hint of apparent sorrow. She almost seemed happy to tell me the news. She said it in the same tone she used to use when she called those frigid winters during high school to announce to me we had a snow day.

My father dropped the newspaper down on the counter in front of me just at that moment, as if to confirm her words, and their yearbook photos stared back at me from the front page.

After they had both graduated, they ran away together out of state, only to return a year or two later. They broke up and, after he became obsessive, irrational and abusive, often stalking her, she moved out of state again to distance from him. Apparently she had begun dating someone else; a kid from high school. Maddox kept coming back to her, though, trying to get her to take him back, but she refused. Things had gotten so extreme she had been talking to people at the store where she worked about getting a restraining order against him.

When police arrived the first time that morning in response to a call, they knocked on the door, leaving shortly thereafter when no one answered. After they were gone, a neighbor from across the hall then saw Maddox leaving the apartment. He was covered in blood. When he saw her he lifted a finger to his lips, went “shhh,” and left.

When the police returned, they found her purse outside the door. Inside, they found a trail of blood leading from the living room to the bedroom and bathroom, where they found her body. Beaten with a pair of brass knuckles they found nearby. Stabbed with the chards of a broken mirror. They had enough evidence to bring Maddox in for questioning, but they never got the chance. A hiker found his body in a secluded area in a park nearby my parent’s house, where he had put the barrel of a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

I didn’t feel right going to either of their funerals, and scary things began to run through my head. It took me awhile to sit down and seriously consider the implications of it all.


Intersection of Midwich and Innsmouth (1).

When he approached my booth in the crowded dining room, it only took me a moment to remember him. We had met back when we had worked together at the other fast food place, a mere gas station away from this one. He had taken a look at my notebook and seemed to like what he read. Based on that he lent me his Slipknot CD, which he seemed to feel I would like.

He disappeared before I got the chance to return it. I had met him and last saw him back in 1999. It was now December 15, 2001.

I found that though he was a nice kid, he could come on really strong and it was really easy to trigger his anger. Inside he seemed so intense, so loud it drowned out any thoughts of his that might help him override the impulse. He became absorbed in his anger, it saturated him. Every verbal exchange with him felt like walking through a mine field.

Later I learned that he had spent some time in a mental institution. This had been on more than one occasion due to violence against himself and, if I remember correctly, others as well. I chose my words, my body language and even my tone of voice around him very carefully. In that vein I brought up the CD and told him I still had it, and I could bring it to work sometime if he wanted to swing by. Angry at first, when he realized I actually remembered and gave a damn he quickly cooled off. He told me to keep it.

He asked me if I was on break, but I confessed to him I hadn’t even started yet. I usually spent my free time sitting here, at a booth in the lobby, where I read, wrote, smoked my cigarettes and fed off the free refills of coffee.

As I looked at him across the table now, I couldn’t ignore how the side of his face would twitch every few seconds. He had not had that before. Cautiously, I asked him about it, only to learn that he had ended up in an institution again, where they had restrained him with shackles, as he described, and proceeded to subject him to electroshock therapy.

I was amazed to discover they still practiced electroshock therapy. At this point I would have thought we would have learned that its appropriate to jump cars, but you just keep the cables off the fucking people.

After a short discussion, he told me he had to go, explaining that he was here with some friend of his, some older guy with a small child, selling tickets for his band, or someone’s band. He asked if I was interested. I didn’t have much sincere interest, though instead of just telling him that I found myself lying to him in the attempts to be nice, giving him the false line about not having the money on me.

Though disappointed and clearly suspicious of my line, he accepted it. He returned shortly thereafter from his attempt to sell tickets, grim due to lack of sales, and we bid each other farewell. That, it seemed, was the end of that, so I went back down to writing in my notebook.

Not long after returning to my writing, however, I was jolted out of it by the sound of something hitting the far end of my booth. Startled and curious, I looked up to find a dome of blond hair poking out from just beyond the end of the table.

It was the upper hemisphere of a toddler’s head. One hand of his was grabbing a hold of the end of the table; in the other, he held his cup with the sippy-top. He was looking dead at me, and instead of meeting his eyes I just sort of laughed under my breath, turned my head back down, placed the pen to the page and continued my writing.

My eyes didn’t even reach my notebook before I heard it again. Looking back up, I immediately locked eyes with the kid and found myself imprisoned there. The gateways to my mind were being held hostage.

My peripheral vision was suddenly enshrouded in this dark, blurry overcast. While the eyes at the end of the tunnel shared the shadowy opaqueness, it was also possessed with a hyper-vivid quality. This sense of pressure built in my head, as if energy from his eyes were literally pushing into my mind, as if breaking and entering the mind and scanning and downloading personal files. A virtual form of search and seizure or, in this case, a telepathic analogue.

After a moment, he seemed satisfied and strangely amused, looking at me in a creepy way, as if he knew a “dark secret,” as I had later phrased it, that somehow connected him and I. The edges of his lips then curled slowly upward to an unnatural height, almost as if this surreal Cheshire Cat grin belonged somewhere in the twilight betwixt reality and cartoon.

Soon he walked away slowly with who I presume to be my ex-coworkers friend holding his hand, but my line of sight was still ensnared by his eyes. He held me in his ocular tractor beam until he was out of my line of sight, at which time I felt him release my mind from his psychic grip.

Sinking down into the booth, I was cold and trembling, heart pumping wildly beneath gooseflesh. My eyes felt a strange, widened sort of pain, and it felt as if I could still feel the residual feeling of him being inside my head. I tried to look intensely out into nowhere, to “stare” the feeling out of me as if I were trying to flush out the psychic lines or something.

It felt like mental rape, and as an added bonus, this experience was not at all foreign to me. The only difference in this case was that this was not some strange, presumably alien creature kidnapping me from my bedroom at night, but rather what by all outward appearances seemed like an ordinary human toddler in the dining room of the fast food joint where I worked.

Aside from a short poem I wrote in my notebook about it that day, I would not find the strength to reflect on it to the most minimal degree until the dream I had on the second of January.

In the dream, I was in this dark-lit restaurant I liked to hang out in, writing and watching people. I suddenly took notice of this waitress in the dining room, standing by the drink bar to the left of the counter. Though attractive, she seemed distant, even drugged, operating as if she were in some zombie-like, somnambulistic state. Instantly I recalled having seen her before, unable at first to recall from where but then realizing that I had met her while I was in the altered state of consciousness typical of an abduction episode. The altered state had endured, however, as her and I had sat down in a booth in this very restaurant and had spoken with one another on our experiences. It was there that she had given me a box, inside of which there were computer discs and what she described as pictures, which I had taken to be illustrations of her encounters.

Having finally remembered, I looked behind the counter, where I met eyes with a fat man. My sense was that he was of high authority, and I searched myself wondering if he played any role in the abduction. That, I believe, is when the fuzzy memory came to me.

In some hotel room, I am lying on the bed as an argument is going on between the girl, the fat man and I. Due to something said or done in that room, I was sure there was another girl involved, though not necessarily in a sexual way.

Sensing suspicion in his gaze, I casually looked away from the fat man, doing my best to seem calm and casual while trying to hide my face in a way that would appear incidental. The last thing I desired was for him to know that I was onto something, that I had gained awareness of my secret relations with this girl.

Upon leaving the restaurant and going home, I went to the downstairs computer, where I thought I had put the box that the girl had given me when we met up in the restaurant, shortly before the memories disappeared behind a wall of amnesia. The box was indeed there, seemingly confirming my memory. Inside the box were the discs as well as some tiny red folders or envelopes within which there were pictures, as she had mentioned. Rather than illustrations from her encounters, however, they were instead nudie pictures of her.

It bothered me that I had forgotten all about this, that I had not gotten back to her or so much as opened the box. There was also evidence that someone had opened the box and gone through it, and I feared that it had been my parents.

I left the family room in the back of the house, where the computer was, for the dining room, where I spoke with a man who seemed to be an authority in some way. Unlike the fat man, he was on my side, however. In some way I knew this man was me, despite the fact that I talked with him as if he was some separate entity standing by support beam in the dining room.

As we are talking, the fat man walks into the dining room from the direction of the living room, where I had been at the computer. Suddenly, I become frightened at the prospect of the fat man seeing me talking to my secret twin, but he is suddenly and simply not there anymore. Now my only hope was that the fat man would not recognize me as he passed through.

He did, and began to talk to me, specifically regarding some reference to a claim I had evidently made to him in the hotel room about being in the Army. As I put on my Army boots, I told him that it was rough for me. There were some things, top secret things, that I could not talk about, so I preferred keeping altogether silent about the matter.

Suddenly, the dream shifts scenes and I find myself in entirely different surroundings. I am uncertain as to whether this was a scene directly following the last or a memory within the dream akin to the one of the hotel room. Regardless, I am either in the back of a bus, a train car or van without windows, sitting in a seat typical of those vehicles. Directly behind me, in the very last seat, there was a girl sitting alone.

As we began talking, it occurred to me that there was already some secret bond between us, that there was more going on between us than I was aware of. She was aware of it, too, and she was keeping that secret from me. It suddenly struck me that this may very well be “the other girl involved” that had been spoken of in that hazy scene in the hotel room.

Regardless, I found her incredibly likable and fascinating, so was eager to comply when she suggested we exchange emails and requested mine directly. At the same time, however, the fact that she had an email surprised and confused me to no end, as if I felt she could not belong to the world in which that would be possible.

I found myself asking her if she was an abductee, to which she responded, “Not exactly.” Then I asked her if she was a hybrid, though I caught the same kind of ambiguity from her in response, I don’t believe she answered. Finally, I just openly asked her who or what she was. She explained that she wanted to tell me but she couldn’t, or that she was certain I would be incapable of understanding it.

It was at that moment that I finally let her entire face sink in. Even in retrospect, she seems so real. She wore a black winter’s hat over her blond hair, and she had very deep, sweet, blue eyes. They were also very sad, and I felt certain that they were sad for me.

After I awoke, the dream continued to fascinate me, and the themes it held that resonated with the encounter with the strange child in December made me wonder if it was merely a hallucinatory expression of the same underlying unconscious aspect. In the dream, the blond-haired girl’s request for us to exchange emails constituted a desire for communication, an indirect channel for keeping in touch, so perhaps this suggested a sub-personality in my unconscious wanted to engage in dialogue.

In the spirit of experiment, I utilized some techniques procured from Jung & the Alchemical Imagination by Jeffrey Raff, a book based on Jungian alchemy, in the attempts to conjure her in my mind and hold a dialogue with her under meditation on January 17th.

This only resulted in me falling asleep, but in the twilight between waking and sleeping I heard a distinct voice in my head. In retrospect, what bothered me about the voice was that it almost seemed like an external interception. It announced, “We’re going to have a problem here.”

When I awoke the next morning, I remembered having turned off my alarm clock three hours before and lying back down to think about something in particular, something I considered extremely important and which, of course, I could now no longer recall.

As my mind was not providing answers, I turned to rampant Internet searching, where I came upon “Indigo Eyes,” an article written by Mark Andrews that described a strange experience he had in the Spring of 1994. After an initial encounter with a blond-haired boy of roughly two years of age, the eyes of which delivered to him a “psychic jolt,” he encountered what seemed to be the same child on two subsequent occasions, each time accompanied by a different mother. The eyes of the child, or the children, he described as being almost cartoon-like, with an iris he described as looking like an indigo-colored pancake resting on a white paper plate.

From there, my internet searching brought me for the first time to the subject of what some had come to call the Indigo Children. There were, in fact, many such titles ascribed to children and adults regarded as somehow “special” or “strange” such as children of the blue ray, starseeds, wanderers, crystal and rainbow children. On the whole their descriptions seem to resonate with the Indigo, however.

The idea first came from Nancy Anne Tappe. She has the neurological condition known as synesthesia, in which sensory (and perhaps extrasensory) wires get crossed, leading to bizarre, consistent and highly individualized means of sensory experience. This can manifest in many different forms: hearing colors, seeing taste. In the case of Tappe, it manifested itself as an alleged capacity to see an “electromagnetic energy field” or aura around all living things in the form of a spectral field of colors.

For the most part, this field of colors is in a constant state of flux, changing in correspondence to an individual’s emotions, thoughts and physical health. The only exception was a single color in every individual aura that persists from womb to tomb, and it is this that she calls a person‘s “life color.” Early in life she noted that life colors appeared to be associated with similar personality characteristics.

All the details were condensed into her 1982 book, Understanding Your Life Through Color. In that book she recounts how she originally distinguished only eleven colors, but began to notice a new color in newborns in the late 1960s which she identified as indigo. Over time she came to identify four types of Indigo, which she refers to as Humanists, Artists, Conceptualists, and Catalysts, and believes that their joint purpose is to globalize humanity.

The concept of the indigo was fleshed out further and popularized by Jan Tober and Lee Carroll with the 1998 publication of their book, The Indigo Children: The New Kids Have Arrived. Their argument is that those who have worked with children have been noticing an increasing number of children displaying distinct psychological and behavioral patterns, and that these are the children who bear the indigo auras. In addition to having larger-than-average or intense eyes, they are often described as being telepathic, and new age circles regard the indigo color to be associated with the third eye chakra.

They are generally described as independent, sensitive, hyper-cognitive, weird kids with a strong sense of entitlement and purpose.

At roughly the time she met Nancy in the 1970s, Tober claims, she began having strange dreams where children would approach her, tell her who they were and why they were arriving. Upon awakening, she would find herself drawn to particular infants or toddlers with peculiar eyes and “old souls” — an experience that echoed my own too closely for comfort. Certainly the experience of Mark Andrews as well, who had been kind enough to answer my email. He reported that he was a schoolteacher, and while he had not bumped into that child again, he has noticed a change in younger generations in school.

Their resistance to strict, absolute authority systems and the use of fear- and guilt-based manipulation and discipline tends to cause issues with social adaptation, specifically with the school systems. This has led them to be diagnosed with disorders such as ADHD, ADD, OCD and treated with prescription pharmaceuticals that serve to wedge these square pegs into their assigned round holes.

Mainstream regards the “indigo” label as an irresponsible and dangerous new age belief propagating with the help of the Forer Effect — which is to say that the qualities allegedly characterizing the children are in fact so vague that they could with little effort be used to describe nearly anyone. Further, they assert that the Indigo label only serves to exacerbate mental disorders by placing quasi-religious value on them rather then having them properly diagnosed and treated. Many of the children in the school shootings and similar crimes were diagnosed and being treated with medication at the time of their given crime, however, and despite that they became front page news.

In her aforementioned book, Tober interviews Tappe, who first identified the children. “These young children — every one of them I’ve seen this far who kill their schoolmates or parents — have been Indigos,” Tappe explains. Others have gone further to note the correspondences between the characteristics of psychopaths and those attributed to the Indigo.

In a book published two years before The Indigo Children, and it is the 1997 publication of David Jacobs’ The Threat. There he transcribes the 1994 hypnosis session of Allison Reed (pages 246-250.) Along with fellow abductees, she was brought into a room where they were made to watch a “media presentation” on a large screen. It is a colorful, sunny, springtime scene that takes place in a park where numerous families are having picnics and the children are playing.

Though the aliens told her to try and distinguish the true humans from the “creations” of the aliens within the scene as a whole and then in individual families, but she finds it impossible. After this, the screen seems to pause and one by one certain individuals turn their head to look toward the screen and turn black and white. These are the alien’s creations. The scene them goes back to color and the scenery becomes alive again. “There’s only one way to tell,” her transcript records, “and that is that energy field around them but unless you can see it, you’ll never know.” The aliens also informed her that those that were capable of detecting the energy field and elected to cause problems would be dealt with.

What I found amidst some more searching on the internet was the film Village of the Damned, originally made in 1960, then remade in 1995 and based on the 1957 book The Midwich Cuckoos by John Wyndham. I had vaguely recalled hearing of the films, never the book, but the online descriptions gave me the chills. I eventually watched the movies and their sequels and bought the book.

In the story, the military is called in when it is discovered that the British village of Midwich, Winshire has evidently been enshrouded in an invisible dome some two miles in diameter. Any living being that breaches the dome’s parameter immediately becomes unconscious, though after being pulled back out again they appear to be fine. Even more curious: at the center of this massive half-bubble force field eye-in-the-sky military photos detected an unidentified silver object.

Come the following day, the object is gone, the dome is gone and save for a collective gap in memory, the village of Midwich seems back to normal.

Death comes to this illusion of normalcy some months later when the women of the village all find themselves pregnant with the “dayout” as the date of conception. Ultimately 30 girls and 31 boys are born from these women, all with pale skin, golden eyes, advanced telepathic capabilities and, to top it off, the same fucking birthday.

Other abnormal qualities of the children become clear as they grow, not least of which is the accelerated rate at which they do so. Perhaps the most peculiar, however, is their powerful telepathic abilities, which allow them to read the minds and even control the behavior of others. In addition, they seem to group up into two distinct telepathically-mediated “hive minds” — one for the boys, one for the girls.

The cuckoo reference in the book’s title is drawn from the tendency of the now-extinct bird to lay eggs in the nest of other bird species in hopes that the unwitting targeted foster mother will take them in as her own flesh and blood or in the very least adopt them. Adoption, as it turns out, was not the typical response for cuckoos of the Midwich variety. The military discovers that this had occurred in several other places, on each occasion with the children being killed at some point.

Apparently aware of the danger, the Children utilize their telepathic capabilities to make those who harm them kill themselves or one another, eventually requesting safe migration to an isolated area by the military. One man who had been teaching the children and gained their trust learned he had a fatal heart condition and killed himself along with the children like a faithful suicide bomber in the war against alien toddlers.

As I continued researching into the whole Indigo notion, I began getting an uneasy feeling. One of the very first fragments of memory to surface during high school had to do with the topic of auras, as I would later learn them to be called. It was also the very first recollection I had of a female and my seemingly alien Teacher, Nimi.

Leaning over the bunk of my loft bed, I looked out my bedroom window and communicated mind-to-mind with her on the other side of the glass. There she explained how there is an energy or light that exists around all forms of life in the universe. There was also some discussion about the significance of the colors in general, and though I do not remember specifics, I have vague recollections of seeing a rainbow, or some form of the visible light spectrum.

She went on to explain how her light was green while my light was a certain shade of blue. We had a discussion about my color and what seemed to be some confusion with respect to its classification. What that had been all about was a question that gnawed at me for years. Then I learned that though indigo was once accepted as part of the color spectrum, it has since fallen out of favor among many modern color scientists, who have dropped the “I” from the ROYGBIV mnemonic and now divide indigo between its neighbors, blue and violet. This may explain the classification problem.

A friend of mine with whom I meditated during high school was of the opinion that auras differed not just between people, but in the same person depending on his mental and emotional state at any given moment. He believed in no life color. Despite this, at least two times while under meditation and trying to see, in his mind’s eye, the colors of people’s auras, a friend of mine has described my aura as dark blue with streaks of red in it. A dark blue with a mix of red, it would seem, is a good description of the color indigo. On the second occasion he had evidently forgotten what he told me on the first, though repeated the same description.

Negative Automatic Thoughts.

The fact that I avoided emphasizing it in my mind in the beginning and yet it now continues to recur in consciousness has earned its right to be bound in text, so I turn my inner eye now to what my college campus psychologist had asked me: what was I thinking or seeing in my mind’s eye when the anxiety attacks occurred, or even the typical, omnipresent, generalized social anxiety?

Something is there, he insisted. Negative automatic thoughts, they are called, and I may not even be aware of them.

Every day it seems someone catches me off guard and I nearly have a coronary. I’m jumpy as all high hell. What might be going on on my subliminal automatic voice-over then?

I should listen for those dark, subliminal whispers.

Of Tulpas and Power Lines (II).

Others believe that certain forces feed off of energy sources in order to fuel their manifestations in the physical landscape. One popular idea embraced by those who feel the extraterrestrial hypothesis is antiquated is that these beings are inter-dimensional, extra-dimensional, psychoidal beings or, as John Keel called them, ultraterrestrials — all terms which seem to be more or less synonymous. 
In the eyes of John Keel, we are dealing with extra-dimensional intelligences he calls “ultra-terrestrials” which are capable of entering our realm of reality. They do this by means of drawing energy from various sources such as fires, plants, animals or human beings. In this sense, they constitute an advanced form of the poltergeist as described by Guy Playfair, who is quoted by Colin Wilson as having proposed that “when people get into conditions of tension, they exude a kind of energy. Along come a couple of spirits, and begin to kick it around, creating havoc.” 
By means of collecting and adjusting the frequency of that energy, they can ascend and descend along the electromagnetic spectrum, creating and manipulating matter into “Temporary Transmogrifications.” In other words, they can then shape-shift into any form that they please, be it apparitional or physical in degree of manifestation.
Others insist that the forces that draw energy from sources such as power lines and people to fuel PK are none other than our own unconscious minds, either alone or in collusion with the subliminal aspects of others. If the leading theory regarding poltergeists in the field of parapsychology is true, than they are instances of recurrent spontaneous psychokinesis (RSPK). They derive from a living focus individual’s psychokinetic capabilities, ones which are clearly operating unconsciously and autonomously. How much farther might the unconscious take the psi abilities at its disposal?
One suggestion might be found in the Tibetan concept the tulpa, also variously called an egregore, psi construct or thought-form. These are objects or entities created in the imagination of a group or lone individual either consciously or unconsciously, typically with the assistance of meditation and ritual. When the tulpa is an entity, it essentially becomes a manufactured poltergeist playing out a prescribed role. It is capable of communication and physical manifestations — all autonomously.
Interestingly, parapsychological experiments lend some support to this theory. Take Philip Aylesford, for instance, a child of the eight members of the Toronto Society for Psychical Research (TSPR). They invented the fictional character of Philip, as well as the story regarding his life and death, in order to see if they could will him to manifest. In September of 1972, the group began engaging in meditations and visualizations focused on him. 
They met with little success until British psychologist Kenneth J. Barcheldor suggested a more Spiritualist seance might produce the psychological conditions necessary for Philip to come out and play. It took a few weeks, but surely worked. Philip suddenly began communicating through knocks, made the lights flicker and would tilt, move, and even levitate the table. 
Though apparently unaware of anything beyond the bounds of knowledge imparted to him upon his creation, and so apparently the product of the psychic synergy of TSPR, he functioned autonomously. He was able to answer questions in knocks, dim or brighten the lights on request, make a cool breeze sweep across the table upon request and even move, tilt, and levitate the table.
Learning from their first experiment, the group refined their techniques and met success more swiftly on subsequent occasions, and still other groups began experimenting as well, yet none to my knowledge have taken on the qualities of a visible apparition.
If her account is true, then, perhaps it was the natural and disciplined psi abilities of Alexandra David-Neel that made her, a lone individual, capable of the feat she proclaimed to have accomplished along her path through Tibet. After some time, she was capable of conjuring up the friendly, big-bellied monk she had imagined as a hallucination on her visual field. Over time, the monk seemed as real to her as any person, but then things went horribly awry. Not only did he pop up when she had not summoned his presence, but he lost weight, his features changed, he began behaving outside the limits of its programming — and then one day someone asked her about the stranger meandering about her tent. She reports that it took half a year, but she was eventually able to abolish the creature through other Tibetan techniques. 
Again this suggests to me an energy sensitive and responsive to consciousness, and it would seem group belief structures entities such as Philip in the same means by which any information is ingrained in memory or behavior is learned: the rhythm and intensity of the exposure to the data or the execution of the behavior. They imagined him up, weaved a story around him, memorized it, conjured him up and he fulfilled their expectations — with poltergeist effects as well.
Could we also do this unconsciously? Jung once explained that everything repressed (or dissociated) is projected, thereby making an internal struggle an external one as a form of distancing. Perhaps increased dissociation leads to increased autonomy and solidifying distinction in the emergent personality of that dissociated portion of consciousness.
Given sufficient dissociation, a tulpa is born and begins to operate outside the boundaries of its programs. Once merely a spiritual form of artificial intelligence spawned by a collection of themes sharing a common emotional focus — an artificially-living metaphor; a collective psychological complex — it now becomes literal and operates in accordance with its own internally-generated meanings and purposes, no longer imprisoned within (yet by necessity, one would think, building off the legacy of) its original programming. 
Naturally, this might lead one to wonder what kind of effects a large group of individuals might be capable of producing. Are our surreal and living nightmares metaphors of our shared denied parts — mandalas in the sky, aliens in the bedroom, ghosts haunting our dreams? Do we share them because we, and through us the renegade thought-forms we unknowingly fuel, are symptoms of the culture into which we were born, in which we feel alienated, that we ache to change (if only we knew a fucking way) before it achieves its predictable point of self-destruction? 
Perhaps we create our monsters, our very own increasingly autonomous Frankensteins. Maybe we unconsciously collect our conscious amputations, assembling these severed corpse-parts in a collage of sorts, wrapped up in a metaphorical representation conveying their shared themes, which then become the increasingly literal embodiment of our denied thoughts, emotions and even memories. 
And then: it’s alive. 
As much Frankenstein’s Monster as Dr. Jekyll’s Other Side, Mr. Hyde, or even Banner’s big, green Hulk. All operate on the basis of polarity, duality, with the eye of yin in yang, the eye of yang in yin. You would have your Shadow, your Other, a Monster unique to you. 
To each their other. To each their alien.

Black-Eyed Rabbit in the Feedback.

If you could not feel the pain when grabbing a hold of a pot of boiling water off the stove with your bare hands, the damage to those hands would surely increase in severity. If you could not hear or sense vibration, you would be unable to tune your guitar. If you could not see or feel the wall you are walking towards, you’d be liable to walk right into it. If you had no reflective surface on hand, shaving, applying make-up and combing hair would increase in difficulty. 

We need feedback in order to adjust ourselves. Feedback is ultimately provided by someone or something that serves as a mirror. 
Self-awareness is a necessary prerequisite to self control, consciously-directed personal evolution, and educated choices. Only through feedback are we truly the whole of ourselves, and only through feedback are we free in any sense save freedom from ourselves and reality. The more aware we are of ourselves, the less apt we are to contaminate our perceptions with projections. 
So there is only gain in striving for greater self-knowledge, right? So long as one can separate the pile of shit from the peanuts of truth, it would seem to be so. 
What could constitute the noise with respect to the signal-to-noise ratio in my self-feedback, however? This is an important point to consider. Their allegation, the suggestion of my memories — these could be symbolic, metaphorical, allegorical, literal. They could also be inventions of my own, and by necessity ones that are effectively “unconscious” or “alien” to me, that feeble ego on the other side of the goddamned looking glass. They could also be inventions of some external force. Or they could be literal. 
How the fuck do I tell the difference? How can I learn to separate the signal from the noise? 
This could be a trap, this could be psychological suicide, this could be the path to greater understanding. Do I follow this rabbit or give it the finger? 

UFOs and Recycling Souls.

“Progress with the process. 
Mine the souls from their casts, 
pour form and reshape.”
— Mudvayne, “Mercy, Severity.”
First, a hypothesis once put forward by J. Allen Hynek:
“I hold it entirely possible that a technology exists which encompasses both the physical and the psychic, the material and the mental. There are stars that are millions of years older than the sun. There may be a civilization that is millions of years more advanced than man’s. We have gone from Kitty Hawk to the moon in some seventy years, but it’s possible that a million-year-old civilization may know something that we don’t … I hypothesize an ‘M&M’ technology encompassing the mental and material realms. The psychic realms, so mysterious to us today, may be an ordinary part of an advanced technology.”

Anecdotal accounts go on to suggest Hynekian M&M-Tech of this type also comes in a portable form typically resembling a small, black box, though its size tends to vary in accounts. The earliest reference may be one made by Major Jesse Marcel who spoke of the Roswell wreckage in an interview:

“One of the other fellows, Cavitt, I think, found a black, metallic-looking box several inches square. As there was no apparent way to open this, and since it didn’t appear to be an instrument package of any sort, we threw it in with the rest of the stuff. I don’t know what eventually happened to the box, but it went along with the rest of the material we eventually took to Fort Worth.”
The black box is found to be associated with OBEs in an experience recounted in Whitley Strieber’s book Transformation. After waking up around a half passed four in the morning in his infamous cabin, Strieber decided to try using some of Robert Monroe’s methods for achieving out-of-body experiences. 
He reports he met with apparent success. After seeing a strange image of a Gray’s hand pointing one of its four, long fingers towards a two-foot box resting on a gray-colored floor, he experienced what he described as a wave of sexual feeling, after which he found himself floating above his body as a “roughly spherical field”. He moved about in his non-physical state, passing through solid objects, and saw two curious things. The first was his cat, which was not with him in the cabin, but in New York City; the other was the face of a Gray being looking in from one of the windows.
Another OBE involves a box-like device that sounds strikingly similar to the one described in Strieber’s experience. While in her trailer, lying on the couch and reading in July of 1986, Betty Andreasson reported having heard a peculiar whirring sound and then found a Gray standing beside the couch. She reported that “the being had put a small box or something on the couch”, after which she found herself standing upright, looking at herself, laying down on the couch. She then moved towards the Gray, then moved towards herself, and was frightened to find that her hand went right through her body. 
This portable black box device evidently has bonus features as well, doubling as a containment unit for consciousness-transference as graphically exemplified in Karla Turner’s book “Masquerade of Angels.” There she details a narrative from Barbara Batholic’s hypnosis session with psychic Ted Rice during which he relived an experience he had when he was eight years old. 
He was brought to a room and placed against a metal plate that stood at the room’s center by two gray escorts, with a red-haired woman entering the room shortly thereafter. The grays stripped him down and the woman then fiddled with some pulsating buttons and switches, causing the plate to change colors. Judging from the monitors, the machine seemed to be scanning his body organs. 
The plate Teddy had his back against suddenly tilting back until it was horizontal; he was now lying on his back on a table. Lifting up his head, he saw the grays approach him. They put a headphone-like device on his ears that delivered painful noise and forced him to drink a glass of luminous green fluid which gave him excruciating body sensations, ultimately causing him to vomit. 
Suddenly he appeared to be outside of his body, observing it on the table from a few feet away. A formless cloud rose from his body, coalescing into an image of himself, attached by a tendril to the green vomit on his face.
“The woman went to the counter for a black, rectangular box, which she carried back over to the table where Teddy’s body lay,” Turner writes. “With a single motion, she turned his body over and placed the black box on the shoulder area. Wires were then attached to the box, and the woman somehow activated it. The little spirit image was slowly sucked into the box, which the woman then removed and replaced on the counter.”
Shortly after she surgically severed the head with a laser contraption, he blacked out. When he came to, he found himself in a large room with rows of short tubs containing chunks of meat floating in a dark red fluid. An opening on the side of one tubs pooped out a red sort of bubble and a gray retrieved it, washed it off in a nearby sink and they then faced him, presenting him with what appeared to be a human infant. 
The gray then placed the baby inside of a wall cabinet and closed the door as a fellow gray activated controls.  Within a few minutes a door opened and presented a naked duplicate of his mutilated body on a tray. After the grays brought the body to the table, the woman placed the black box on its chest. Though he could not see what was being done, he saw the body convulsing, then breathing. 
The box was now removed by the woman as the grays inserted needles in the back of the top of the head, the chest, and at the bottom of each foot. They put drops in his sandpaper eyes and placed the headphones back over his ears. 
Other stories involve such consciousness-transference, but without the portable box devices and without having to make a clone from scratch. In Taken, another book by Karla Turner, she describes a similar scenario as she recounts an abduction experience of a woman she calls “Pat”, who recalled being in a large, softly-lit room in the presence of a Gray and a human male. In the room she saw human forms within “sarcophagus-like boxes”, all of whom were covered in some sort of white mist, which sustained them in a state of hibernation. In one of these boxes she caught glimpse of a woman’s body, which she was convinced was her “other body,” as in a previous experience she had been told by the creatures that “they were making a ‘new me.'”
Not only Turner receives such cases, unfortunately. In Linda Moulton Howe’s abduction research, she also came across accounts of rooms with clear, cylindrical tubes containing bodies in a state of hibernation. During a 1978 abduction on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, Wanna Lawson was led into a room lined with 2-foot-wide, eight-foot high transparent tubes within which she saw human and alien bodies. While she does not know how it was done, her consciousness was transferred into a “tall, thin, dark-haired female” housed in one of the tubes.
Another case investigated by Howe deals with the 1963 abduction in Porterville, California of the then-17-year-old Linda Porter, who was taken by a Gray “scientist” to a room with three tall, clear tubes at the center each housing a swirling, purple gas as well as a hibernating body, apparently human. 
She was shown a dying man in his mid-forties lying in a clear, rectangular container. From his solar plexus rose a five-inch-wide, two-and-a-half foot long bright form. It had an inner core of glowing white, surrounded by an iridescent yellow and a final layer of pastel orange. It then floated to one of the bodies, an “empty” male body of perhaps 25 years of age which she took to be a clone of the dead man. 
The young body was now floating upright and outside of the tube, slumping a bit forward. The bright form:
“…then descended, entering the body at the top of the back of the head, all the way down to the area midway between the shoulder blades. It then merged into the body totally and settled in front of the spinal column in the area of the solar plexus. It then seemed to stretch itself out longer, a few inches up, a few inches down. The body at this point took on an ‘occupied’ look as if the person were merely asleep.”
The rectangular container holding the body, which was “now bluish in color and obviously dead”, then “filled up with a liquid to preserve the tissues until it could be dissected. The aliens wanted to find out how some kind of poison had entered the man’s body, how it had progressed through the bodily systems, and at what point the poison (contaminant) had reached a level that the body could no longer deal with the poison.”
Linda Porter also added, “After the dissection, I was told that the body would be discarded” explaining that “the aliens think our concept of funerals is barbarous. To them there is no difference between an empty beer can and an empty body.” This sounds incredibly similar to some alleged information Robert Lazar claimed to have comes across as he was working at the S-4 site within Area-51 reverse-engineering alien spacecraft. In the briefing papers, which included short overviews of other projects connected with his own, there was “a book that was almost like a history of the development of the human race” which “was written from a different point of view.” 
Here is where he said that whenever “the word ‘human’ came up, it was always replaced with the word ‘containers'” and that “they were talking about the preservation of the containers, and how unique they are” and how “very difficult to find.” The implication, of course, is that by “containers” they are referring to human bodies. 
Obviously the technological means of detaching the soul from the body, storing it, and re-attaching it to another body is not necessary; it would seem that we all reincarnate as a natural process. The “black box” technology only seems to be used on abductees; others, such as the man witnessed by Linda Porter, seem to have a disciplined ability to leave an old body and enter another body intentionally, rendering the box unnecessary. 
Technology in such cases is still apparently used in order to clone bodies, preserve bodies, and allow bodies to be accessed by consciousness, however. Linda Porter explained that a new body can be readily made and entered; this resonates with the experience of the young Ted Rice. 
When the aliens create these spare bodies and store them in reserve, however, they evidently require being placed in what she calls “activation containers”, which were the clear, cylindrical tubes that she saw in her experience. They have a light on the top, she adds, and the body must be bathed in this light for a certain amount of hours before it can be entered. 
In his book, The Threat, David Jacobs describes how during the four-and-a-half day abduction of Alison Reed she was taken by a hybrid to a room where she was to meet up with her escort, who had been with her throughout the experience. The room was “large, circular, and had a vaulted ceiling” from which a yellow light streamed to the center of the room into a round sphere of light. She “heard a humming sound” and “saw approximately forty tanks filled with liquid in a horseshoe arrangement”, with each of them tilted slightly back and situated “around the circular wall.” 
As she is standing there, the round, yellow light in the center of the room withdraws into the ceiling; then, seemingly at random, the tanks will tilt forward slightly so that they stand erect, at which time the liquid drains out of them with a sound she described as a “wissssshhh”. The beings then walk right through the glass tanks, walking right passed her, until her escort came up to her, surprised to see her there. When she pressed him what they were doing in the tanks, he only said, “Eating and sleeping.” 
Do they put on and take off bodies at will? Might each have perhaps a wardrobe of bodies?
According to Linda Porter, she was also allegedly told by the aliens that “part of the reason they take tissue samples from abductees when they are quite young is to have this tissue in reserve in case a new body becomes necessary later on” and that the specific man she saw ‘resurrected’ in the clone “would be relocated elsewhere (maybe Australia) and would continue on with his life.”
Sometimes the transfer from one body to another is evidently not as swift as was the case with Ted Rice and the maybe-Autrailian. Take for instance Karla Turner’s book, Into the Fringe, in which she writes about hypnotist and abductee Barbara Batholic’s talk with Sandy, a family friend of the Turner’s. Sandy explained a recurring nightmare that first began when she was very young and had had a potentially lethal illness. As Turner describes it: 
“Sandy is standing very close to a dull gray surface, her face only inches away. The gray thing is an enormous sphere, so huge that in comparison Sandy is only a tiny dot. Something is drawing her into the sphere, but she is fighting against the urge, for she knows that if she ever enters the sphere, she will ‘never come back.'”  
Turner described watching Barbara’s eyes grow larger as she heard Sandy describe it, and then heard as Barbara confessed to seeing the same sphere when she was around five years of age. In private, when pressed by Turner, Barbara dispelled details she had not wanted to express to the already-overwhelmed Sandy. “When I was taken to the sphere,” she said, “I was told that it was ‘a repository for souls,’ where human souls are somehow recycled. If that’s the same thing Sandy saw, I guess she wouldn’t have come out of that sphere alive.”
If true, these stories seem to indicate that the aliens have the capability to guide, though technology, a reincarnation process. 
They can separate consciousness from the body with invisible energy beams and mysterious black boxes. With those black boxes, they can also store that consciousness. With the sphere we merely find the logical extension of the black box device in this respect: not a mere portable container for consciousness, but a “repository of souls.” With the black box one can also enforce consciousness transference into another body. In any case, one can also evidently preserve back-up bodies in case of death — in any case, the new body is typically a same-age clone of the first.
In any case, this would appear to echo what Strieber was allegedly once told by one of the grays, namely: “We recycle souls”.

Rise of Spine.

Life is a classroom. 
Experience, the best teacher. 
You take a class over
and over till you pass.
How many more tests 
of endurance? 
How much more of this 
testing my patience? 
I’ve been a good, quiet little
motherfucker on the sidelines  
and its high time 
I be a vertebrate about it, 
put the foot down, 
stand tall, grow balls, 
man up and do the best I can,
proving myself to me 
and myself alone, 
fearlessly moving on, 
grow how I grow, 
to do what I need, 
to do what’s right for me.

UFOs and OBEs.

After speaking with my mother on the early morning of September 29, 2001, I learned that she was taking one of our horses to the vet due to its peculiar swollen eye and later, in the evening, her and my two sisters were going to see Sylvia Brown. Just as she was about to leave around ten, I finally went up to my bedroom and crashed.
As I rested on my bed, the familiar paralysis crept up on me, the volume knob on my senses seemed to turn down to zero, and I felt my subtle body drifting from the confines of my skin and sinking down into the otherworldly black void. Struggling to reattach to my body, I focused on a “whirring” noise I could hear as if from underwater, using it as the auditory equivalent as a rope by means of which I could pull myself back together, quite literally as it seemed. Once I met with success, I lifted my head, looked around, listened and discovered that the whirring had been coming from my computer, which I had left on in the midst of writing an article. I then went to sleep. 
Around quarter to eight that evening is when I next awoke. I found that my computer was reading an error on the screen and my keyboard wasn’t responding. I rebooted it but had to unplug the keyboard and plug it back in to get it working again. 
Heading downstairs, the quiet house suggested my mother and sisters were still out. I found my father asleep on the sofa chair, out cold, a strange movie on television. When he woke up as I came down the steps, I asked him if for any reason him or my mother had come in my room and fiddled with my computer as I was sleeping. It was a dumb question, and it didn’t surprise me when he told me they had not. The electricity had clearly not gone off, either.
Pouring myself a mug of coffee, I then put on my shoes in the mud room to go outside for a cigarette. As I began to open the front door of the house, I saw the red globe of light shimmering as it hovered just slightly above the front lawn and began to silently rise. Shaking myself free of shock, I aggressively yelled for my father, urging him to book it the short distance to the door. 
The globe rose, crossed the driveway onto the other side of the yard and then ascended above the power lines and trees to the far right side of the property close to the horse barn. As my father arrived at the door frame, it had dimmed and was ducking behind some trees before it seemed to shrink or move out into the distance, glow turning an opaque milky red that then dissipated until it was entirely gone. He seemed perplexed by it, at first wondering aloud if it had been a flare, then asking if I wanted to check it out. 
We hopped in his truck and drove to a nearby dirt road where it seemed to have been headed, but I was not even looking towards the sky. I knew it was gone. Soon we turned back around, and on the way back he tells me how strange it was that I had stepped out the front door at just the right moment to see it. He adds that it reminded him of the fireball my mother had talked about seeing in the sky while she was on the highway a few years back. 
My mind was elsewhere. The important part of the red light sighting for me was that it established a connection I had for long suspected but had never had any real reason to believe: that the alien stuff was somehow related to the OBE stuff. 
The creatures have been seen traveling up and down a steady beam of light and often use it to retrieve and return abductees as well. In other cases these beams are felt or implied yet remain entirely invisible and yet seem capable of doing the same thing. There are also cases in which these directed energy beams seem to have either the immediate or delayed effect of producing out of body sensations or full-blown experiences.
In his book Journeys Out of the Body, Monroe writes about the experience that seemed to constitute the dawn of his out-of-body experiences, which took place in the Spring of 1958:
“… it was a Sunday afternoon and the family had gone to church. I lay down on the couch in the living room for a short nap while the house was quiet. I had just become prone (head to the north, if that had any meaning), when a beam or ray seemed to come out of the sky to the north at about a 30° angle from the horizon. It was like being struck by a warm light. Only this was daylight and no beam was visible, if there truly was one. I thought it was sunlight at first, although this was impossible on the north side of the house. The effect when the beam struck my entire body was to cause it to shake violently or ‘vibrate.’ I was utterly powerless to move. It was as if I were being held in a vise. Shocked and frightened, I forced myself to move. It was like pushing against invisible bonds. As I slowly sat upright on the couch, the shaking and vibration slowly faded away and I was able to move freely. I stood up and walked around. There had been no loss of consciousness that I was aware of, and the clock showed that only a few seconds had elapsed since I had stretched out on the couch. I had not closed my eyes, and had seen the room and heard outdoor noises during the entire episode. I looked out the window, especially to the north, although why and what I expected to see, I don’t know. Everything looked normal and serene. I went outside for a walk to puzzle over this strange thing that had happened.”
This is precisely how I felt proceeding the first, intense cluster of OBEs that began in May, 1995. After the first experience, my mother called for dinner and I ate and took a long walk through our woods and the properties they bled into, and I had a state of mind crystal clear — akin to how I have heard some describe the feeling of watching a sunrise the morning after an acid trip. 
His experience of open-eyed paralysis is a common-enough feature in abduction accounts, though one could counter it is also a common characteristic of sleep paralysis. Regardless, Monroe’s episodes of paralysis continued, and eventually his initial fear gave way to curiosity. In time, he found himself disconnected from his physical body and capable of meandering about without the skin, and from then on he began to explore the experience far and wide. Then, some two years later, in his notes for the evening of September 9, 1960, he writes: 
“I was lying in a north-south position, when I suddenly felt bathed in and transfixed by a very powerful beam that seemed to come from the north, about 30° above the horizon. I was completely powerless, with no will of my own, and I felt as if I were in the presence of a very strong force — in personal contact with it. It had intelligence of a form beyond my comprehension, and it came directly (down the beam?) into my head, and seemed to be searching every memory in my mind. I was truly frightened because I was powerless to do anything about this intrusion. This intelligence force entered my head just above the forehead, and offered no calming thoughts or words. It didn’t seem to be aware of any of my feelings or emotions. It was looking impersonally, hurriedly, and definitely for something specific in my mind. After a while (perhaps only moments) it left, and I ‘reintegrated,’ arose, shaken, and went outside for some fresh air.”
On the sixteenth, and again on the thirtieth, he had an encounter with the light, on each occasion sounding more certain that this “intelligence” was of an extraterrestrial nature. 
He is not alone in being subjected to mysterious and invisible beams of energy that lead to OBES, either. As written in both his book Confirmation (page 120-121) and in The Communion Letters (page 134), edited by himself and his wife, Anne, Whitley Strieber recounts an experience of a man who had been beside his wife in bed when a strange sound came to their attention:
“We had heard a low humming sound. A quick glance at the clock told us it was 2:30 a.m. The humming soon changed to a deep, fast throbbing. It didn’t sound like a plane, or a truck, or a car. It got louder and stopped right over the roof of the house, directly above our bedroom. … Something invisible grabbed me by the chest and started pulling with amazing force. I felt like my soul, not my body, was being pulled up vertically towards the loud throbbing noise, and although I thought it would be futile, I screamed for Sally to lie on top of me. When she did this, the sensation of pulling eased a little.”
The man went on: 
“I was screaming and struggling against an invisible ‘beam,’ with my wife lying on top of me in my bed at 2:30 a.m. It might have seemed funny later if it hadn’t gone on for another two hours. Throughout the night the children, who slept directly across the hall from us, never woke up. ‘They’ pulled, I resisted. Sally hung on as the engine throbbed, until finally it went away. Exhausted and badly shaken, we fell asleep.”
On the eve of January 11, 1967, on his father’s farm in Aveyron Basses Pyrenees, France, a man was chasing a glowing orb with his car when the engine and lights died at once and a saucer descended from the sky, atop it two glasslike domes, each containing a helmeted humanoids in coveralls. After he experienced a brief state of bodily paralysis coupled with a sensation of heat, the object whistled, did some areal acrobatics, glowed white-yellow and zipped away. Power was restored to the car lights and he was able to start it back up. 
After about a week, he began experiencing bouts of extreme exhaustion that would plague him for roughly two months, causing him to sleep, in some instances, twenty hours out of the day. In his book Dimensions (page 163), Jacques Vallee writes that: 
“Something else happened to him in connection with his sleeping pattern: in the early morning hours, between 4:00 and 5:00 AM. It seemed to him that he was ‘floating off.’ His mind would be alert, although his body was paralyzed, and he would feel his consciousness leaving his body.” 
During the clear night of October 18, 1973, a four-man team in an Army Reserve Helicopter traveling from Columbus to Cleveland, Ohio, noticed a red light in the distance. It then sped towards them on an apparent collision course. Captain Lawrence J. Coyne, the pilot, sent the helicopter into a dive as they lost all radio contact with Mansfield Control Tower. 
Meanwhile, the red light continued speeding towards them. Just as collision seemed certain, the light suddenly halted, lingering just above and in front of them. It now appeared to be a gray, metallic, cigar-shaped object with a red light at its nose and a white light at its tail. A “pyramid-shaped” green spotlight-like beam radiated out from the bottom and ultimately flooded the cockpit. Seconds later, the object swiftly darted away. 
Aside from the four men in the copter, there were also two groups of witnesses on the ground.
In the wake of the encounter, the witnesses who had been on board the helicopter allegedly received some interesting phone calls. Coyne claimed that he was contacted by someone from the “Department of the Army, Surgeon General’s Office” who identified himself as an individual in the field of metaphysics, though Coyne was unable to remember his name or rank. 
He asked of any strange dreams since the encounter. As Jennie Zeidman shows us in her book, A Helicopter-UFO Encounter Over Ohio, three days after the incident Coyne did, in fact, have an unusual dream:
“I was sleeping peacefully, and I got up and walked into the hallway and stopped, and I turned around and I saw myself lying in bed; I was laying on my side, sleeping. It was like looking into a mirror, you know? I dreamed that I was conscious but that my body was sleeping.  I got up — I dreamed I was getting up — and I started walking, and I turned around — and I was scared — I saw something laying in bed, and it was me [laughs uneasily] and I got so scared that I lay back down again and I said, ‘I better do this again.’ You know, am I seeing something?  Am I hallucinating? And I laid back down and then I woke up. When I lay back down it was like sinking into something.”     
He also reported another strange dream, roughly two days after the first, in which he heard a “very clear” and 
“… a very strong voice, a voice you have respect for, very sure. It said, ‘The answer is in the circle.’ And I was holding a clear sphere in my hand, a round sphere. A bluish-white sphere.”  
Healey, a passenger of the copter that evening, also reported strange phone calls, but in his case the source identified itself as the Pentagon. He claimed that:
“… as time would go by, the Pentagon would call us up and ask us, well, has this incident happened to you since the occurrence? And in two of the instances that I recall that they questioned me, was, number one, have I ever dreamed of body separation, and I have — I dreamed that I was dead in bed and that my spirit or whatever was floating, looking down at me lying dead in bed, and the only thing that upset me was I was wondering what would happen to my two boys, but other than that I had no qualms about it — and the other thing was if I had ever dreamed of anything spherical in shape. Which definitely had not occurred to me.”
In the six years I had been having the OBEs never had I observed an alien in the context of that otherworldly environment. Now I wondered if perhaps the OBEs might be an unintended side effect of the paralysis they subjected me to prior to an abduction. The frequencies I heard, sometimes with that AM squealing as they went up, and the corresponding sensation of a nonphysical, subtle body vibrating.
This side effect may be an out-of-body actuality or an internally-generated experience. I awaken after perhaps the briefest sleep into acute awareness in a blackened void of a brain. I often find myself concentrating quite comfortably, however unwaveringly, on some central point. Then all of a sudden I’m released. I’m “out.” It is a movement within and downward. First I enter a void and then, in most cases, some parallel world, so it seems to me.
Or perhaps this beam immobilizes my body and deprives it of sense data. Consciousness remains awake, with the unconscious compensating for the lack of sense data from data procured from memory, perhaps pulled straight from its ever-clever subliminal ass. It is basically a lucid dream you are forced into and temporarily imprisoned within. 
In either case, or perhaps somehow both, for the creatures it may serve as nothing more than a convenient diversion. It serves to keep me occupied as they do whatever to my body. 
Naturally the other possibility is that I am being tested or trained in some covert manner by means of a telepathic lucid dream scenario. Or my reactions and adaptations to this spontaneous experience are studied, perhaps. I’m just some fucking rat in a maze.

Amp Up.

What a shell, 
such an armored disguise, 
but I found ya, I got ya, 
I’ll break you open
like Pandora’s piñata 
and bathe in a shower 
of your bittersweet insides. 

Fingers touching, disturbing 
the reflection on the water’s skin, 
too terrified to dive right in. 
Maybe I’ll just fish around, 
amp up for the almighty plunge.
Examine my own need 
to be here, postponing 
what must be faced and integrated. 
Will it leave me high and dry, can I 
safely swallow the flood?

Now, look in my eyes. 

Fucking look in my eyes. 
See through to me. See the truth.
Only you could understand me. 

Sweet Vermillion.

Need to hold you down,
tie you down, 
drive deep into the divide,
claws etching 
cryptic cat-scratch on my back 
in warm, rich, 
sweet vermillion, 
ever-deeper to the ascending 
tempo building 
up to frenzied convulsion, 
saturation in animal madness, 
skinned to bare-bone instinct, 
charged by the urge 
to be one in the flow.