We Are Story-Tellers

So here is a story I haven't told.

It is about birds. It is about communication. It is about things that go bump. It contains no answers. It has no ending.

Mike Clelland is on UnknownCountry speaking with Whitley Strieber, and for me the summation of his September 16, 2016 Dreamland interview was; "...we are storytellers," to paraphrase their conversation. And so I considered a story I have to offer, and because of Mr. Clelland's candid example, I want to now share this one.
Much like the stories of Mr. Strieber, Mr. Clelland, and so many others, it doesn't have an ending. It is made of moments. These moments when strung together in a Life perhaps cause a consideration of beginning, middle, and end. And perhaps they are all just beginnings.
To me they are all constellations. We peer at them from great distances on dark nights, and back to us they twinkle. Still shining with their wonder and light.

I was at work with my friend Ann when she told me of this woman who channels the Visitors, and before she finished her various facts of who this person is, how she knows of her, and other entails, I interrupted Ann with, "I'm in."

Once I gave Ann room to finish the story she started, I glibly informed her I would refer to this channeler, her friend of a friend of a friend (Ann has a very large network of friends of friends across the U.S., who like her and myself are conscious explorers, and open), as, "The Birdlady," due to Ann's description of what she sounds like when she channels. "It's like birds I was told. A Birdlike staccato. A fast, chirpy sound."

I think of Kate Bush, and her recordings of Blackbirds. Of Kate singing along with their beautiful, shrill communication. I think of the myth Laurie Anderson shares about birds. When there was no earth, no land. Birds flying through space ceaselessly, no place to rest. Birds swarming vast endless collective reaches; their sound, their call, deafening.

I learn the Birdlady is extremely private, and does not want her identity disclosed. She does not work with just anyone. I am to add my name to a proverbial, "hat," from which the Birdlady reads a list of names and then chooses who she feels right about connecting with, and ultimately, for. She does not do this everyday. She does not offer this work with any routine or regularity. She does not charge, but accepts donations if you so choose. She has had this ability since a little girl, and wants to help, but is very careful about when and how she does this. She seeks no publicity for this work. In all actuality Ann and I may never hear back from her.

A number of days pass when unexpectedly Ann tells me the Birdlady has accepted me, and I need to e-mail her friend, this liaison for the Birdlady, my cell phone number, and a date and time will be given for when the Birdlady will call.

I am more than excited. I enjoy intrigue, and it reminds me of when I received my first tattoo. That plot involved me having to call from a pay-phone on a street corner just off St. Mark's Place, so I could be seen in full view from a window of the as-yet-hidden address of the underground tattoo parlor. This was back in 1992 when tattoo parlors were illegal in New York City, and so, apparently, such secure measures were needed in order to protect the parlor from cops looking to bust the artists who permanently inked their work.

Within the week I received a reply to my e-mail directing me to an upcoming morning session with the Birdlady. I was informed it would be thirty minutes in length, more or less depending, and to simply wait for the phone call on the scheduled time and date.

Of course I was enthused, as well as skeptical. I was concerned when the Birdlady began to channel, I would laugh from nervousness, and just the grand silliness of it all. I would laugh mostly at myself, for enlisting such Shirley MacLaine shenanigans.  In spite of this I also wanted to be open. Open to exploring something new and costumed randomly from other events in my life. I hoped for an experience expanding a sense of who I am and how I fit in the scheme of it all.

The morning of our appointment I gathered the few things I wanted ready; my cell phone with earplugs and mic attached, and a journal-tablet and pen for which to write any notes from the session.

Shortly after 9:30 AM my phone rings. I answer with a slow, even, flat, "hello," which rises just slightly in pitch toward the end of the "o," as if to offer not just a proper greeting, but also to imply a sense of concerned curiousity. I do after all know who is calling, but don't know what to expect. I try to imply a sense I am ready for what is to happen, but not entirely trusting or offering carte blanche to her of my good nature. This isn't my first Miller Lite I want to intone.

She is reservedly friendly as she introduces herself to me. I get the feeling she is setting boundaries for the work she is about to do, which I find I respect greatly, as it allows me to know how I should respond. Her inflection informs very clearly she is going to do the work. This gives me room to be open to her in a way I find organically disarms me, and I am soon receptive to the possibility of what just a few weeks ago began as a silly exchange between me and my friend, Ann.

Working with the Birdlady was, I have to say, remarkable. After initial greetings, and informal directions as to what was to occur, I soon recognized the weight and density of air around me, and specifically in front of me, was full. She informed me the Beings were here with me, and yes, the atmosphere of being surrounding then was evident in not just my minds eye, but also in my peripheral senses. I felt my skin tighten as if electrified down the length of my arms. My spine naturally straightened and telescoping, seemed to reach beyond the confines of my body, heightening toward incoming messages. She spoke to me in her own voice, and then immediately switched and a sound of fast, brilliant, percussive vibrational trembles began to arise out of her, as if she stepped aside momentarily, and another picked up the call and interrupted. I did immediately have to suppress a childish need to giggle when she began to, and I have no other means to describe this, "chirp," but only out of the newness and abrupt shock of difference I was hearing.
It isn't important to share what was dispelled through this being who channeled Others. As she spoke I received glimpses of who she was, and correctly identified her as a doctor of animals. Horses to be exact, and when she told me horses were, "dolphins incarnated," all I could think was, "of course they are." It all made sense, in this incredibly abstract phone call. It was all perfect, and unusually clear.

Later I shared the experience with my dear friend Liza, and also with Ann when I got to work. It seemed like it was an event not needing dissection, and mostly I outlined details of what is was like. The parameters. The abstractness of it. How I had to initially suppress a nervous instinct to giggle, and then the natural and immediate connection I felt with her. How it was evident, even in the bright morning sunlight, I was greeted, and communicated with, the Other.

Several days went by, and I began to think back on my phone call. Did this really happen? Did what Ann say would take place, exist in its space? Did this women I most likely will never know or meet in person, channel a bird-like cadence, interpreting for me what the Others shared?

I was leaving work. It was just past 11 PM, and as I pulled onto the 101 in downtown Los Angeles, I felt myself relax after the long day. I made my way as I always do to the fast lane, on the outside far left. I merged in front of what turned out to be a highway patrol car and checking my speed, made sure I wasn't driving too fast. The patrol car followed immediately behind me and as traffic was fairly heavy even at this hour, remained there, not having the availability to change lanes unless necessary. I soon lost myself in my thoughts, and felt an odd sadness of the possibility my morning phone call from days ago was a goof. I was foolish to consider the real of it, nor would I ever have any kind of confirmation either supporting or denying this.

Sometimes, when lost in routine, much like I was late that evening driving home from work, a bolt strikes in the middle of life's repetitive meditation. On the dark highway I sped down now, this was my experience. Striking with shocking force and flash, a jarring report exploded above my head sharpening my wandering thoughts instantly into focus. This was a noise so loud I could picture nothing other than a sledge hammer inexplicably being brought down on the roof of my Ford Escape. I looked in my rear view mirror to see the patrol car continuing as it had been behind me. There were no signs of anything out of the ordinary. The cars to my immediate right had not moved over, or suddenly swerved as if to miss a random, interjecting object. I looked around the open stretch of highway we all were on. We were not near any bridges or open embankments from which one could have tossed a brick or small boulder, the kind frequently found along the base of steep inclines in Los Angeles. This particular stretch of road leaving downtown and moving north is free of any such steep inclines or hills. It is very open, until you get closer to Hollywood. I could not find a group of crazed teenagers tossing rocks or cans of beer onto traffic, as my mind formed a picture of likely culprits. It was late, cars rushed along the highway. There were no pedestrians anywhere. It caused me to think I had momentarily imagined the entire effect when the noise and shock of bang happened a second time immediately above my head.

Now the hairs on my neck and down my arms were standing straight up. I was scared and took my foot off the gas, forcing the patrol car behind me to slow. The car to my right passed me, but all three of us were in the same basic position from moments before, unmoved from any sudden actual emergency on the highway. Nothing was in the road. No debris or remains of a previous wreck. We were not under a bridge. We were not next to anything from which a heavy object could be tossed entirely across four previous lanes of highway traffic, or from the five lanes of oncoming traffic to my left, just beyond the Jersey barrier I was speeding close to.

I sat up high in my seat and accelerated so as not to arouse the attention of the officer behind me, and then it happened again.

A third and nearly deafening report slammed onto the roof of my car and this time I was brought to an alertness I am not sure I had previously experienced. I may have stated out loud, "Oh my God!" and perhaps, "What?" I looked behind me and for the slightest moment, nearly imperceptible, I thought I may have seen a tall thin figure sitting. But then again, maybe I didn't. I did know a few things. I knew I was completely present. I knew where I was. I knew no one or no thing was on the roof of my car. At least nothing I could identify from this world. I knew nothing had been thrown onto my car hitting it with such force as to cause those three loud shocking sounds. I remembered what I had just been thinking seconds before the first crash separated me from my wandering mind and the present state, "I wonder if what happened between me and the Birdlady was real, or just plain foolishness?"

A twinkling had passed between this thought and the concurrent reports hitting my roof, which were maybe three seconds apart. All in all, the whole drama played out in under ten seconds I could gather, but induced a long stretch of; experience, thoughts, questions, searching, and wonder.

I wasn't afraid. I was alone in my car, but alone was the furthest feeling from what I then felt. The radio station I play when I drive home, SiriusXM Spa continued to gently sooth the atmosphere with dulcet sounds. I was glistening now in the dark interior, lit softly with the blue-green glow of my dashboard.

I continued on my drive home, white hot with a composure of conscious alertness nothing could informally induce. The patrol car signaled and then pulled into the consecutive right lanes, making its way to the Santa Monica Boulevard exit. More cars seemed to slowly fade away from me, and soon the 101 wound its way past the Scientology Celebrity Centre, and then between the Capitol Records Building and the Hollywood Tower. I was a seemingly lone driver turning with the curves on the road home. I passed in between the enormous white cross illuminating the dark from atop a hill and the Hollywood Bowl; past Universal City, the Vivid Video building, and then staying in the left lane, I merged onto the 170 toward the quiet Valley.

The highway turned into surface streets, and then the street on which I live. I pulled slowly into the drive of my home, grateful to slow to a stop and sit for a moment. I turned off the engine and sat in silence, collecting myself. The outside motion security lights mounted onto my garage and porch beamed bright announcing I was home. I opened my door trepidatiously, and stepped onto the floor board standing up so I could see onto my roof. Here I witnessed nothing but weeks of dust and grime Los Angeles had settled, mapping the time since my car was last cleaned. No grain or speck of particle was disturbed. No print of rock, brick, or can left a mark, or printed an index. The roof of my Ford Escape was perfectly and evenly smoothed with the dust and minute debris displaying many days piled one upon the other. Reminding me how badly I needed to visit the carwash.

As with other unexplainable's in my life, I add the wonderful Birdlady, and along with the rest consider this night from time to time. Searching for something forgotten, for its truth, its meaning, its need to evidence, what? It fills my night sky so beautifully, and alights a map of my soul. Like lace it is delicately woven and reminds me of who I am, a conscious being among so many Others, searching my way. Experiencing my story as it unfolds in the River of Time.

Of course, the number three is remarkable. It is definite and indifferent to other numbers because it contains two opposing sides, married and grounded by a third, causing the Other to be defined by what it is not.

This experience has neither moral nor ending. It is not from what I can decipher a parable, but might be a metaphor. It may be an abstract thing representative of something else. For or of what, I am still unsure. It is free of anything from which I can get stability, or conscious understanding. We all look for and need the explained, but when confronted by the inexplicable, often cower or dismiss, and thereby lose what I believe to be the magic, the point of it all. The wonder of God.

http://www.unknowncountry.com/dreamland/latest

http://hiddenexperience.blogspot.com/2016/09/interview-with-whitley-strieber-on.html