(Ode To The Abducted - Part VIII)
By Alfred Lehmberg <>
Ode Part I
Ode Part II
Ode Part III

Ode Part IV
Ode Part V
Ode Part VI
Ode Part VII
Ode Part VIII
Then they told me something interesting -- what kept them hanging 'round (forgetting they've been HERE from the beginning). It was the individuals they found were most profound, not the cultures so obsessed with merely winning. Institution was, yes, boring as it pandered to position, was slow to cop to common sense, was backward looking and contentious. Nations (?) but a travesty that work to keep their status by using up the single folk supporting them in gratis?
No -- it's the single mote of consciousness that delights but so confounds them . . . how it contests culture's stricture to survive! . . . Producing works of art that simply fall from focused fingers, and to see beyond horizons so contrived! They'd lost that, how some ever, in their time between the stars, their consciousness predictable -- the same. Though they find us most uncomfortable, and unsettling to behold, we surprise (and so transport) them; it's the way they play their game.
Not watching for *amusement* (or just to pass the time), could they watch to engineer their own survival? Their boredom's killing them, and it's US that's teaching THEM to recapture what they lost and where they're libel. Theirs, though written truly, tested faith (as they construe it), but its "reach" had met its "grasp" in empty air? For all their science magic, they are soulless, and it's tragic; they approach in trepidation -- but they dare? It's our passion they review, enthusiasm -- they're renewed, and they *like* us just as well as they are able? But not enough for trouble (which we foment, fake and fumble), so then not enough to join us at our table.
They'd think it disrespectful to disclose their wider path (?); they couldn't break their rules of intervention? It's the way they do their business that we couldn't understand, as our history is (and has been) in contention. It's them supporting secrecy (?), to wait our leaders out (?) . . . for us to issue forth from our *cocoon*? Our *leaders* keep us choked in cloaking wraps of their *tradition*, while they do not deign to wear them, this is true.
We're barely from a cradle that they see with ancient eyes. We're repellant and we're beautiful, respected and despised. We are feared by what we worship, and it's always been that way; God knew that when he *made* us; he KNEW we'd make him pay! While some have tried to slide us back to stone age modes of thought, it's most have kept the faith with them the former just *forgot*. Their *golden* rule is current; their denial is so plausible; it's up to *you* to test their faith, or perish -- as is possible.
"Any question's, Mr. Lehmberg,"? I would hear them ask again. I said, "Yes sir, but I'd bet you have no answer." I was answered to the brim right now . . . but questions come again somehow -- when answers are a question's fancy dancer.
"What, then, can I do," I asked, "with a story I can't tell -- a story all the *doctors* say is bunk? If I breath out just one word I'd be committed and interred -- buried in a rubber room, discounted . . . counter sunk. "
Well, they ushered me OUT of the room we were IN and into a mammoth sized hall. The ceiling was domed and obscured with soft mists (mists changing color) -- a carnival, or ball. And this a small space when compared to the ship (a fraction of its volume). There was nothing at ALL to hold it all up -- not a pillar, or a scaffold, or a column. And swimming and leaping or flying on by were our comrades and fellows of space. They flew and they jumped or they slithered along with a purpose, potential and singular grace . . .
But, while they're all talking a language they *speak*, and I understand all the sputters and squeaks as a music in knowledge of time and deep space, I'm impressed so completely I'm shamed and disgraced. I cannot describe all the people I found, all the shapes that they took so bizarre and profound -- how some saw with *ears*, or heard subtle color or tasted with fingers, but *knew* one another . . . and they were (yes!) there, so denial was senseless, bereft of all logic, inbred and pretentious.
. . . In addition, the smells . . . an assault to the senses of an ape (not that long) from the plains -- Afarensis. Everything's catching the eyes in my head, my ears snatched away to confusion instead. All of it's new, and exciting, and fearful in beauty so strange I am made (truly) tearful. Oh, it's too much, too fast, (and I'm not sure I like it). I'm blowing a gasket; I try and I fight it. But it's just no damn use, and I slip to the floor, mind blown and knocked cold -- out in shock . . . through the door . . .
. . . through the door.
I'd like to think I was *stronger* upon waking up from that retreating faint, and in truth history demonstrates (unintentionally) that we human beings can get used to *anything*. Even people from space. Too much has never become enough. We've _always_ adjusted to the new reality. We will adjust to this one. We will adjust to the one after THAT!
Water on Mars. Think of it, and have another epiphany.

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