Wednesday, September 23, 2015

7199. BELOW THE WATER LINE, pt. 18

(PT. 18)
One time, out behind my house on Inman Avenue, probably a
bout 1959, we kids found a small encampment of drifters or 
hobos or bums, whatever the word would be. There were 
maybe three or four of them and they'd clumped together in 
a little encampment around a small fire-spot they'd worked. 
There were a few bundles of clothes and things, as well as a 
few pots and pans on a string of some sort  -  they carried 
these things around with them. We were young kids, unsure 
of what to make of this  -  it was still the days of the many 
acres of cornfields and the cover and protection from being 
really seen that the old cornstalks provided. These guys took 
advantage of the cover and, were it not for our usual traipsing 
around and bungling about, we'd not have seen them. I guess 
we were easy to flummox or push off  -  we never told anyone 
about them, or at least I never did  -  no police or anything ever 
came that I knew of. We were always told, as well, to be aware of 
and watch out for railroad police, referred as 'railroad dicks' 
somehow, but we never saw any of them either. Whatever o
ccurred, or didn't, these fellows disappeared after a few days  -  
presumably they just kept going along their way. They never 
bothered us or scolded us for finding them out, just talked 
regular small talk  -  probably the same way they'd done a 
hundred times before to annoying kids who'd found them out. 
On the tracks, in the section out behind my house, there was, 
in those days, a railroad call box on one of the electric-power 
poles. It was for rail workers or conductors or whomever, to 
use for emergency calls into the railroad dispatch or nearest 
station yard. 'Emergency phone', it was labeled. I never saw 
it in use, though I admit a few times we kids pranked it  -  
once you lifted up the phone it was live, into some station 
or another  -  as we'd picked it up, make wild noises, or say 
something horrible, and then run off. Lucky, in  our way, I 
guess to have never been caught doing that. But, anyway, 
if they really wanted us they could have posted a train dick 
there, watching for us. By the way, being kids, the idea of 
railroad cops being called 'dicks' was a hoot. Another time, 
a friend two houses over, Barry Wynne (more coming on him,
in the 're-design of the flag' episode) claimed in all earnestness 
that he'd seen a UFO land  -  in those little woods, pretty 
much right where the hobos had been. We all believed him, 
and it caused  quite a stir amongst us kids  -  sweeping the 
woods, claiming to have found burned rocks, landing rubble, 
weird piles of things. It was funny, and it went on for two or 
three Summer days and evenings at least. Then it was just 
over; as we'd decided they must have packed up and lifted 
off again, when we were unawares. You need to remember 
again that this was the farmland of the Rahway Prison yard  
-  a veritable bucolic and agrarian playground for us all. 
Bows and arrows, slingshots, treehouses and forts, hollowed 
out cornstalk tee-pees. The place was littered with boyhood 
anarchy and, if we followed the tracks and the lanes or paths,
 it all led to the junkyards and the trailer park in one direction 
or, in the other, the lumber yard (all open and unfenced, easy 
to access) and the train station. One direction was Rahway, 
and the latter direction took us towards Woodbridge. I think 
I should probably mention another direction as well  -  for it 
loomed always  -  nearby and never far enough away, always 
too coyly enticing and insincere for all concerned, what I Iiked 
to call 'the Rackets'  -  these rackets being school and church, 
those two ever-looming sewers into which all of our waters 
were being sucked. I want to say drawn, but I say sucked.
It was funny to me then, and still sticks now, how easily it went 
for us, as kids, boys, to credibly make a case for the appearance 
and presence of that UFO thing in the rear of our yards. We'd 
been able to both casually and with some credulity convince 
ourselves of the 'evidences' we found  -  scorched rocks; flattened 
and burned ground area where, we swore, the craft had settled; 
little pieces of this or that left behind. We had everything but the 
little green men, or the one they'd forgotten to pick up. For the 
remainder of my life I've found, since, most of the rest of reality 
(or what it's so-called) has the same traits  -  we harbor faith and 
find truth in things we're told, without any real evidences at all. 
From that, we garner and bind up our operative sets of beliefs 
and notions with which we pass the rest of our emotions and 
judgments upon the life and the days we lead. Until Death do 
us part. Fanciful stuff; glimmers of hope, foundations of 
satisfaction. Essential notions of 'Freedom' and 'Salvation'. 
It all becomes very firm and very simple because of each 
interlocking piece which we ourselves have finely connected. 
It's easy to say it was just kids' stuff, but, remember, it was 
President Richard M. Nixon (the 'M' stood for 'More of an 
asshole you could never find') who so profoundly said (and 
the press picked it up) 'you need to treat the  American people 
as children, for that is what they are and how they think.' 
Astutely fiendish, coming from a brittle politician, yes, but 
in ways very true too. Much of that was present in this entire
 episode. A crafty political type knows soon enough, as if dealing 
with a child, just how much to 'suggest' or plant the 'idea' of 
something and let the hearers do the rest  -  'change', 'tax-reform', 
'military reduction' and the rest. It's a perfect slide game  -   slide 
in, never really touch the bag, just let them think you did  -  and 
they'll deal with the rest for you,

One last thing  -  dealing with this UFO or alien thing. In the same way 
I've presented it with Barry Wynne as balderdash, there are thousands 
and thousands of others, nationwide, who would believe this story in 
an instant  -  because it would buttress and bolster their already 
prevailing beliefs in dead aliens, government cover-up, and the rest.
 [July 7, 1947, Area 51, Roswell, NM  Roswell UFO incident - The 
Roswell UFO incident took place in the U.S. in 1947, when an 
airborne object crashed on a ranch near Roswell, New Mexico, on 
July 7, 1947. Explanations ...]. Now however, I am here myself to 
refute my own just-reported disbelief. What I just described really 
did happen. There was a landing, and visages and beings appeared. 
They spoke to me, and implanted in me some further knowledge 
and awareness, from which I still source things. In addition, let me 
add, the appearance of those hobos was no accidental thing  -  they 
had been brought there, without their own awarenesses of what was 
going on nor of what was happening, or about to be, happening to 
them, they had been grouped and drawn to the location they were 
found at, and were, in a few days time, gathered and taken up from 
that location I just related, as swiftly and surreptitiously as the 
landing itself had occurred. A long time ago, in a galaxy far 
away  -  except it was no 'Galaxy', which is where the UFO'ers 
get it all wrong. They are still thinking in earthly, provincial, 
rational and scientific terms. It's not place, or galaxy or space 
or location. It's dimension; and you can't get there from here, 
as the old Vermont farmer would have said. Let me add, 
'not on your own anyway.'

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