AN ALTERNATIVE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE : A SPIRITUAL MESSAGE
by Paul Schroeder
by Paul Schroeder
Ghosts, seen on Block Island are only part of the paranormal show, in town.
One late September I and my wife stayed at the hotel 1661 INN at Old Harbor on Block Island for a week to celebrate a vacation where
we enjoyed an island off season, bereft of tourists from the mainland to watch an island gear down from summer and close up in preparation for the winter.
Only a few bird watchers clubs frequented the island then, for the weather was windy, cold, blustery and rainy,
storms which added to our desire to stay close to the inn and in each other’s close company.
One stormy and windy evening at ten o’clock in the evening, I went out to the backyard of the inn, tacitly to watch the view of whitecaps roiling on Old Harbor and to socialize with a pair of goats, which roamed freely on the property.
Out on the harbor, a quarter of a mile from the shore among the rolling whitecaps, I saw a flickering, blue triangular light that vanished and then reappeared a short distance from where it had been.
At first glance, it looked like the angular sail and mast of a middle sized sailing craft, a craft in distress that struggled to make headway in the stormy waters, except that this sail radiated a surreal phosphorescent light, a glow that ebbed and waned like a dying flame .
The bluish sail’s color glowed in a purplish light and then vanished completely, only to reappear another short distance from where it was last sighted.
I watched in wonder as its shifting movements made it jump from one location to another location every few seconds; its odd flickering flame glowing in a surreal sailboat triangular form, was something I’d never seen before.
It vanished completely, after a few minutes among the stormy waves, as though it had finally capsized .
The image of that strange vessel has haunted my memory for many years,
a famous Block Island ghost ship seen often in stormy weathers, by many others before and after me.
However, not until recently, some years later, having read “Livermore’s History of Block Island”, did I realize that the book’s description of an oddly lit and shifting Palatine Ghost Ship seen off Block Island is precisely what I caught and observed that windy white capped and rain swept evening.
Even odder, some Block Island ghost stories are still in the making.
(from a communique from a friend):
“I was fishing off Misquamicut Beach in Rhode Island in 1995. I was in a boat, and we watched a big cloud of smoke appear off Block Island in the distance.
What happened was that an airplane crashed into a restaurant.”
It appears that a young child, a wife and a doctor and his mother all perished en route,
in a small aircraft just before landing at Westerly Airport on Block Island.
The small plane hit a restaurant taking an additional islander life;
one small airstrip lay 500 feet parallel to a line of three coastal restaurants.
Block Island, an off-season haunt for me, now has the addition of these ghosts, for the dead often remain at the site of their violent death, ghostly additions to a place already most assuredly haunted.
There is resident talk of ghosts seen on the island, especially those spirits restless and active at the Old Town Inn, a hotel location, geographically central to the island.
I would often prefer to stay at the Old Town Inn, inspired by the stories of its often seen ghosts.
History indeed confirms that a State Senator who lived there in the early 1800’s, faced charges that he murdered his ailing mother for his inheritance, by throwing her down the long narrow stairway, a stairway still in evidence.
I surmise that he was acquitted.
But the staircase and basement area judge fate and history differently.
The owner told me that he had seen the bare bulb in the basement often spin of its own accord; it kept him and mainland workmen away from that basement.
Most locals were too leery an ilk to spend any real, required time down there, doing some essential repairs.
When restorations had initially begun, it had been noticed that all interior doors had been removed; when the new owners had queried contractors why this had been done, a disturbing answer had been returned.
The many doors’ constant opening and closing by themselves had unnerved, distracted and unsettled the mainland workmen.
They had removed the doors, and erased these house symptoms, but touched not the disease, itself.
Guests have asked the front desk about a ghostly woman, seen from their upstairs windows, a spectre who has walked in the deeper shadows of the garden at night, in a pink, long, flowing gown, who has carried a pink parasol.
She can be seen in the back garden, under a full moon, late at night, when weather conditions are perfect.
I would stay here on Block Island, despite its ghosts, because it was far from scenic views of the harbor, and from crowds of daily ferried tourists.
This central location on Block Island allowed me to be more reclusive in my wanderings, far from people, which was my nature.
I wandered among persimmon trees, apple and wild plum, across vacant meadows and fields whose scattered vestigial remnants of ancient stone foundation fragments revealed where houses once stood.
On one such long walk, a deer froze in a field to then bolt from view and
on my return to the Inn, on that same cold, windy afternoon, I saw a cat
quickly scurry under the foundation of the hotel, a cat as orange in color as the drifting early October Maple leaves.
Only the feral cats who roam the streets of Block Island know its ghosts as permanent residents, lost and not yet found.
Block Island’s feral cats, independent and grateful creatures, like solitary ghosts, have astonished me in the oddest ways.
Whenever New York City snow drifts high enough to seal all the doors and windows of February, I conjure an image of frozen kittens cuddling in the Rhode Island icy snow.
That image haunts me, though I’ve never seen it.
I was informed when I inquired at the inn, that she was feral and would have to over winter on the island alone, that she belonged to no one and had recently had a litter somewhere under the cellar.
The staff, who took pity on her and who fed her, would soon leave by early November.
The hotel wouldn’t re-open until mid April; in deep winter snows, with a new litter of kittens, she would be on her own.
I was moved to go into town to buy some canned cat food and these I presented to the kitchen staff who cared for her.
I was told that I could
feed her myself, as she was just outside the kitchen, awaiting a handout..
I opened two cans and spoke to her, watched her as she fed.
I wondered aloud to the kitchen staff what fate might bring to those kittens when heavy winter snow lay against the outside of those abandoned
kitchen doors, all winter long.
Later, about ten o’clock in the evening, I heard a knock on my door that stopped my writing and upon opening the door, I found the chef outside, smiling warmly.
He asked me if I could follow him down to the kitchen.
She had, he said, been grateful to me and had brought me a ‘thank you’ gift, in eloquent cat artistry.
A large, dead marsh rat lay by the back kitchen door, fully displayed, on the welcome mat.
Puffed up and very proud, she paraded back and forth over it, purring and repeatedly making eye contact with me.
She had caught it and then she had brought it to me, as thanks, but also as a token.
It had somewhat assuaged my anxieties about her and her broods’ chances of survival, facing an icy cruel winter, with no food, alone on the island with only ghosts, as her company..
show of gratitude and
resiliency, all of which unfurled her fearlessness.
and she, bereft of food,
with new and hungry kittens to feed, would face a winter
of killing blizzards.
Just before my grandmother on my mother’s side died at the age of 95, I whispered a kiss in her ear and thanked her for her wisdom.
One odd piece of advice, that she had taught me when I was a child, I had carried close to my inner ear, all of my life.
It had been an Independence Day warning, borne of a distant Russian wisdom, one that she had whispered to me four decades ago, when I was nine or ten years old, impressionable and the apple of her eye.
The imprecation that I got from her, the warning whispered in my small rapt ear when I was nine or ten years old had been an odd warning that ruled and guided my life, and through angst, had come to define a larger part of what I called my soul.
Now, she at ninety-five was far from that woman who in giving advice could be ironic and poetical.
She had used lipstick as a rouge to color her cheeks and then decided that her whole face was of a pallor that also needed color, rubbed lipstick all over her face.
She was quite a shock when I got onto the seventh floor of the retirement home and turned the corner and saw her sitting in a wheelchair, as though apparently waiting for me.
She earnestly asked with a childlike innocence if I could bring her some new makeup and some big diamond jewelry for her to wear to dress herself up, when I visited her next?
Cautiously, I had asked her, skeptically dubious ;”What type of diamond jewelry?” She had said;
“Expensive, fancy jewelry.”
She labored under the delusion that she was in a hotel in Miami, one that slouched in basic standards;
“The meals at this hotel are terrible, but what is a person to do?”
She did not ever surmise herself to be in a nursing home near the beach in Coney Island, Brooklyn.
A person’s senior mind can lend a type of psychic anesthesia that acts in many ways to protect it from uncompromising and painful truths. .
Now I was an odd adult.
I wanted her to know that I loved her, how her whisper had returned years later as my gratitude.
I had loved to cherish ideas; a rare few philosophers had touched my early soul .
Dr. Seuss had barely competed with grandma.
But, he wrote : “Be who you are and say what you think, because those who matter don’t mind, and those who mind, don’t matter!”
My other odd philosopher was sitting here in her wheelchair, armed and propped with a pillow/ alarm that would audibly alert nurses in the retirement home if she pitched forward and left her chair’s upright fixed position.
She was different the next time I saw her, the way she used to be ;
” Hello, Paul; sharp as a matzoh and twice as crummy!”
“How come you don’t call your grandma more often? Humph!!”
“Humph;You going to wait until I’m in the cemetery and THEN you’ll visit me?”
“I’m sorry, that you’ll be sorry, but THEN it’ll be too late!”
This was the same verbatim greeting that I had gotten from her over the years over the telephone . I presumed that I was calloused to it all.
It always deeply riddled me with guilt but I never let her know, but instead I saw it rather as a good sign that she was still feeling feisty.
When she successfully aimed ring-toss-Velcro-guilt in my direction, I rationalized, she must be feeling much better.
I quickly tried to change the subject; ” Grandma I remember that boardwalk we can see here in Brighton Beach from a time when you were fifty years old and I was about nine years old and I still remember the good advice that you gave me, back then.”
“What advice did I give you?”
I told her.
It had stayed with me for many years as a token of her wisdom.
“You brought me to you on a bench on that boardwalk, in Coney Island, on a hot 4th of July afternoon, when the whole family was there suddenly hugging and kissing each other,
“Don’t get too close to people; you’ll catch their dreams,” You told me.
“What?”, she said, so I told her again;
“Don’t get too close to people; you’ll catch their dreams.”
“OH!”, she said,”I am VERY sorry, if I ever told you that!.”
“I AM very sorry.”
I reminded her, however, what an impact she’d had on me then.
“That whisper, as a recommended life philosophy, was both poetry and true and that, your advice, really stayed deeply with me.”
Taken to heart, it had allowed me to remain aloof and separate from everyone, as a type of self protection, to preserve my OWN dream.
She looked at me as though I were some stranger in a dream.
I said it, again;
“Don’t get too close to people, you’ll catch their dreams.”
She was thoughtful and then looked worried.
“I never told you THAT.” …
“You shouldn’t get too close, because…”
“Germs”, she said.
” I said that you’ll catch their GERMS.”
“I told you and your sister MANY times;
“Don’t get too close to people, ’cause you’ll catch their GERMS.” she said, again.
That wrong belief had overshadowed every relationship in my life with an ambivalence and a craving to just be left alone.
If one was alone, one was safe from what people could do to you, I had always reasoned.
But, I had been running away from my own shadow.
Two marriages and a dozen influenza later, I had realized her truth, too late.
by Paul Schroeder
Q: “When were you first aware of aliens?” / “what’s your first recollection of aliens?”
I shall never forget my first alien abduction recollection; I was about six years old or perhaps a little younger.
As a child I saw alien entities rarely described anywhere in alien related literature.
For many years of research on this subject I had until much later in life, never come across similar descriptions by any other alien abductee or anyone else who has described someone else’s experiences with alien entities.
Now, I know that these tiny E.T. creatures are ubiquitous and closely associated with other entities , who abduct human beings aboard craft.
Two tiny, wizened aliens came for a visit with me late one summer night at ten o’clock in the evening and must have stunted my growth by scaring the bejeebers out of me, when I was a very young child.
This happened a short while after both parents had put me safely to bed for sleep; I remember being awake and listening to the night symphony sounds of crickets and katydids chirping loudly on Shore Road, an apartment overlooking the Narrows in Bay Ridge.
I recall that I was wearing my pajamas and that I was in bed, alone and wide awake in my bedroom.
Two astoundingly diminutive non human creatures hovered outside my fourth story bedroom window, an apartment window which had no fire escape or ledge.
They appeared no larger than 12 inches long, from alien head to alien toe.
They were puppet like with small wrinkled, wizened, gnome like miniature features on little heads which were completely encased in what clearly looked like glass see-through diving / space helmets.
(In retrospect, they apparently did not seem to breathe our atmosphere’s particular oxygen and mostly nitrogen air mixture.)
There were two of them, floating outside of my window tapping on my window screen!
They were dressed in small, snug, tight fitting silver/gray reflecting flight suits.
I recall that their tiny helmet encased faces were very ugly and most wrinkled.
I can see them, still, as though I were fully back in that moment..
They bobbed and hovered, just outside of a fourth floor apartment’s flimsy ill fitting wooden window screen, tapping on the window above with little hands!
Ugly space puppets in glass helmets and flight suits!?
Again, a slightly stronger tapping at the screen.
It grew strangely silent, all insect sounds suddenly ceased, a bizarre quiet when aliens electromagnetic craft are close by, which has since been labeled, the “Oz effect”
A large dresser-bureau was between my bed and the window.
I leaned the front part of my body sideways off of the bed and almost halfway to the floor and twisted my head to see around the bulky piece of furniture, to
peer out towards the window.
Suddenly scared, I could also no longer hear the television sounds coming from the living room in the next room where my parents were watching television, audible just moments before .
Two ugly, miniature, dark, puppet like, clear helmet-encased, gnome-like non-human creatures, stared back at me through the window!
As they bobbed gently up and down in midair, I heard a conversational exchange between them, the sounds of which I have not forgotten for fifty years since:
It was a buzzing sound like hornets in a jar.
I recognized, even then as a very young child, that they were talking to each other, first one then the other, back and forth, a conversation without words in an odd hollow buzzing exchange; it sounded just like angry bees in a glass jar
My eyes opened wide and I shrank back in fear and pulled the blanket over my head.
Nothing this wildly astonishing had happened to me before and the fear almost stopped my breath;
I was so filled with fear that I could scarsely breathe.
My mouth and jaw instinctively fell wide open in awe and terror.
Then an idea surfaced and repeated itself:
” It’s critters who want in, but it’s not possible”, I thought, in abject denial, and I dived under the blanket.
I could not at all accept, and was without any frame of reference, for what I was seeing!
A tapping on the screen.
On impulse, I drew the blanket away from my head and peered around the corner of the bed, but raw
fear insisted that I peek and not expose my whole head, to their view.
I quickly swung around to peek, still in abject disbelief, out of the window.
Two pairs of eyes looked back intently and
there was a tapping on the screen.
I exploded backwards into the bed in panic and threw the blanket over my head, this time paralyzed with panic.
Electric waves of fear ran across my forehead and down my arms.
I was so filled with fear that I could scarcely breathe.
“I could have imagined it”, as a thought echoed in my skull
but I could not bring myself to look again, my fear was so great.
I huddled in the corner of the bed terrified, in agony of a terrible dilemma.
I was too scared to think about calling my parents; I wanted to believe that these creatures hadn’t seen me, though I had seen them.
My dilemma was unique:
If I didn’t look again, my young mind stunningly realized, I would never want to believe that what I saw, was really real, and soon my curiosity burned as strongly than my fear.
But, if I looked again, and they were still there, I could lose my mind to fear!
I peeked again.
They hovered, bobbing in air, staring back at me!
In what may have been a child’s hysterical reaction to an experience of extreme high strangeness, or alien mind control, I immediately fell fast asleep.
I’ve no notion of what happened after that moment.
Those tiny gnome-like aliens, no bigger than 15 inches or so, are now associated with greys and with human abductions, I have, in later life, learned.
Reptilians, small darl greys, and tall grey aliens have always been here, and UFOs are as native and terrestrial to our planet as are thunderstorms.
They cloak their presences, and do use the same astral dimension that ghosts and demons, use to enter and exit our physical reality.
The lower Earth animal forms seen as reptiles, mantids, amphibians, felines and lepidoptera insects are mirrored and echoed by the higher technological forms seen aboard craft by abductees, life-forms who have lent their DNA, eons ago to create this preserve.
That’s why ‘Earth’, is the rare jewel of varied life, that it is, it is among countless dead worlds.
We, too, are constructs of their menu’s creative meddling, edible simians who knot neckties and ride public conveyances.
But as a product, humankind is much more than mere served meat on a reptilian luncheon plate, because our spiritual essences, something as a race of beings, we are barely aware of, is also harvested:
When people ask them,”Where are you from?” “Where do you come from?”, they are often told,”We come from within.”
That is, after physical abductions, their possessing energies are deposited, not unlike the lamprey parasites that they are, within the multi layered human psyche/mind.
Director of CIA, Admiral R.H. Hillenkoetter: “It is time for the truth to be brought out in open Congressional hearings. Behind the scenes, high-ranking Air Force officers are soberly concerned about UFOs. But through official secrecy and ridicule, citizens are led to believe the unknown flying objects are nonsense. To hide the facts, the Air Force has silenced its personnel.” p. 58, quoted from New York Times, February 28, 1960, p. L30
Must one be crazy to dance,
I thought long and hard about that statement, approached it from different angles of thought and pondered it.
Orthodox Hasidim Jews, believe that wild dance, ensemble, is a way to approach sublime Divine attainment, most tribal and ancient.
Is it the case that
those who were deaf, could not hear the music and thus thought the dancers insane?
What makes a person gyrate sexually in front of strangers? I finally accept that dancing is publicly symbolic sex, with the exception of Lambada, which IS sex, most graphic in public.
Lap dances and belly dances enthrall men as consummate sex fantasies unfurled, and these reside deep within our psyches.
Men who routinely go to “topless” bars to watch naked women dance, harbor a wild and degrading fantasy, an addictive stimulant, that seems just as unwholesome as public sexual gyrations to music.
But sex, in public?!
Why do you think that men are so very willing to buy ladies drinks?!
“On-stage dance takes from sexuality practices “off-stage” and imaginatively stylizes them and possibly reinforces or challenges these practices that include expressions of sexual identity and attraction, flirtatiousness, friendliness, exhibitionism, eroticism, and love-making.”
(Hanna, Journal of Sex Research / March-June, 2010 )
Would one who is a Buddhist and contemplative, dance or would he resist the impulse as unabashed sexy exhibitionism?
After all, what is,”sanity”, if “no sane man dances”?
Drinking alcohol during a “cocktail hour”, before public dancing at such affairs may assist the temporary insanity inherent to very public sexual gyrations called dance.
Sexual unabashed exhibitionism?
I can often resist the impulse to publicly gyrate, or to circle dance or line dance amidst a large group of people by recalling Twain’s sentence.
But, if dance is truly symbolic sex, the horizontal mambo, then group dancing brings to mind another quote:
“Sex between two people can be a wonderful thing, among ten people, it’s just fabulous!”
To me, having unabashed multiple polygamous sexual partners is demonstrated by line dancing.
Dancing in public, however symbolically obscene in its blatant sexual gyrations, is not likely to expose one to HIV or STDs.
For one like me who will not dance, I wonder about the biological absurdity of dance and of sex, for many species have dance-specific mating rituals wherein if the dance is wrong, the mating doesn’t happen..
There has to be a more dignified way of expressing your deep love and affection for another human being, because despite our spirituality,
the human body is a odd marvel, in that it has its waste disposal plant, immediately next to its amusement park.
But these days, older and more jaded,
I’m a cheap date, for myself, and even after sexy-self-love, I don’t even take myself out to dinner or to a movie..
“Want to dance?”
Since public dance is blatantly sexual and thus, embarrassing, in public,
I and Twain, shall instead, sit this one out.
IN THE BATTLE OF THE SEXES, CAMOUFLAGE PREVAILS
“Sex is not the answer.