Roswell mystery continues. Reports of crescent-shaped crafts were reported.


Persistence is one word that best describes the previous books by UFO investigators Thomas J. Carey and Donald R. Schmitt, authors of WITNESS TO ROSWELL and INSIDE THE REAL AREA 51. Persistence is also a watchword in their book THE CHILDREN OF ROSWELL.

“We now know that the American government stooped to the lowest level of humanity by going so far as to issue death threats to child witnesses. This should inform the reader of two things; there was a big secret to be kept…and the secret keepers were willing to go to any lengths to keep it.”

Ben Hensey, Sci-Fi Fact or Fakes, Paranormal Files, foreword.

America was besieged by reports of strange crescent-shaped objects, particularly in the West, and especially around the 509th Atomic Bomb Wing of Roswell, Mexico in the summer of 1947. a head of Counter Intelligence Corps was sent (and later denied what he found). The Army base closed-down for one week under high security, and any visitors refused. A major sense of hidden panic prevailed Roswell overall.


THE CHILDREN OF ROSWELL: A Seven-Decade Legacy of Fear, Intimation, and Cover-ups, Thomas J, Carey and Donald R. Schmitt, The Career Press, Inc., 12 Parish Drive, Wayne, New Jersey 07470,, 2016, 255 pages, $16.99.

Conventionally downed balloons were discovered and often recovered on Mack Brazel’s tour on the ranch he worked, such as the Mogul balloon train found on June 14, 1947, described as “rubber strips, tin foil, a rather tough paper and sticks.” What foreman W.W Mack Brazel discovered on J.B. Foster’s ranch on July 3, 1947 was “quite different.”

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Image of Haunted Children Desert outside of Roswell where crash occurred.

The military arrived in short-order and discovered remains of a crashed vehicle that also had dispersed debris for almost a mile from a mid-air explosion into a “fan-shaped” pattern.

Intelligence officer, Jesse Marcel, did a hasty “stop-off” at his home to show his wife and son the strange parts of debris. Following, also came a discovered object 40-miles to the North: the remains of a small ship with additional bodies.


All areas were cordoned off, road-blocks, and a severe security-blanket began to cover the Roswell area, all farms, all media, the Air Base was shut down for all purposes for one week, and a drastic and penetrating search for any and all artifacts of the crash that citizens may have taken.

The crash 40-miles north of Roswell needed more equipment, such as a flatbed, and it was declared a matter of clandestinely deep National Security. It included engineers and ambulance trucks. It was a strategic project.

Mechanical engineers examined some of the wreckage back at Hanger P-3, even pounded the material with a 16-pound sledge hammer with no effect.

A scapegoat event was created at Fort Worth were, along with “neoprene rubber, wooden sticks, blank masking tape, string, and one-sided reflective foil,” while the real material was sent to Ohio. “The FBI’s Dallas office confirmed that.” (p. 37) All tell-tale equipment had been ‘cleared out’ by dawn and the “weather balloon” headline had raced across the media.


The White House had become a war room connected with the Departments of the Army Air Force chief, the Secretary of War, the head of the Armed Forces Special Weapons Project, the Chair of the Joint Chiefs, as well as the President.

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Roswell mystery continues. Reports of crescent-shaped crafts were reported.

Mack Brazel began “retractions” of the incident on July 9th. The military was the easiest to censor as it was a dictatorship, but non-military citizens had Constitutional Rights. Fool-proof evidence as “hardware” had to also be “dealt with and no time to loose”: intimation of public citizens also began as the military conducted cover-up operations and collect the “near-indestructible, paper thin material that has perfect memory.”


The Army’s new policy was to dismiss all flying disk sightings or UFOs: a full-scale ‘scourged-earth policy’ ensued.

On September 23, 1947, Lieutenant General Nathan F. Twining signed a secret memorandum through the Pentagon to Brigadier General George Schulgen of the Air Intelligence requiring the Division to consider “the phenomenon was real.”

Their investigative “web” (later called the Military-Industrial-Complex) included many sources such as Air Force T-2, Bureau of Standards, General Electric, Rand Corporation, Hughes Air Craft and the Battelle National Laboratories.

Since 1947, agents of governments were often monsters that hid in closets to guard truisms that they wanted to control.


Witnesses Mac Brazel and Timothy “Dee” Proctor were also threatened that if they told what they saw that Dee Proctor would never see his family again. Personnel of radio station KGFL, Walt Whitmore, Jr., Jud Roberts, Frank Joyce likewise received threats that would eventually generate their silence.

Joseph Montoya, Lieutenant Governor of New Mexico, was called to Hanger P-3, and incidentally saw the “little bodies with big heads.” In a panic, Pete and Ruben Anaya came and got Montoya. Because he could speak Spanish, Sheriff Wilcox delivered the “death threat” to Montoya. Wilcox never ran for the office of Sheriff again (p. 64).

Author Antony Bragalia interviewed the daughter of Hunter G. Penn who had taken “a deadly serious assignment back in the summer of 1947” to “help manage civilian-military affairs after the crash…(an) information black-out.” Penn told his foster daughter, Michelle Penn, that he was authorized to use physical force and weapons to obtain their silence. “He tried to ‘heart-attack’ people,” Michelle said.

Barbara Duggar, George and Inez Wilcox, Phyllis McGuire, all had been threatened for their direct observations or some knowledge of the 1947 crash.


Frankie Dwyer Rowe was a 12-year-old daughter of a crew chief of the Roswell Fire Department and had witnessed Robert Scrogging unveiling a mysterious piece of foil that couldn’t be destroyed and “flowed like water.” When the military learned what she had witnessed they came to visit her with such people as Arthur Philbin of the 390th Air Service Squadron (ASS) threatening her: “If you say anything, not only will you be killed, but we will come back for your family. There’s big desert out there, no one will ever find you.”

Roswell Fire Station crewmen, Dan Dwyer and Lee Reeves, arrived earlier at a crash site to observe “an egg-shaped vessel of some sort,” small bodies and one still living.

The full-weight and consequence of the ‘family’ of UFO witnesses, both Dan Dwyer and Ken Letcher, had married into Roswell paranoia, especially when “telephone wire-tapping” was discovered in 1997 (pp. 91-95).


Captain Oliver W. “Pappy” Henderson and Dr. John Kromschroeder had knowledge of the transport of the fragments and bodies. Not surprisingly, “someone from Washington” came to retrieve the material “Pappy” had and reminded him of his security oath.

Guarding his involvement with the crash and Hanger P-3, Provost Marshal at RAAF Major Edwin Easley kept his promise to President Truman in 1947 that he would “never to speak about the incident again.”


Major Edgar R. Skelly ordered a special crew a road a Silverplate B-29 Bomber Straight Flush to fly a crate containing alien bodies to Forth Worth on July 9, 1947. He headed a nine-man crew to escort a heavily-guarded crate loaded at Bomb Pit Number 1. They were told “to keep their mouths shut throughout their assignment.” This Skelly did, despite researcher prodding, until his death in 2002.

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Captain Ruppelt conference of Roswell evidence is reviewed.

Both, Jesse Marcel, Sr., his son Jesse Marcel, Jr., who witnessed the original crashed parts, were harassed by mysterious phone calls and threats until the day of their deaths. Senior Jesse Marcel believed he was under a death threat and had a meeting with a mysterious “Dick D’Amato” which certainly didn’t lesson that belief. D’Amato said the truth was buried deep under Black budgets and witnesses that were heavily watched.

The RAAF base hospital administrative executive secretary was a Miriam ‘Andrea’ Bush who allegedly had observed alien bodies on July 9, 1947. It was an event that deeply haunted her until her bizarre death in December 1989 in a Fremont, California motel.


One of the biggest threats to the military was the plights of “souvenir collectors” of the crash. Other nearly lost accounts of witnesses were in fear of coming forward. Sydney “Jack” Wright, Dan Richards, Trinidad Chavez, Ralph A. Multer, Charles Austin Wood, Frank Vega, James Wood, Sally Tadolini, Randy Lovelace, June Crain, Walter Haut, Tom Brookshier, were among these.

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Haunted Children Desert is where UFO debris was found.

“To a journalist, it’s always about what happened and why,” said broadcast journalist Cheryll Jones. “This book underscores the bigger issue that the UFO/ET phenomenon is truly a significant part of a bigger picture of lies, deception, and deceit prevalent in our world today. People brave enough to challenge that are a vital part of the journalist’s quest for answers in trying to figure that out. This takes us a big step further in that direction.” (p. 21)

Written By: Stephen Erdmann

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Stephen Erdmann is a writer and social media advocate for freedom of speech and values.

Human viruses are becoming better known. Here, Stephen Erdmann delivers his review from his research of David Icke, who is a most controversial writer.


When the coronavirus revealed itself in early 2020, who would have thought that none other than the world-famous New Age connoisseur and provocateur, David Icke, would also expose a worldwide, major Virus in his book PHANTOM SELF where he also talks about a deadly virus that is much more insidious, vicious and widespread: The Human Virus—-Human Beings.

(PHANTOM SELF, David Icke, David Icke Books, LTD, 185 a High Street, Ryde, Isle of Wight P0332pn, UK, [email protected] UK, 2016, 458 pages, $10.28 -Kindle, $22.00 – Paperback – Barnes and Noble.)


Icke’s works are usually very exhaustingly detailed voluminously and part of a vast library of his books going back to the 1980s. Partly based on his realization of facts and on-going reality, his books do this in stages over a period of time But Icke has never withheld his discoveries about what is occurring, speaking about it in book after book: he was quite convinced that mankind has been deliberately blinded by what the Christian Gnostics of the Nag Hammadi (the Essenes) Dead Sea Scrolls called the Demiurge – a self-aware Virus – the Archons – which are as large as the totality of mankind. A lifetime of personal experience, says Icke, confirms this.

The ‘Virus’ that Icke has persisted in explain and exposing as a “Lie” which does not want to be discovered, referred to as The System, The Program, The Matrix, The Hoax, but also as “The Virus,” “so total and all-encompassing that the Lie is perceived as universal truth…the collective human mind has been hijacked, manipulated and structured to download the Lie.” (pp. 6-12)


Morpheus exemplified Icke in the movie THE MATRIX when Morpheus said: “ These people are not ready to be unplugged…so involved, so hopelessly dependent on the system, that they will fight to protest it.” We are all suffering from the Stockholm Syndrome, says Icke, and defend our capturers: lawyers, bankers, politicians, Royals, academics—-all are in the grasp of an illusory “Mainstream Everything.”

Icke tells his readers that in order to deal with the underlying reality of quantum, geometric and mathematical “sequences” of waveforms and electrical “information” that has been put into a holographic computer simulation (an energetic sea of information), we must revolutionize our thinking.

Philosopher and mystic Allan Watts said: “The whole genetic and body structure is involved in the reality– decoding process and this includes the receiver-transmitter system known as DNA ( deoxyribonucleic acid) and the central nervous system.”

Scientists, says Icke, elude to our DNA as our waveforms and its electromagnetic-energetic state—-its “information fields.” In the words of Anita Moorjani “the greatest truths…lie deep within us, in the magnificence of our heart, mind and soul.”


Icke has many ways of expressing and detailing exactly who the Archons are—-ranging from “an energetic distortion,” “a self-aware ‘computer virus,’” “psychopathic Soulless Ones,” that have no contact with the Heaven No. 1, the Infinite Awareness. The Archons , he says, are our “Phantom Self,” a construct of fear, psychopathic “empathetic-deleted” Law of the Wild as operations of The Program as if we were animals and insects fighting their own species over food and territory.

The face of the Demiurge Virus has grown through the language of “symbols” and the challenging history behind them—the influence they have on our lives.

The planet Saturn has had a particularly critical influence. At one time Saturn dominated the night sky and was called Helios (Greek) and Utc (Sumerian). Many planetary objects such as Mars, Venus, Jupiter were worshipped as gods, and there existed legends of a Biblical type Great Flood involving legends of Atlantis, MU, and Lemuria. Saturn became a vehicle for the Demiurge Virus and the Fake Reality: Satan, The Dark Sun, Black Sun, Star of the Sun, SOL, Ninib, Ty Atum and others. There were legends that eluded to Saturn’s dramatic “orbital” and “location” changes (not to mention planetary happenings of Mars, Venus, and Jupiter).


One of Saturn’s “symbol mysteries” is the hexagonal storm at its Northern pole which demonstrates precise synchronization with Saturn’s cycle of radio emissions . The storm can also be seen as a flattened-out cube, and it has been realized as the “black cube Kaaba,” The New Jerusalem, the 64- hexagrams of the Chinese I-Ching and the 64 nucleotides of the human genetic code.

“I have said that the House of Rothschild is a major Archon-Reptilian bloodline that has done so much to expand the Demiurge Virus,” says Icke, “in the fields of finance, government, and wars. The hexagram, a classic symbol of Saturn, is also the very origin of the name ‘Rothschild.’’’

Israel was established in 1947 by a Satan-worshipping Rothschild hoax to cause the conflict and mayhem (divide and rule) that we have seen ever since.” (p. 146)

Through the centuries the Archon-Virus revealed itself through the symbols, legends, codes, and religions of the past: Diablo, Baphomet, Chronos, The Moon, Ishtar, Lucifer, Ouroboros, Saturnine (sardonic), Dionysus, Bacchus, Mithra, Black Sun, Archon Bloodlines, El-ites, and a continuous plethora of names and allusions; for sure, the Archons are the human race.


A revolution is in the making of rejecting the Phantom World by using the element of “Love” and raising mankind to a higher vibration of the Infinite Super Consciousness. Getting to that point will take a complete reorganization and rediscovery of history.

“Humanity was, and is, both in the world and end of it,” says Icke, “until awareness is expanded to insight beyond the Matrix.”

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David Icke is a controversial conspiracy theorist who has written and purported incredible theories during his career.

Written By: Stephen Erdmann

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Here, Stephen Erdmann introduces his latest creation, Homosapien for the reader's enjoyment.


Homosapien is written by Stephen Erdmann. His writing style is unique and engaging. He has captured the day-to-day life of those who are part of the human condition. Enjoy.


It was the quiet little chirp of the wren somewhere outside the house that first caught his attention. Like some vague feeling pricking the top of his body hairs ever so lightly, the incessant chirp from that little brown feathery body perched on the tree limb outside the bedroom window kept infiltrating his mind.


Peaceful. Yes, it was very, very peaceful, restful, and gracious. He lay motionless underneath the linen sheet he used as a blanket. His face, a smooth line-less continence of tranquility, and his mind somewhere between the darkness of his dream-world and the dawning of the first rays of daylight beaming through his bedroom window and bathing him in a brilliant white.

A fly lazily buzzed to and fro about the man’s face. Like a miniature household servant come to wake its master, the fly landed on the man’s head. When it crawled from his head onto his arm skin, the man instantly perceived it was there. He squirmed beneath the sheet. The insect took to flight, circled about, and gently, very, very gently, landed near its previous landing spot, urging the master to arise.

This time the man stretched his arms, turning slowly about in the bed. He blinked for a moment, glancing out the window, realizing that it was time to once again start a daily routine. He momentarily closed his eyes, allowing the caressing sunshine to rest upon his features.

He was amused at the melodious singing of the little bird outside. He smiled. Then he lazily moved his legs to the edge of the bed, and like a mighty Zeus emerging out of the surface of the sea, he slowly vacated the bed, pushing himself like a bear just awaken from hibernation.

The housecoat felt warm and comforting about him, but the floor was ice cold, making him give out a sigh of relief as he put on his slippers. He pulled the strings to his robe tight, secure, and shuffled off into the kitchen; there he perked the coffee till short puffs of steam came out of the spout. Every now and then, a few drops would sputter out of the spout and dribble down into the flames below, making a hissing sound. From the range a warm radiance spread out into the kitchen in ever-widening ripples. The small old-fashioned clock hung over the hovel of the sink and pantry, and the sweeps of its stubbly pendulum seemed to say ‘hello, hello.’

It took some effort to control his memory of those frightening nights in the dark bedroom with no sound, no children noise, no words, just the flashbacks of the divorce courtroom and the horrid masquerade of reality that came true before his eyes when the so-called legal system turned black into white and the memories of brighter days into dank dark desertion. Many following nights he fought the dysgeusia and copper taste of fear and flight anxiety attacks until those more stable moments when they would disappear now and then. This morning seemed to be one of those.

Next came the sizzling bacon and the crackle of the frying breakfast sausage, slowly, slowly making the morning whole as bits of reality, as churning mechanisms seen in household appliances, flashes of electricity through the grey matter of the human brain, all going into operation as one coordinated, smooth picture. He thoughtfully meanders through his breakfast.

Socks; warm; skin-fitting; the latest pair bought. New trousers; freshly creased. A leather belt with sleek sheen; followed by a white shirt; high collar to cover his long neck. Soon followed were pearl cuff-links; the tie; a nice charcoal color to match his pants. No wrinkles in pants: new.

Like a sculptor of marble, his personal appearance began to take shape. Each movement of his hand brought with it a snug packing of the clay in the imaginary statue. Shirt tail whipped in, straight and even; tie-knot, tight and in place. His short hair groomed and styled.

The man tapped the top of his dresser to show pride in his creation, another accomplishment in the early morning serenade of awakening.

Click, clack, click, clack, click, clack: the rhythm of someone’s shoe taps could be heard faintly outside in their hurried walk down the sidewalk. Too industrious, thought the man, but still permissible; the announcer on the radio spoke in serene, low monosyllables; short, musical statements in a base voice; evenly pronounced and not harsh. The announcer was saying that it was going to be a beautiful autumn day, and the temperatures might reach a pleasant 75-80 degrees this Halloween. Don’t put away all your summer clothes, the announcer is saying; you might want to wear them still today. The man smiled to himself and nodded in agreement. Let’s see, wallet? Money? Credit cards? Notebook? Bus pass? Handkerchief in pocket? All here.

The early morning sunlight covered the kitchen as if the radiance were bathing the room in a baptism of rejuvenation. The strong aroma of fresh coffee intermingled with the brisk, mystic smell of men’s cologne, and he further imagines a bathed lady that equally had sensually dabbed her body with perfume. He grabbed his well-blocked hat out of the closet, sitting it on his head: no, he suddenly decides, he would not wear it today. He finally reached for the knob of the front door and summoned his courage to leave his day-dream environment behind. It was a Halloween holiday and one that he hoped would not be matched.

Bright morning sunlight still shone through the door Venetian blinds reminding him of similar recollections of himself as a little boy playing with neighbor children on sun coated sidewalks back on Castleman Avenue.

Opening the front door, he is slightly taken aback by the heavy drone of a big truck that seemed to emerge out of nowhere, blocking his view of his direct neighborhood. Its big red letters seemed to immobilize him until the heavy vibration of the truck was gone.

The man collected his thoughts, shifting his chin as to try to straighten his collar, dislocated by the sudden appearance of the truck. Instead, he fidgeted the knot of his tie with his fingers; smoothed his coat along its sides. As he headed for the sidewalk, he briefly glanced back to his house, bathed in the golden hues of the morning sunlight. A sparrow landed on the steps before him, twisting its head side to side, ogling the on coming giant beside him. Then it darted away, blended into the glare of the sun.

At the bus stop he tasted the fresh, crisp air with its underbelly of autumn decay. The acrid smell of the chemicals at a nearby paint factory seemed disjointed from the smell of the close evergreen shrubbery. The bus stop was attended by two talkative ladies, both projecting their respective, strong perfumes. They wait for the bus too, he thought to himself; such staunch, middle-class ladies; the salt of the traditional America; Conservatives dressed in their placid best; such a no-nonsense color for an overcoat; PTA, Ladies’ Solidarity, and Bible-reading grandmothers. See how they chatter, gossip, the man thought to himself, tending to the world of everyday events?

“That’s what she told me, yes indeed…” The one lady spoke energetically.

The bus is coming. The doors hiss open.

“I’ll be, Marriene, she didn’t?” the other exclaims as they climb aboard.

“Yes, yes she did…the bitch!”

“No,” the man thinks, and slumps his head to look at their shoes, “I didn’t hear that remark on this quiet morning of autumn.” There is a lullaby of barking dogs and teenage laughter in the background. No, he thinks to himself, it was not our all-American grandmothers who said that.

As the door hissed shut, the voices of the two quarreling grade school kids fighting over a bicycle could be heard on the steps of the nearby church.

“Get your god-damned foot off the peddle or I’ll break your god-damned, son-of-a bitch….”

The back seat of the bus is warm, almost hot from the rays of the sun. He nestles in the bough as if a cold bird into its nest. He glances out the heavily smudged window, looking beyond the lip-stick smears and obscenities drawn there sometime last night. He blinks hard, pretending that it is only a momentary obstruction. He can see the expressions on the motorists below the window, which is all that matters to him.

When the bus reached Elm Street at the intersection of Genevieve, he had counted some twenty ‘families’ driving in autos. He instinctively knew they were families because of the three or four children between the back and front seats. Mom sat almost statuesque by her “daddy” at the wheel: he, holding a cigarette so very authoritatively in his fingers, or her placing one hand on her husband’s knee, as if to signify her claim to ownership. Sometimes, the pose would change from car to car, and when it was a car that carried adolescent boys and girls, the scene sometimes changed dramatically; the teenagers would hug tightly, entwining their limbs as if to squeeze every drop of intimacy into each other. Her hair would lie on his shoulder; another’s hair would lie on his chest. But when he saw nothing but a blanket of smooth, flowing velvet, the strains of which made a shining blanket across the boy’s lap, his face went flush, and then red. He turns his gaze quickly away from the window, his pulse racing higher.

At the intersection of Sydney and Spring the bus jerked to a stop. Four fuzzy-headed teenagers bang at the door, rudely with impact, not waiting for the driver to release the door hydraulic-pressure. The man noticed the bus driver’s face was mysteriously nonplussed and emotionless to the outburst.

“Thanks Pop!” said the tallest boy; he had to bend his neck to keep from scraping his head on the bus ceiling. All but one paid their fares; the last stood momentarily defiant before the driver, his fists clenched straight down to his sides. Not a word said, just a stone-cold stare between the two. Without paying his fare, the shortest of the four swaggered his way back through the aisle, much like a bully burst through the saloon-house door. The four arranged themselves along two larger side-seats; they extended their legs out into the aisle, punching each other with furious deviltry, revealing gaping holes in the sides of their jeans. Squeals of hysterical laughter riveted the bus, but no one looked except the man who manufactured a prolonged gaze that eventually contracted a wall of hateful wonderment from the gang of boys.

“Anything wrong with you, Pop?” the tallest queried.

The man just gazed on. Slowly, oh so slowly, his lips moved in a quiver. “No,” he spoke softly, “no,” he said again even softer. He turned back to the window, gazing on the churning smoke from a chemical factory’s chimney. He tries to mentally close his ears to their obscenities; instead, he concentrates on those long, thick vapors that churned in and around themselves as they circled upwards, higher and higher. He will keep his gaze on this until the factory falls from his range of vision, hoping that peace and tranquility will be restored and this invasion of civility would be over.

The crowd builds on the bus as they near the downtown area; so filled that the man can barely see the “No Smoking” sign towards the front of the bus. It has become laden with the cigarette smoke from unconcerned passengers. The aisle has become jammed with men, women, and children, each holding tightly on some nearby artifact, such as a pocket of a mother’s coat, or the sweat-lubricated chrome seat handle.

Splat! Splat! Splat! Three shaggy-haired grade schoolers race out towards the middle of the street, bogging down traffic which nearly brought about their injury: from their dirt-stained hands are thrown three MacDonald’s restaurant hamburger sandwiches. The guts of these missiles ooze down the glass panes in a sickening avalanche of garbage….as sickening as the vulgar retorts off the lips of the three boys rambling back to the curb. Motorists impatiently honk at them. The youths signal obscenities at them and rush off laughing wildly and indifferent. No one looks, other than the drivers who nearly hit them; everyone seems unconcerned.

The bus begins to stop and start in aggravating jerks, descending deeper into the city traffic. The heights of buildings begin to grow taller as the bus creeps deeper into the interior of the city metropolitan jungle. Peculiar taps and nudges are felt by the man as the mass of humanity closes upon him. The rock-like bulge in the pocket of a grey-haired, well-groomed man next to him is suddenly removed by that man, revealing itself as a bottle of Johnny Walker whiskey. He watches as the imbiber caresses the bottle containing the putrid-smelling liquid to his quivering lips, small drops travel down his chin and dangle from his cracks in his face. No one stares at the swigged performance and the bottle is quickly replaced unconcerned back in a coat pocket.

The man begins to feel suffocated. He sees his destination two stoplights away. Suddenly the surroundings don’t seem the same. It looks peculiar, almost as if a scene in a dream where quasi-shapes and half-familiar sights appear. But its strangeness might seem like some sort of ‘home,’ only if he could safely make his way through the limbs, human bosoms, and torsos to the exit.

Slowly he begins to nudge his way through the “meat factory,” and he begins to visualize racks of butchered meat hanging from hooks. Bad breath followed next by a sweet candy-smelling perfume. The smell of mothballs from a jacket recently removed from summer hibernation. He steps on someone’s shoe; he gets cursed. A newspaper flares up into his face as a pedestrian turns a page during the person’s transit-reading.

The plunging, hissing sound of the air compression of the door appears as a welcoming gateway into cool, fresh air. He bounds out into a conveyor of sidewalk pedestrians that, even here, nudge and shuffle him; but he doesn’t mind, as he hopes he has obtained new freedom.

He bustles through the revolving door, shoulder to shoulder with customers, into a drone of sounds, clanking coffee cups, and incessant monkey-like chatter of the crowd. The smell of the latest perfumes, colognes, and sweet milk chocolate are from the nearby counters. Perfumes that drip off of dark, lovely skins that zip by in micro-mini-skirts and colorful pantsuits; meaty scents that one could almost be tempted to bite into.

Towards the middle of the department store floor he is held back by a swarm of people gushing from the escalator. They branch off in all directions, leaving him huddled in one spot. He timidly walks towards the ‘up’ escalator. “Can’t do it,” he sneers at himself, feeling the latest pangs of motion sickness from the gasoline smells that escorted his bus ride. He couldn’t stand that fight at the top of the escalator steps. Resigning himself to the task of getting more fresh air, he wipes the perspiration of his forehead and bounds through the crowd to the farthest exit.

“What the hell?” indignantly queries a husky man who attempted to crowd the same revolving door with the man, who, in the growing depths of nausea, smiles back at him in apology, allowing the husky person to command the door. The man waits patiently until no one wants to use the portal, then he ventures outside.

“Daddy, daddy, be so good to me,” blurts the large Walkman radio swinging from the hip of a Negro with shinning leather boots and a large sombrero hat. “Baby! Baby, do it to me now! Baby…..”

“Chick, com’on, doll, cause you the biggest love bun in the block, dat why,” giggles a sleek, sensuous Negress secured lustfully to her boy-friend’s arm. Metallic loops dangle from earlobes beneath bleached, blonde hair; her buttocks brazenly protrude from the rim of her skin-tight red ‘hot pants.’ On they stumble – “Daddy, you won’t make a move on me, doll….”

“Gum? Anybody buy gum?” churns the words from a twisted mouth of a para-paretic, cane in hand, tin cup in the other, limping along at a snail’s pace. “Gum?” He pleads to around him careening by him in a river of flesh, “Want to buy some gum?” He shakes the battered tin cup, the coins forlornly jangle. One man instantly searches his pocket for loose change. The crippled man nears him, only a few feet away, “Gum?” “Here you are,” the pedestrian reassures the cripple, reaching for the tin cup.

Down the cripple goes! The earth turns about him and he suddenly finds himself being scuffled by boots, shoes, and sandaled and nearly bare feet. Someone leaps over him as the crowd momentarily rearranges itself to make room. A blur of bodies – one, two, three young girls in hipster garb race down the street into the maze of humanity onto the next block. A few feet away from the girls moving on in express, the cripple churns his neck about, searching the passing crowd, looking for a helping hand. His cup with money is now a lost companion. He is unable to say anything but the words he has memorized, drilled, and forced him to learn in month over months of repetition: “Gum?” He extends his hand pleadingly to the astonished and indifferent people that pass on by. The cripple slowly, painfully, arches his back and uses the cane to resurrect an upright stance. The atmosphere about the para-paretic becomes a cubicle of woman’s nylon against nylon and feminine deodorant, pierced by cigar smoke blown in his face.

“Move on! Move on, damn ya!” A group of jelly-bellied conventioneers have flanked the sidewalk, almost arm in arm, as if the front line of an infantry sweeping the battlefield. Racing backwards in faltering steps, the cripple extends one hand over his head, waving it to keep balance and also seeking Samaritan assistance, only to find him in the animal-like huddle at the “No walk” sign at the corner.

The sweet and putrid smells of perfumes and after-shave fragrances cascade over our traveler, as he finds himself hurdled into the mass of flesh, clothing, and the gut of the mob. Perspiration begins to trickle down his cheek, his nose itches from the threads of sprayed hair belonging to a fat, chunky female shadowing him. If only he could turn around and attempt to see the fate of the crippled man.

“Go!” instructs a skinny boy, knees black with dirt glaring below the rim of his stained shorts. The boy’s hair flops about his eyes like the mane of a St. Bernard dog. He drags his mother by the hand into the crowd of street-crossing pedestrians unfortunately blocked by a negro boy and white girl standing immobile in the middle of the traffic: the boy is passionately kissing the girl, holding her back into the cradle of his arm, and with the other fondles her breasts, and then, in snake-like fashion, rushes his hand under her short-shorts seeking the crease in your buttocks. No one stares; no one looks. They gush around the two like foaming water around jagged rocks in the middle of racing water in a stream.

The man is carried along, stumbling; stepping on feet, careening through ‘out-flung’ newspaper pages, till he locates the curb and with a heave, lifts him onto the sidewalk.

He has come to rest near a restaurant; he presses his radiant face on the cold panes of air-conditioned glass and closes his eyes to decide as to if he should go inside and find a seat. The smell of gasoline has found him again, like a phantom from bus to sidewalk, sidewalk to sidewalk, and like a developing nightmare, nausea is created in his stomach. He notices a scratch on his hand and he reaches into his pocket fumbling for a handkerchief and he dabs his wound.

“Get your Raw World News here!” shouts a tall, thin boy, his hair draped over his head and shoulders from the rank humidity as if someone poured a bucket of water on it, and continued to soak every strand, progressing down his cloths as if to pull them to his feet. The man expected to see this happen but was suddenly alarmed to see the boy’s bare feet. Instead, the boy’s clothes stubbornly hung on to him as he shouts, “Raw World News, here. The only original people’s militant-pagan review in the city! Raw World, here! Raw World!”

A lady with two cardboard boxes under each arm and a bag lodged underneath her chin, stops to examine the front page of the newspaper: it is a photograph of Lillian Swan, number one militant libertine giving a close-up of her middle finger extended upward in protest; the headline reads: “Country Must Change, or Else Die!”

The lady wants to maneuver herself so she can turn the page of the newspaper, but –wham! – knocked from her under the barrage of street-people, the swarm carries her parcels, being kicked heedlessly, down the sidewalk, some people divided in attention by a commotion back up the street where the para-paretic had been knocked down, others intent on seeing the colored boy and white girl, now engaged in actual fondling on the corner of the street, both laying prostrate to one side of the nearby trash container as a ring of people jealously guard their sensuous privacy.

“Hey! My boxes!” shouts the lady, trying to fight into the swarm. “Out of the way, damn it! My boxes! Oh!”

Pressed into this incongruous activity, the man slides nervously along the cold glass store front till he meets the end of the building. The side of his face is caressed by a gentle breeze flowing out of the nearby alley across from him and just a few feet away.

“Take it, damn it! Take my purse!” cries a whimpering voice from a mascara-streaked face of an old whore held at gun point. The man leans to one side to get a better view. He barfs slightly, swallowing back the vomit as he fights the sickness of carbon monoxide poisoning. From the record shop across the street, through its overhead loudspeakers, booms the beginning of Schubert’s Symphony No. 8, the Unfinished Symphony.

“Here! Take it!” The whore holds out a fist of money and jewels that drip from the sides of her hand. Her watered eyes plead to the snub-nosed revolver held directly at her face. “Oh, God! Take it!”

Why no one investigates the alley, the man wonders as Schubert’s symphony progresses into the allegro moderato. He notices the prostitute staggers towards the gunman, moaning, “…no, no….”

Bam! Bam! Bam!

The symphony hits a peak as everyone crossing the alley stops and stares as if an unfortunate ‘intrusion’ was forced upon them. And like cattle turned out of a gate, they stampede into the narrow passageway. Symphony No. 8 begins its slow dirge, its whining andante con moto, and as if synchronized with the pulse of actions comes the sirens of police cars that burst around the street corner: revolving lights flashing, brakes squealing, as squad cars nearly careen into the middle of the people in the alley. The people dash to the sides of the buildings to keep from being hit. The crowd immediately closes back in about the officers slinking out of their cars and into the murder scene.

The man barfs again. He realizes he must move to a clearing near the bus stop area. He staggers to the bus sign, leans his head on a cold metal pole and shuts his eyes as he focuses on nothing but the low dirge of Schubert’s No. 8. “Bus, come on, please, come on!” he begs inwardly. “I want to go back home,” he mumbles to him, “back, back home.”

Hiss! As if by his direct command, a miracle, the smell of bus rubber surprises him, and the bus doors open before his face. Pushing, lunging people force him up the steps, the driver oblivious that the man did not attempt to show his pass as he was nearly knocked to the floor. The man quickly grabs a chrome seat handle and pulls himself into a nearby seat of the bus. Thankfully, he lodges his head on the pane-seal of an open window that someone created despite the air-conditioning. Schubert has gone into his dramatic allegro con brio. Once again, a police officer squad car careens around another corner. The bus driver impatiently honks for the crowded street to clear so he can be on his way. The bus inches a few feet….stops….inches a few more….stops….to ward off his stomach sickness, the man holds his handkerchief over his mouth. “I must concentrate!” he pleads to himself. “Concentrate on that glorious ending of the 8th, that allegro con brio.”

“Out of the way, you bastards!” commands the bus driver, his voice barely discernible in the zombie-like rows of people compressing the aisle of the bus. Finally, the jerks of the bus combine into longer, smoother flows, lasting at least the length of a block. “Oh, the pain!” The insufferable ache in the pit of the man’s stomach fights an epitome battle against a world of the intertwined smells of perfume, cigar smoke, gasoline fumes, bubble gun and whiskey breath. “Move! Please, move bus!”

Bam! Bam! Bam! The man again visualizes the smoking tip of the revolver in the murder scene, and that blank stare that appeared on the prostitute’s face, her pupils suddenly becoming dilated, and her mouth suddenly twisted and contorted. The contents in her hand dripping out onto the ground, much like the spreading blood from her stomach.

og: homosapien

At Spruce and Murdoc, the man opened his eyes and peered out the window to discern a row of broken-down tenements, the small front yards with foot-high weeds and grass and a barely visible walkway. In front of the paint less fence were two toddlers, caked with mud and crying profusely. Once again, the man laid his head on the sill of the window, feeling the violent vibrations of the bus through his skull; rough, yet comforting enough by providing some distraction to his physical displeasure.

Broadway and Juanita: large beads of sweat drip down his check. He dabs them gently with his handkerchief. “Just a few more minutes,” he assures himself.

Ahead, he sees his bus stop creeping up. Painfully, he lifts himself up and pushes forward around a rather obese woman who looks at him rather amusingly. When the bus jerks to a stop, the man practically falls out of the door, but catches a low tree limb to steady him.

After dodging the reckless, perusing traffic, he glances over to the nearby church steps, only to see the broken, bent body of the bicycle the two boys had argued over earlier. In the distance, he could hear the ferocious barking of his next-door neighbor’s dog. Only minutes away; he prays for strength.

Agitated, he jabs the key into his front-door lock; drops of perspiration fall upon his fist, only to be shaken off by the tremble of his hand. The door crashes back against the vestibule wall as the man feverishly staggers into the kitchen, slips to his knees, but stands once again and staggers to the bathroom.

For a moment, it was as if the explosion of the revolver had also become the pounding of the divorce court judge’s gavel: Bam! Bam! Bam! He remembers the firing of the revolver again to the back-ground music of Schubert’s Unfinished 8th, crescendo to a loud ending: he falls before the commode and lets out a heavy heave of vomit into the bowl.

As an accessory to this bizarre symphony, comes the very real chirp of a wren outside the bathroom window, not unlike the one that the man began his morning with: A peaceful chirp, very, very peaceful.

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Here, Stephen Erdmann introduces his latest creation, Homosapien for the reader’s enjoyment.

The Grand Quantum Being is aware of this man’s events, and the Spark Streaming of His grandiose Mind, beyond any Positronic Computer, greater than any Quantum Algorithm, that Mind knew for eons the next stage of atomic arrangement that will take place in this man’s life. He constantly told men and humankind that they had ‘freedom,’ but it was a lie! That life will continue instantaneously, more keenly scrutinized as microbes in water would be by some ethereal microscope, hiding and masked in some infinite complacency, behind the shadows of time, across the gulfs of space, beyond the blending of colors, vibrations, any singing of the Strings, any Logic Gates, as it was performed in the beginning (and ever will be) since It called Itself the “The Word.”

Written By: Stephen Erdmann

UNIVERSAL DIGEST is pleased to be a conduit for our contributing authors. We do not claim credit; we simply want to make it more available to the general public. And, the opinions of the authors are not necessarily the opinion or stance of this website.

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UFO Encounters of a new kind. What has been the influence?


Encounters and strange phenomenon of ‘things’ flying in the sky have been around for over 70-years, at least, in some ‘modern’ phase, raising many questions about their nature and origin: what ‘country’ is behind their operation; what causes their ‘flight’; can they be contacted; are they real and ‘alien’ in a scientific sense; what does science say about them; and what ‘is’ the scientific method? Without the proper questions, say the writers in UFOs: REFRAMING THE DEBATE, we will never get correct answers.

‘To reframe the UFO debate we need to formulate new models for analyzing existing and incoming data,’ says researcher Susan Hemeter-St. Clair (p. 177), and introduce innovative hypotheses by asking better questions than have so far been asked.’

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Encounters throughout history with UFO’s and beings.

(UFOs: Reframing the Debate, Robbie Graham, White Crow Books, 3 Hova Villas, BN3 3DH, United Kingdom,, [email protected], 2017, 262 pages, $17.99.)


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UFO Encounters of a new kind. What has been the influence?

The book’s contents travels from the ‘classically’ skeptical viewpoint of Chris Rutkowski (who drives home that a strict ‘old rules’ in a current science methodology is what he feels is needed) through thirteen other writers (some of whom have actually ‘had’ their own UFO encounters and experiences) that have the audacity to question and improvise attempts to reconstruct old methods with new ones that force the very latest science to include the established facets of those new studies by academics and other scientists.

Mike Clelland speaks about his own accounts of many “high strangeness” contacts, but also the rather bizarre and traumatic events of other ‘experiencers.’

‘My problem with ‘ufology’ is my own personal experiences, I’ve been at the receiving end of enough weird shit that nobody needs to tell me this stuff is real,’ says Cleland (p. 19). Clelland’s concern is primarily with abduction reports where the landscape is rich with bizarre patterns of synchronicity, common consciousness-archetypes and recurring symbolism.

Dr. Leo Sprinkle (a Ph.D. in counselling and was also a Professor of Psychology at the University of Wyoming) gives his own appraisal of the situation and he says that on ‘some subconscious level… (there was) kind of manipulation.’ (p.23). Likewise, based on many years of investigating high strangeness ‘abduction’ reports, Clelland feels researchers are only ‘barely dipping below the waterline’ and avoiding the starkest elements of such cases. This is where Cleland see the richest core of the topic, after being himself one and also living with ‘experiencers.’

Even more ‘mundane’ UFO ‘sightseers,’ when asked the properly-phased questions, can be asked about ‘other’ ‘unusual, personal events,.’ events that are often excluded by less inquisitive examiners, when usually a much deeper and alarming story would emerge. That portion might be ‘missing time’ or ‘weirder stuff.’ But Clelland has seen far too often ‘patterns’ that he feels hold ‘clues to unravel this mystery’ (p. 29).

‘The scientific community has either ignored or denounced the UFO phenomenon for close to 70 years. With very few exceptions, UFO researchers, who try to wrestle with this mystery using any kind of scientific reign, end up framing it merely as metal spaceships from another planet…9 not) strange invasion of consciousness…’ (pp. 28-30).

Dr. Jeffrey Kripal of Rice University says he has encountered increased bizarreness which Clelland calls ‘the trauma of enlightenment’ on a long trail of ‘unknowns with no path to follow’ on a very personal, very private quest in which we can’t expect to solve.

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Encounters of wars in the sky above cities?


Jack Brewer likewise agrees with Dr. Jacques Vallee and the late John Keel that cases of “high strangeness” should lead us away from the conventional ETH theory. There are indications that the early years of UFOs had more earthly origins, such as a super-weapon Project Seal, soon followed by ‘deception programs” of Colonel Carl Goldbranson who did such thigs as a 1950 Rand/Air Force report titled The Explanation of Superstition for Purposes of Psychological Warfare. They later included deception artists such as British Major Jasper Maskelyne and World War II Major General Edward Geary Lansdale, who, in the words of Project Grudge, relate to ‘psychological propaganda’ (p. 37-38).

The same Colonel Edward Landsdale ‘was running around’ the Philippines inventing psycho-weapons about ‘vampires among the Huks,’ then going after and trying to retain and apply more ‘political-psychological warfare,’ all under the overseer-ship of the Central Intelligence Agency and Allen Dulles, resulting in the infamous Robertson Panel (p. 38).

Likewise, Brewer warns about widespread ’hoaxing’ by various people and the need to better understand the trauma and jaded emotional reactions exhibited by ‘UFO witnesses’; a multiplicity-of-reasoning is needed to ‘resurrect’ better methods of investigators.

‘If we are to find events of interest at the heart of what-to-became a truly phenomenal social occurrence,’ says Brewer, ‘we would be wise to drop preconceived notions to the best of our abilities.’

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Ancient rock inscriptions of encounters from extraterrestrials?


Curt Collins also lays bare the painstaking teamwork of many individuals and agencies that came together in the exposure of the infamous ‘Roswell Slides’ of November 2014 that eventually were discovered to be photos of a mummified body of a two-year-old boy, as uncovered by what became to be known as the Roswell Slides Research Group.

‘It was largely by chance the group came together on this project,’ says Collins. ‘Each of us must remain objective, seek the best evidence and ask challenging questions whether as part of a team or as individuals’ (p. 108).

Researcher Micah Hanks heralds Allen Hendry’s book The UFO Handbook and Hanks suggests a ‘modernized’ UFO classification system of six categories, including ‘Biological,’ ‘Experimental,’ and ‘Drones.’

Whatever ‘fashion’ the UFO investigator undertakes it must be totally unbiased and burdened by ‘modern skepticism’ that appears to be ‘evangelical,’ but based on ‘careful thought analysis and an equal willingness to be open-minded in our skepticism…’ (p. 74).

‘Modern skepticism can, I think, be summarized in many instances as an ideology, around which a social movement has been built___one that, today, also runs tangent with atheism___and as a paradoxically evangelical attitude about the supremacy of science above all other form of knowledge.’

Smiles Lewis sees the UFO phenomena as not only multi-clausal, but part of a ‘paraCryptolzology,’ possibly part of a ‘covert socio-cultural control system’ attacking our sensibilities on a complicated scale, rather than just nuts-and-bolts vehicles. Lewis suspects that geomagnetism, electro-magnetisms, Gaia-Mother-Earth-Consciousness, and man-made invasion, are all components of these happenings. At times, the ‘Controllers’ utilized Akashic Records and Jung’s ‘collective unconscious,’ and at other times are seen similar to the extraterrestrials in Carl Sagan’s book and movie CONTACT as ‘a trans-personal virtual reality communications channel… (to) facilitate anomalous information transfer, facilitate telepathy, remote viewing, and other forms of ESP’ (p. 115).

Lewis cites Thomas Bearden that ‘our collective anxieties are psychical manifestations’ (p. 116); it embraces the works of Dr. Steven Mizrach, James Pontobello, Susan Lepselter, Carol Suzanne Matthews, Michael Persinger, Gyslaine F. Lafreniere, Hank Albarelli, Martin Cannon, and other professionals.

Smiles Lewis provides the public with the ultimate challenge of human agencies, such as the CIA and the military, taking our knowledge of the paranormal energies and further applying them into MK-Ultra programs, Nazi collusion, secret experiments, Project Palladian, and psychological warfare. These ‘cultural overlays’ make the subject all the more necessary to ask for correct questions beyond ‘xenophobic tribalism,’ ‘counterfeit foes,’ and ‘manufactured machinations and stratagems’ (p. 129).

Lorin Cutts likewise fears investigators are being manipulated by the phenomena itself and the faulty perception and questions we attach to it. These ‘myths’ permeate the phenomena forcing researchers into one or two ‘belief systems,’ either of ‘extraterrestrial origin,’ or complete ‘skeptical disbelief’ (p. 82). There is much more happening, says Cutts. UFO sightseers and experiencers are definitely seeing something anomalously similar as to what people are seeing in the Yakima, Washington ‘hot spot.’ But zeroing-in seems beyond the current methods to investigate that ‘hot spot’ as it seems this, and other areas, have been frozen in a cadre of myth and ignorance (p. 87).

‘Current scientific understanding will never be the truth of the entire universe,’ says Cutts. ‘Science, while the foundation of societal development, will always be something of a paper-god…from within this void, come magical, high-strangeness, and human experiences that continue to mystify and confuse.’ (p. 89).

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Encounters with extraterrestrials and ancient glyph’s?


Red Pill Junkie tries to expand on the parapsychological inference that UFOs are intermingled apparitions of turmoil or ‘crisis apparitions’ similar to poltergeist activity in ghostly manifestations___or phenomena often called the ‘Trickster’ (pp. 130, 155).

Accounts are replete down through history of the ‘Trickster’ phenomena. He recounts many examples in the media and in historical accounts: Spring Heeled Jack in the 19th century; the Mad Gasser of Mattoon of the 1930s; or the Mothman in the 1960s and its Trickster called Indrid Cold.

Observed as a ‘chaotic catalyst,’ says Red Pill Junkie, ‘perhaps the confounding trickery of these ‘Cosmic Jokers’ is intended to shake us out of our collective stagnation, and force us to see a way out of our ‘dark (k) night of the soul’ into a sunnier tomorrow,’ though the writer is far from clear as to exactly how this was to take place (p. 162).

Greg Bishop concurs by saying that science has many disciplines that have yet to be applied in investigations; when current theories, such as spaceships, don’t fit the mold, it only normal to ask newer and more fitting questions.

‘There is a massive backlog of apparent craft and beings seen, as well as a wide spectrum of individuals reacting,’ says Bishop. ‘This suggests either that countless type of strange entities are visiting us, or, that the brain has some kind of creative control over what is experience’ (p. 191).

Smaller autonomous research groups, refraining from using ‘hard and fast ideologies’ and ‘belief systems,’ trying to cover all the bases, using the latest understanding of the human brain and nervous system, seeing the possibility of an extra-human consciousness, examining the line between the internalized experience and the external world, eroding of visual stimuli are just a few of the suggestions that Bishop feels must be properly addressed and applied. All too often the brain adds details when traumatic situations occur: we still need to examine ‘how much’ and “where” this happens (pp. 193-197).

‘Abduction’ and ‘close encounter’ episodes are particularly problematic. Bishop has seen several accounts were ‘encounters’ are probably following ‘dream logic,’ information-rich ‘reorganizations’ into a new reality. Mac Tonnies suggests the ‘occurrences’ are contacts with ‘pure information,’ thinking of the operational world of matter.

‘Until recently, scientists have recorded mass and energy as the primary building blocks of nature,’ says Bishop. ‘Now, some are beginning to regard information as the basic currency of reality. This may be following a trend in science that stretches back over 2000 years.’

Understanding, or even perceiving, this ‘quantum information’ may involve new and unbeknownst factuality that ‘the reality of it may either be foreign to our way of thinking or even conceptualizing that this is the closest we can get at this point’ (p. 205). ‘there may be no way we can have uncompromised access to this external reality and it may not actually exist until we come to the end of a long line, if uncalmable, questions about what it is’ (p. 206).

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Encounters of UFOs and aliens could be depicted here?


Joshua Cutchin readily agrees with some of the other thirteen authors and commentary, saying that present-day ‘science’ is still too hindered by decrypted ‘materialism’ constraints, referring to its recognizing and equipping itself with he growing discoveries of parapsychology ad quantum-physics ‘discoveries.’

‘The most obvious repercussions of a belief in telepathy is how it normalizes a host of other psi phenomena in a domino effect,’ says Cutchin, ‘which in turn bursts the perceived N&B/ETH Ufological monopoly…one point on a robust spectrum of psychic doctrine’ (p. 53).

Remnants of such a human endeavor were the $20 million Stargate Project, telepathy-work by Rupert Sheldrake, Daryl Ben of Cornell University and Alex Tsakiris who also directed us to a new paradigm of investigations.

‘It is novel to declare that we shouldn’t feel ashamed at this interpretation,’ says Cutchin. ‘It is novel to predict that one day this science will look a lot more like our science’ (p. 160). The materialist paradigm will fall apart given time, and consciousness studied is the proverbial star to which ufology should hitch its wagon. The study of UFOs and alien abduction has zero obligations to a N&B/ETH model” (p. 62).

Ryan Sprague also concurred with this growing line-of-reasoning: ‘This expansion of awareness needs also to be explored,’ says Sprague. ‘Even to scratch the surface of the UFO enigma, we must remove part of the mentality that we are dealing purely with nuts and bolts, part of the notion that the key to the UFO phenomena lies in physical analysis’ (p. 182).

Many of the UFO witnesses Sprague interviewed spoke of feeling like ‘their reality was somehow altered in the moment…this passage between established and newfound realities is where UFOs seem to float, hover, zip, coast, appear and disappear in and out of ambiguity’ (p. 183).

Dr. David Clarke taunts in his 2015 book HOW UFOS CONQUERED THE WORLD, Sprague points out, that the UFO syndrome and culture itself feeds the phenomenon and the perception of it ‘in an endless feedback-loop between stories passed down through media and genuine experience’ ( p. 186).

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Ancient war encounters between alien races?


All of the writers utilized for this book urge a fresh and reconstructed ‘methodology’ aimed at building reliable evidence but based on a totality of a growing and modern science voided of the ‘gas lighting’ of bias and 19th century methods.

Written By: Steven Erdmann


[1] This approach is consistent with a view that our society has transitioned from ‘modernism’ to ‘post-modernism’ to ‘metamodernism’…The unwillingness of UFO zealots to conform in any way with scientific methodology with regard to testing claims within the community negates them as   sources of reliable information about the subject.’ (p. 15).



UNIVERSAL DIGEST is pleased to be a conduit for our contributing authors. This article was produced being mostly unedited. We do not claim credit, we simply want to make it more available to the general public. The opinions of the authors are not necessarily the opinion or stance of this website.

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