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09_02_2022

Completed FOIA request. FOIA denied. Contacted Department of Justice. Let it begin.

09_18_2022

Phase II has begun. The depth of ignorance that existed in Phase I was alarming and bordered on dangerous. Blindly asking aloud. Earnestness on my lips. These things will make you available to the madness. Do no harm, especially to myself. I cannot make the same mistakes. Each utterance must be calculated and recalculated before it leaves into the world. I must be more observant. There were too many close calls, and I can feel the noose tighten. Some watch closer than they should. The responses from institution comes too fast, like they were waiting for the request, like the outcome was planned long before my birth; they only waited to press “send”. Stupid. Phase II must be tighter, questions quieter.

09_19_2022

I hold some anxiety of relation. What happens when blood turns on itself. This immune system never functioned correctly in the first place, and now, when I begin to push, how can I expect it to function at all? Would this be a kind of death? There was no system at all, why should it matter? But it does. I long for the web, the cute knots that tie. I want to be held and bundled in silk and eaten by the queen. I want to be part of what comes next. Numerous prodigy that can say, I knew him; he was good. It’s worth the risk, I have decided. Do or die.

09_20_2022

Hearing his voice again after a decade of silence was…haunting. The jittering, murmuring, laughing ghost of the dead cowboy. His syllables always unable to comfort, listlessly they attached to my skin like colorful confetti, pointless yet evocative. Unforgettable. I hear that now, listening to tape after tape after tape of his monologues. Prophecy. Ancestry. Rights of water and life. So strange to hear him again. I, as the rest of the family, was assured he was gone, never to utter a word again. But he is here, inside the musty boxes of institution, speaking from the grave, speaking to me. How much further.

09_21_2022

I want to take this moment, 03:45 AM, to respond to a lot of the comments I received about the last update. His voice, which came booming from the past, escaping from a cardboard arc to rattle my soul, his voice I love. The cadence of his speech is a three-count waltz that my heart cannot help but beat to; his cowboy tenor is an explosion of electrical impulses that drive the innermost workings of my nervous system. All of it sorely needed during a moment of doubt and longing. For it is longing, longing against something that cannot change, has not changed. Longing for alternate realities, alternate reactions from him, alternating disdain to affection. To say, my dear reality, I yearn for the absence to die but acknowledge, despite all the romancing of it, that it never will. He was absent; always; how could he not have been, as all fathers are.

09_22_2022

Another thirty followers today! Welcome, everyone! Please feel free to interact, email me, or just follow along. All are welcome on this journey toward a truth.

09_24_2022

As User: Jason_21 stated last night, evidence from extraterrestrial contact continues to be the gold standard goal. Photos, burnt grass, dead cows, implants and scars. The evidence? they ask; where’s the evidence? A curious demand all things considered. Fruitless and self-serving. For there isn’t evidence of much in my estimation. DNA tests that lead nowhere and monologues of ancestry that must be taken at face value. Even yesterday remains suspect from where I’m standing; my past, our past, is just as existent as faeries and Arcs. Remember, failure, misunderstanding, incorrect conjecture, and pie-in-the-sky hypotheses are how science finds evidential footing to claim evidence. His lies are one more data point to be included toward proving the ultimate, universal question: when can this all be over?

09_28_2022

I see their need to make something out of it. But what? What was their end goal? I assume something like Higdon’s end; a terrible self-aggrandizing pile of shit that stinks so much that no one mentions it, no one acknowledges it, and everyone walks by pretending like someone didn’t just defecate on the sidewalk of the world. Or maybe a shit-stained spot on a curriculum vitae. Mostly, if we follow the clear directions screaming at us, it always ends with money. A better job, more respect, comfort in the face of it all, money. Money. It’s never seen like that, of course. What do I want out of this? I think I want to correct something. Maybe by striving, by signaling to Them, I can change an error that occurred long before I was born. They have that power; they must. Blinking in and out of existence, traveling centuries in moments. To say, I don’t want the money, not really. I want the past. I want to fracture it, shatter it, and sweep it into a dustbin. Forever gone. That is what I want.

11_30_2022.01

There are whispers. We talk around them, talk ourselves in circles, illustrating the decaying orbit of subject, but it’s there. Codenames that ring of silly childlike games trying to hide secrets from…someone. Someone who might be listening for secrets coming from children playing house. Or supposed secrets. For no one is listening. It can be nice to pretend that the government cares, of They care, or that another great entity cares, but it is pretend. Conspiracy is warm, after all, and it lets us cozy together, blanketing ourselves with importance when none exists. If this is a secret in her mind, she’s got no clue what a secret really is. How far down a secret can rest to the point that codenames and stagecraft and recording devices fail. A true secret never exits in the first place, though I know it’s there.

11_30_2022.02

She says not to write it, I can do whatever I want, but not to write it. Then she alludes to dangers without ever saying where they may come from. Though she does not know that I know. I’ve known for such a long time, for forever, it seems. The dangers always come from family. The phone call always emanates from inside the domestic home. Her warning stands, regardless. Don’t. Don’t do the thing you need to breathe. Don’t do the thing that grants life. That life is for someone else, not you. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Little does she know, I don’t care. If death exists on either side, as it most assuredly does, I will choose the route with the most fireworks.

01_01_2023

It starts again, always the same but smacking of the dust of what came before. As though it is rotten with the past. New beginnings always feel this way, never a clean start, constantly packing what came before in one’s bones, only knowing that a new beginning awaits. I think I enjoy this part because it’s so clear what is happening. Two months from now, I will have forgotten, jaded by time and movement.

01_22_2023

Strange. I can feel him there, on the ranch. The wind was blowing so strongly, and all the remained was what he left decades ago. As though that ranch were his grave and not the marker where he was born. Regardless, I feel him there more than anywhere.

03_05_2023

Been some time since I updated everyone. It is how you said it would be: When I started, he would come. He did, or has. In the night he comes and is in my room. In the morning, I feel him as I write. It is not intoxicating. More, his presence is a horror that he does not induce but the situation does. How did he manage it? I guess, he didn’t, did he? I understand now; the process is unmooring, detaching me from a world I used to share. Nothing seems important but this veil and what impossibly lays beyond it.

03_20_2023

Academia is torture. How do they smile through it? Is it valuable to have the highest pain tolerance in the torturer’s chamber?

03_21_2023 (1)

Many of you are saying, and I agree, that systems continue by the people who find the most support in them; by nature, professors are suspect. As you say, cops, politicians, Harvard alumni, all find success in this system, and regardless of what they say, they want it to continue. For the next revolution may not support them. I think I knew this, but everyone’s reminders were much needed. It is not wholly my failure; it is only that I need to wait for the next revolution, in this life or the next.

03_21_2023 (2)

I take user: FJericho32’s point, and we need not argue with them. Even those who are finding success are tortured, and, as others alluded to, their pain tolerance is a genetic one. Where is the faultline that these people contain? It’s an apt point. Humility and understanding. A good reminder, for all of us, FJericho32.

03_21_2023 (3)

But, as many are saying, FJericho32’s point does not negate that when the walls come down, it will be them holding the pike against the rest of us, no matter the source of that decision, the genetic precursors of those decisions.

04_18_2023

It’s still snowing. I want to go back to the ranch, but it’s still snowing.

04_20_2023

My father always stated that the emotion we term, Deja vu, is assigned when one is on the right path, a action of encouragement by destiny’s keeper. Though, has anyone ever tried to go against that emotion, try and subvert what they knew came next? Of course you have. Funny how, no matter what the choice you make, Deja vu accommodates, as though your subversion was also needed. A lemniscate. I do wonder if this emotion is the feeling of fate. Our consciousness dipping into the code for moments like a fisher dunking their head in a river, perception and Deja vu dripping from their faces as they assess the world, but there is too much of our machinery on our skin to engage with that dripping coat. It is momentary and maddening. Regardless, he said it was symbol given to us by gods, a signpost. How often do you feel the dripping on your skin?

05_01_2023

Classes are over. If it weren’t for the writing, this semester would have gone down in the books as one of the more wasteful of my life. But I must place that behind me for the moment: the journey begins. I have not updated everyone on this new exodus, but I will be touring the major abduction sites in America, starting the 13th. A 6,000 miles road trip with one intention: To make contact with a possible father.

1. Lincoln, NH – The origin of the abduction phenomenon, Barney and Betty Hill
2. South Ashburnham, MA – The Andreasson Affair
3. Pine Bush, NY – The Communion with Strieber
4. Stanford, KY – The Golden Girls of Missing Time
5. Devil’s Den, AK – Lovelace and His Sky Monsters
6. Roswell, NM – A place without abduction phenomena, but there seems to be a cool museum.
7. Snowflake, AZ – The Fire in the Sky
8. Bosler, WY – The Chosen Land and The Well

This whole trip should take me fifteen days. In each site, I will investigate any ongoing activity, interview locals, and attempt a family reunion, or, rather, a rumored reunion, during the night. The Hypothesis: If, after two weeks of effort, I am not returned to my origin, then that Wyoming dirt is conclusively my crib. If I am returned, then McGuire was right, and the end is coming. To say, my dear readers, if I never return, take that as a sign, when this world begins to crumble, get your ass to Bosler. I will be periodically updating this blog with any happenings during my journey, thoughts, and connections I make throughout. Stay tuned folks.

05_03_2023

User: Hellena7220 brought up a good point on my last post, experiencing an abduction does not definitively conclude sire. I may only be one more chord in a progression. Their ways unknown to us. Alien-Human hybridity is a matter little studied in our sciences, and conclusion of origin is not easily discovered by anyone. DNA markers failing to account for the Plan. All of this is well taken, and Hellena7220’s comments spurred a healthy discussion on what my abduction would mean writ large. Sadly, the consensus seemed to land on individual interpretation on my missing. My absence a symptom of my mental health. My absence a reinforcement of the Plan and nothing else, genealogy off topic. My absence an indicator that what I have written was too much, and the Men in Black took a perfect opportunity to kill me in the dense bushes of the local national forest. I am beginning to see the problem: absence is also absent definition. Well, while my absence may mean many things to many of my readers, it will mean one thing to me, he was right. And if I return, he was wrong. I suppose, that is the definition I apply. Though, I will remain open to varying interpretations of the moment as I travel, the Phenomenon being what it is.

05_03_2023 (1)

HAHAHAH, I want to highlight what User: Marigold7 said in regard to my earlier post, “See you on Missing 411, buddy.” Please, dear god, if I go missing, do not let that hack David Paulides ravage my absent body. Christ, I can’t even imagine.

05_09_2023

I must remember my follies of previous travels. Often, I am wracked by fear and dissociation. In Ireland, I was so distraught, I looked for my invisible friend for a half-hour before I finally remembered I was traveling alone. The forests in Wyoming would begin to whisper too coherently when I was living in my car. I need to remind myself that I am where I am supposed to be. Deep breaths. Everything is okay. Try not to wind your mind into states of abandon. We will see how this goes.

05_12_2023

I want to go home.

06_17_2023 (1)

It’s over. One thing I did not verily consider is what this narrative may look like when I returned. What happens if it’s real? What I have written before, how I have engaged with friends and family, therapists and police, all of it now speaks louder than what I experienced on the trip. I must confront that the journey, all of its strangeness, can only be real for me. All others will see is the past mixing with the end claims until the color is so varied and complex that to exorcise any kind of meaning is impossible, in their minds; where does one begin and one end? Where does the experiencer stop and the experience begin? Can we trust a lens so fractured? I sympathize with this struggle. Though, I, and only I, can know what happened, and what happened was a severing, of me with the objective, of me with the community, those former family and friends. I cannot deny the experience; they cannot deny my past. Now, we arrange ourselves in a mexican standoff, so to speak, though, I with the anxiety of death about me, the pressure of performance, and you with the boredom of entertainment, slightly so. What courage it takes to push ahead as he did. Or, possibly, what madness.

06_17_2023 (2)

Copy and past from “subscriber” message board:

user: FJericho32 : What happened? Did it happen?

user: driedel12 : It was as you said, terrifying. Fracturing.

user: FJericho32 : So you did not come back at all, did you?

user: driedel12 : I know I am home, but I feel lost.

user: FJericho32 : Then you are born, truly.

user: driedel12 : Does this ever go away?

user: FJericho32 : Do you honestly want it to go away?

user: FJericho32 : Can you imagine not having these “fractures” as you called them?

user: FJericho32 : A bit of advice, these "fractures" you feel are not, as you seemingly suspect, a breaking of "you." Though it feels this way,   (<pygame.display.update()assuredly, what's happening is a fracturing of the mask, the one that was paced on "you" at birth. You now are timeless, and that's very frightening. (<game_over=False   <Start_game_over=False>

                                 while not game_over:
           for event in pygame.event.get(New Life_New Controls):
                                    print(event) #This is now not_you. 
It is okay that you can no longer relate to something so thin and brittle as the human race. Mourn for the lose of that relationship; it's okay. But just don't wish to travel backward, don't waste your time to fantasize about technology of time and soul and manger, aluminum wombs on which to suckle falsely, taking you back to your 90s binky. Though, mourn the lose of your mask, it's okay. For it is Them that broke you, as though They say, "Time now, you are no more."

user: driedel12 : This doesn’t feel okay.

user: FJericho32 : And that’s okay, too.

user: driedel12 : What do I do next? How do I cope?

user: FJericho32 : If you find out, let me know.