Return! --
(Ode to the abducted - FINAL)
By Alfred Lehmberg
I come to myself as the ship is retreating. I wobble a bit on my knees, but it's fleeting, and fully awake (though ashamed of my faint), I'm awash with the knowledge I'd recently gained. I'm stunned, or I'm breathless, and I'm lost in new seas. I feel like weeping (but I'm off of my knees)!
That was abduction! It's so inconclusive! It's ALL liability, and all too intrusive. I'm not even sure (if at all) that I'd gone! I'd heard the strange music, but I can't *sing* the song! I can tap out the meter, recite it in verse, or craft it as artwork and not be obverse. Then, watch as it's sensed and is paid . . . no attention. If so, what the hell. It's my wage for contention. And . . . just like the subject of all of these odes, the story just told is ignored. It's the code.
That code is a guide: how to fit in your hole. How to bow and then scrape with your head in a bowl. How to fake your civility, put spin in your tale, fit in if it kills you, and ignore some detail.
I live a code to a rhythm I hear that is louder and stronger than snickers OR cheers. My path is less traveled, neoteric (or new), and my thinking's imbued with an alien view. I'd spread mental wings and I'd soar to infinity, while I question your *values* and query divinity. I'm ordered and driven, but can't give a damn if, then, what I'm expressing is missing YOU, man. So, I'll sing what I have to; I'll call it my song. I'll sing it regardless . . . though some think it's wrong . . .
Things being equal I'd rather be read. Oh, to reach out to touch a new mind with my head . . . . That you'd open _my_ bottle from out of this *sea* and then live for a moment the message perceived . . . to be of some help to a *fellow* afloat, to ease a depression, to tell a wry joke. To raise up the spirit, to praise what is good, to tease out some answers, and laugh if we could. To have some agreement, a moment of respite -- some light so the dark is a little less desperate!
But, I'll write what I write how I write when I write it. I write for myself though the subject is damned. It's honest and real and it's writ in good faith. If it won't be accepted (?) that's the way of it, Fran! But enough of all that -- that sentiment's hoary (I'll say what I say . . .), but the rest of the story . . .
I walk in my house, and everything's *normal* . . . too normal in fact, and I look at the clock. I was up there for HOURS (there's time that went missing), but *seconds* had happened back here on the block! My son hovered past me to dig in the fridge. The wife was her usual -- cool and abridged. The dog was on guard for what dropped in the kitchen . . . and I (?) . . . just a nut who had read Sitchin's *fiction*.
I'd pretend it's enough that I know it's the truth, but I'd hope for autonomy -- to study it through . . . the money to make up the difference one pays when one works for the man as his tool -- just a slave. _Your_ blessing to live where a mind is set free to work out the kinks in an ethos -- you see? The TIME I could use to implode and preclude all the ethics of misery now professed and construed . . . this the small heaven I'd have here on Earth, as the scramble then ceases between death, and my birth . . . with MORE time to ask questions, and _live_ with the answers -- express the appropriate *paintings* and *dancers*. . .To hear the new music, to live all our dreams, to get off our rock, to ride the light beams . . .
And all of it possible -- as plain as a plow! And not from mere watchers, but our own folks, right now! . . . Confronted with life forms I've numbered in space -- no "races" of humans, but just ONE human race . . . we learn to cooperate; we learn to live free -- of our hatreds, our bias . . . convenient decrees. We work for inclusion and shoot for the stars, and look for the truths, then, out there . . . where they are.
Our abducted may point to existence (brand new!), with SOME of their stories reflecting some truth. We do a disservice to treat them as fools, ignoring their plight as a joke to abuse. We must open our minds, drop the scales from our eyes, and arise to that truth some avoid and despise. It is THEN we ascend to that place in the stars . . . that is THERE, that is REAL, that is RIGHT -- that is OURS!
No -- for the (condemning) record. No. I've never been abducted. But I can sense that place out *there* that is real, right, and ours.
I think it entirely possible that there are individuals here on Earth in some kind if enigmatic contact with the *potentiality of the actuality* of that place. I know that that conjectured place is being ignored by a tyrannous mainstream, so perhaps it IS a place that can only be realized individually. This might explain the distinctly different and disparate kinds of people that appear to be engaged in this mystifying reality: the (so called) "abduction phenomenon." I don't know, but I want to. Though he heavens fall, I would know.
Sadly, were I to have been abducted, in fact -- I could not disclose that I had _been_ abducted -- society DICTATES that I can share only that it was an "idle imagination" that was borne *away*. But I would angrily, knowledgeably, and righteously speak up for thousands who DO suffer *something*, and I think that a larger part of that (undeserved) suffering is attached to the sneering denial and derisive dismissal that these folks open themselves up for when they report their peculiar and even unsettling experiences to (the intellectual cowards) that are the rest of us. It shouldn't ought'a be that way, friends and fellow motes . . . EVERYONE is done a colossal disservice.
Moreover, abductees are certainly not ALL crazy. The many that _are_ misinformed or mentally ill could be DRIVEN to it by a sociopathically motivated faction of the *purposefully* misleading. Further, abductees are preyed upon, I'd wager (ironically, from all quarters), as a result of the _authenticity_ of some of their experiences. They are (in many cases) sincere people pushed around by scurrilous liars who won't respect them -- doomed to live another hell on Earth of human design, manufacture, and implementation. They are hapless cattle to have their sensibilities butchered by anyone with an ax to grind and sniffing around for short-term personal gain. They are just another victim to be blamed . . .
Much of the tantalizingly paranormal may BE fake, brother and sister motes -- "but some of it . . . is not"! I should think that this compels your epiphany. It FEEDS mine.

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