Aliens : a personal account :
Are they aliens, or are we God?
"A few years ago any talk of aliens- and by that I mean visitors from other planets or realms- would have meant very little to me, except as a possibility which I had not discarded, nor yet accepted within myself. But a sequence of unexpected incidents brought the alien concept into closer proximity to my own life.
This began slowly and innocently enough, with a series of synchronicities- which is always a good sign that the greater consciousness is at work within the part- during my stay in Iceland. While I was there I had found myself reading passages out of a number of books describing alien encounters and abductions. The books were interesting enough, but I gave them little thought until I was sitting in the Reykjavik airport while waiting to fly back to England, and an Icelandic gentleman about a decade older than myself sat down beside me and instantly began an extended soliloquy on various enigmas, occult happenings, and alien encounters, which he described in a very similar manner to what I had been reading a few days earlier.
After our brief chat I boarded the plane, landed in London, and had a full day to idle about while waiting for an overnight bus to Scotland, where I was planning to meet up with my soror. Since London is one of my most hated places on earth, I did the only thing I could think of in order to survive the day- I bought a bag full of beer, and headed to the most remote corner of Hyde Park I could find, although remote is an audacious misnomer in this case, for there is nowhere to hide in London, no serenity, no peace, no respite, only the ongoing movement and hum of maniacs, motors, monarchy, and misanthropes. The hub of the British Empire. A sewer. A cultureless, lifeless scab upon the earth. Like all cities, only worse.
On my way to the park I picked up a free entertainment guide from a street vendor, because I noticed there was an article on Kurt Cobain within it, and I was morbidly curious as to why people such as he take their own lives, which is something I have never been able to comprehend, because life is such a marvellous, inexplicable, profound gift, and I cannot understand why people do away with it. Suicide astounds and bewilders me.
I recall reading that the Buddha once said that to be born on this earth is as improbable as finding one needle on the highest mountain, and then finding another needle in the deepest ocean. And so I wonder- why canít people see this? Why all the rushing about? Why all the petty agonies, mundane conceptions, and useless distractions? Why the trepidation? Why the anger? Why the pathos? Oh, to be sure, at times in my life I have possessed all of these imbecilities, but never have I thought of ending this marvellous benediction, for though I recognize how discomforting it is to live on this amazing earth, in this incomprehensible life, amongst an abundant realm which could arguably be the most magnificent place in the universe, and yet still find oneself battling the ever ensuing flood of ennui, despair, discontent, and want, I still maintain it is well worth it. And I mean it when I say that I cannot fathom why we are impoverished within the beauty, tormented within the rapture, corrupted amongst the glory, and lonely in the Presence. I do not know, and can explain this neither to myself, nor another- why the awe and the gratitude go hand in hand with the disgust and contempt I have no clue, though thankfully I am at least aware enough to accept that the miracle and the mystery within and all about me is worth every penny of the price, for I have walked that bridge between ecstasy and ardor my whole life, and cannot deny its reality. And perhaps this is the last duality I must confront, embrace, and be done with. For perhaps I am not yet at the orgiastic center from which all opposites arise, and I must still face the ultimate release of both acceptance and rejection, desire and repulsion, discontent and joy, and perhaps only in those dual abandonments shall I finally rise beyond the cosmic tensions, and become the living One.
Anyway, I sat down under a tree in Hyde Park- where there is no place to hide- surreptitiously cracked open a can, and began to read the entertainment tabloid I had found, though I went slowly, and had read only a few pages before falling to sleep under the polluted sun, having quickly polished off a few cans of the juice. However, during that sleep I kept dreaming that I was still reading the article about Cobain, and that I was recognizing something familiar in it, the tone of voice or something, which made me, upon reawakening, assume that maybe I was being told to continue reading it. And no doubt I was, because soon after carrying on with the article I read that Cobain had once made a short movie in which he attempted to prove to his family that aliens had landed in their back yard. The article stated that Cobain also claimed, as a young man, that when he had become famous he would blow his head off, which sounded like he was a pre-programmed being or something. This fact, and a few other similar points in the article led me to accept that I was definitely being directed to certain information.
Later that day I boarded a night bus headed for Scotland, met up with my lover the next morning, quickly bagged her, and was bagged by her, in the usual way that we bagged each other after we had been apart for a spell, and then, after rebalancing our intimate polarities through the euphoric exchange of bodily fluids, we headed for the mystical Avalon-like isles off the northern tip of Scotland- the Orkneys.
The Orkney Islands are an amazing little archipelago in the North Sea, and not only for their natural beauty, but also because they contain two of the most quaint towns I have ever been in, excluding, of course, remote Himalayan mountain villages with no road access. Stromness is a magnificent stone village, where one feels as if they had returned to the Middle Ages, and a public hanging will be happening at noon. And Kirkwall, although less inviting in its rustic splendor, has the luxury of containing the millennium old, and disturbingly uplifting St. Magnus cathedral. It was in this holy temple where I took communion for only the second time in my life, and where I was staggered to find that the community of this church had somehow managed to utilize the nicest Port I have ever tasted, as the blood.
It was also in these two ancient and charmed villages, in this land rich in archaeological ruins, stone circles, sea birds, old buildings, and fertile farmland that, during our stay, my mate and I found ourselves, on two separate occasions, making a spontaneous change of plans, turning around on our heels, and then, almost instantly, meeting up with one of the very eccentric islanders, who, in very short order, brought up, of their own accord, stories of alien encounters, abductions, and how humans are to aliens as cows are to humans.
The synchronicities had piled up to a critical mass, and it was not long after this that I began awakening in the middle of the night totally paralyzed- like all the stories of abductions describe- and witnessing little beings escaping from my view. The paralysis was quick to wear off, but the encounters continued occurring every few days for the next couple of months, and I was beginning to wonder what sort of jeopardy I might be in, and worrying about what was going on while I was asleep during the visitations. Luckily I am not one to take such things lying down, so to speak, and after a few more incidences I decided that there was not enough communication from the aliens to warrant my allowing them to tamper with my being anymore, for, after all, it was my being, and so finally one night I awoke in the midst of my own violent outburst against the intruders at which point they vanished, and bothered me no longer.
All this may come off as a load of hallucinatory mumbo-jumbo, and perhaps that is all it is. I make no claims about anything. I am a man who knows nothing, a fact to which I openly admit. And I accept that the Ďaliení visitations could have been purely psychological constructs of mine, or, of the greater Self, which is a reasonable assumption, since the last little man to visit me had a shaggy mane of hair, not unlike myself at the time- though he himself was only about three feet high- and may therefore have been either a psychological production from my unconscious, or a certain aspect of myself, finally breaking into this plane through the veil from an alter realm.
And so I cannot truly say now whether I was actually visited by aliens, or whether all that occurred was instead the creative production of my own Godself, leading me down a tunnel so as to keep me distracted and avoid my figuring out the true game. I do know, however, that since experiencing those alien episodes, I have had a number of individuals confess to me, out of the blue, that they have had experiences which can most easily be explained as alien encounters. I have also had astral connection with two close friends, and in that alter dimension have seen their Ďaliení selves, which are not apparent in this realm. And I have received certain messages that aliens are real, and, for the most part, well hidden.
This is a difficult topic to discuss, though, for the Godself is ever at play, ever creating new and more complex obstacles, challenges, and realities so as to keep the self bound into the show, while the Godself lays back and enjoys it. Were it not for the fact that one, and only one, event is occurring, it would be easy to retreat into multiplicity, and its infinite dramas, to explain the happenings of life. But that the alien episodes came and went for me, leads me to believe that I was only being tested by my Godself, who hung a carrot out in front of the self, to see if I would bite. ...
Oh, indeed, this is a realm of mystery, a world of miracle, and a life of awe. And the Self that creates it does so for reasons I cannot fathom, for I am the Self that creates what I cannot fathom.
And thus, I throw my hands up in bewilderment and gratitude, because I can find no other response worthy of my confounding and precious predicament. And though I continue even now to look up longingly into the sky and am filled with curiosity and awe as I consider the limitless planets brimming with other civilizations, peoples, and realms which I would all too willingly love to explore, I also look equally below my own two feet, and feel with a knowing sense that I am already out in that crazy cosmos, already an alien to others, already a voyager, at this moment stomping about on a beautiful and mysterious blue-green planet whirling out, and in, and through the universe where I belong and do not belong, and for that I cannot but bend down and kiss the ground of this wonderful, implausible, otherworldly earth."
Books by Jack Haas
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