Part One: Of Supraterrestrial Gods and Apes

Dedicated To John Keel.

The Evolution of Dragons To UFOs
We forage the forest..we scan the skies to no avail. Ensnared by a quest for proof, we assume a naturalist stance in a new variation of spontaneous generation. Skunk Apes come from swamps, anomalous craft come from outside our atmosphere, because it must be so. So onward we slog, ridiculed, prone to infighting and self referential prophecies that lead back to a deep rooted desire to fill in the blanks. Which story do you prefer?

Trick or Treat. We are in the midst of a supra terrestrial race who don the guise most appropriate to the observer. Our ancestors were taught by the fish men. Dragons breathed fire that illuminated the clouds in the night sky as they flew toward some presumed lair. We several centuries later are taunted by the Norwegians, The Greys, the Dwarf Gnomes, Homid Apes...name your choice in a circumstantial game of antidotes. We share this terrestrial location with a superior race of chimeras.

They fractionate consensus with a flick of the wrist. They can deconstruct our sciences by mere appearance. They have us gabbing in self referential circles.

We are destroying their habitat. They wander among us as they wandered along in the receding past. Fairies if you like. Dragons if you prefer...how about a steam powered airship? Care for a flying wedge these days? How about an Ape? Are the Fishmen about to return and reorient us by stepping out of the ocean again?

We now call this game a quantum mechanism which has replaced magical power in our lexicon. Same difference.

They are demiurgic which entails a stewardship that can remodel a planetary environment as we would wallpaper a room. The Supraterrestrials share their referential locality with a madhouse of self destructive lunatics.
I don't envy their position but I do their patience.

Perhaps in a hundred years, the myth of the Flying Saucer and the myth of the Goat Sucker will be the folklore tales that are ascribed to we contemporary primitives as much as we ascribe little credibility to the tales of our forebears. How to design a living myth. We can't say "Let's go visit Enoch...." Alright what exactly did you see? Were there witnesses?Where is your proof? Why the apparent schizophrenic apparitions and tales? Were our forebears deluded to the point of hallucination?

Would someone say the same of us when reading our own narratives? Are we taking a position of presumed superiority as if we were more cogent?

The lack of proof is their best friend,it's enabling principle. They give you as a gift an incredible tall tale that turns to dust in the rays of the morning sun.

We are left with nonsensical additions toward our own confusion.... in regard to our own position in this game. The Supraterrestrials may whisper; SShhh...not in front of the children. Here there be Dragons.

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats.
There we've hid our fairy vats
Full of berries,
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O, human child!
To the woods and waters wild
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than
you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by farthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands, and mingling glances,
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap,
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away! O, human child!
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than
you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes,
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout,
And whispering in their ears;
We give them evil dreams,
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Of dew on the young streams.
Come! O, human child!
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping then
you can understand.

Away with us, he's going,
The solemn-eyed;
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hill-side.
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast;
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than
he can understand.

WB Yeats The Stolen Child.