Profane Exegesis: UFOrb/Vision in the Night

Robert K Hogg

Standing looking out the big windows on our landing by the

stairs. I liked it when it was dark outside. We lived on the top
floor. Maybe that was the reason I preferred to stand on the first
landing. That I couldn't fully relax, get into that contemplative
state I had begun to get into the habit of because it was directly
below our door of the flat. I say 'our' but I was only tolerated
there. The thought it might open any moment, unexpectedly. But
I never thought of it consciously like that. The anxiety was as
much subliminal, purely psychological, a deep sense of unease, of
uncertainty, as soon as I was in their presence. Not the way it
should be but it was the way it was and little could be done about
that. Sometimes the strain felt almost surreal, it could be so
intolerable The situation overall; feeling trapped, almost
suffocated on both sides, home and school. Every side, if I'd
really thought about it, but there was much I was in denial about.
But my feelings couldn't be ignored; they told the truth, of the
sense of oppression, of how things weren't right; there were few
things that were normal here. It was all about them, and their
lives. No one ever talked to you normally, like I imagined a
normal person should, asking you how you were getting on, if you
were happy, how are things at school, at home, with friends etc.?

I'd probably have resented that last part anyway. Friends I

could figure out, cope with. It was psycho kids and psycho adults
come to that, who were the problem. But apparently they didn't
exist or there was nothing I should be concerned about, as no one
else was, so where was the problem? We all had out trials to go
through, and everyone had theirs. Why be over-sensitive about it,
rock the boat. Nothing could be done anyway. Best to avoid it all
as much as possible, school too, only they cornered me for that.
They all took it personally, as if I had truanted to slight them
personally, and obviously thought I was cleverer than them, that
I'd never be caught, again and again. As if I thought that far
ahead. You'd think that by the seventh time, they'd realize there
might be problem of some kind., instead of giving me nine of the
strap on the hands. Her boyfriend pounced on it to browbeat me,
knowing he had all the authority of the state behind him, if no
authority himself, but with enough bluff, lies, mustered self-
righteous conviction, he could believe his own bullshit, then, in a
moment of fake humility, say “Imagine me, giving anyone
advice”... as much for my mum's benefit, suddenly, in her
presence, feeling like the hypocrite he was, but that was only to
set the scene, give him the pretext he needed with her permission,
however implicit. I was getting too old for her to smack around
now, too strong, “wiry”, as she put it. But where brute hostility
was obliged to give way, and become a convenient thing of the
past, guilt and emotional blackmail would take its place and allow
them to indulge in the fantasy that these neurotic boors, these
drunks, were responsible, conscientious adults, when in fact, they,
like the school were only covering their tracks; too childish for an
admission of failure; that was beyond them, any of them.
It was relevant they indulged themselves in almost constant
sneaky attacks, put-downs. At school it was a matter of course, a
part of the humour of teachers, and self-conscious to an
excruciating fault at times, my sense of self feeling shot to pieces
– and adolescence is when you're in the process of trying to
develop one – it was the last thing need, natch. And you knew
they were taking the piss, as it was perfectly understood you
weren't expected to say anything back. They knew they were
hiding behind their authority, taking liberties and you knew and
knew they knew you knew it but there was nothing you could, do,
and that was the fins part for them at least, nor could it be
discussed or even touched on as that would bring it out into the
open, as keeping that hidden, in unspoken collusion between all of
them was the premise on which it was based. It was latent much
of the time in any case. And Lynne was gone. Not that I thought
about her much, if at all now. I wasn't aware of how much it
affected me. It was simpler not to think about it; nothing could be
done about that either. It was as if everything was set up to be
impossible, to be screwed up, too much effort. That's even if you
got beyond the adolescent hurdles by your own bootstraps. Then
they would be there ready to interfere in any case, not leave it
alone. For me it was set up to never come about and that's how it
was. If it had, it would be in secrecy too, just to get some peace,
take things in at my own pace, but that would be seen as a
personal affront too, trying to pull another fast one, the wool over
their eyes. no wonder their world was so fucked; they were all
crazy. But I'd yet to consciously formulate such a viewpoint.
Sometimes I felt so tired, strained, as one afternoon when I got
back from school and thankfully there was no one around, as I
preferred, and stopping the lobby for a moment to close my eves I
felt my consciousness fade into a kind of nothingness. This had
happened a few times over a period of time, only this time when I
opened my eyes everything was still black. For a horrible moment
of semi-disbelief I wondered if I was going blind. Then things
came back into focus. One too many smacks on the head perhaps,
whether intentionally or by accident. Sometime later, I found if I
concentrated while I was watching some TV in the sitting room
with my mum's bo, I could get everything in my surrounding field
of vision to gradually fade into grey, waveringly, until there was
only the TV, then only the picture on the screen.
When I was at primary school our teacher had once got us to
focus on objects in the classroom, bright with sunshine, saying
that if we looked long enough, we would see a bright outline
surrounding it, but we wouldn't see it right away; we had to
concentrate, then it would take shape; and she was right. I don't
recall any other pupil saying they couldn't see it but I was glad I
did. I hadn't really expected to. I think now even other classmate
felt the same. But in a way it wasn't so surprising to me; no more
remarkable than seeing the after image of the frame of any of the
big windows if I looked for a few seconds. Often the image
seemed to change colour. They kept changing as I closed my eyes
and the image was there. I could also take a 'snapshot' of anyone I
focused on, to examine in mind at relative leisure for a short
period of time, as if the image was frozen in time and memory.
No one ever mentioned things like this, but I assumed everyone
could do it. I could only do it with faces though, nor was my
memory better than anyone else's. Worse in some ways, as I was
forever daydreaming, easily bored.

Too many people. There were always people around, no real

sense of privacy. Feeling sometimes as if the parries between
certain friends and me were artificial, that were were one and the
same, united by humour, the joy of life, a sense of life as it could
be. But most of the time, dull dull dull, feeling alone with people,
the ones who ruled over me, feeling no sense of connection,
except that they were people. They may as well have been from
another planet, or I may as well be. I could enjoy sitting on my
gran's stairs for an hour at a time, when she was out, waiting until
she got back. I could sit and read and mull over what I'd read to
my hearts content and frustration, still feeling that whatever I read,
there was something missing. Too obscure too put my finger on,
but as confused with the thought of sex, and love, as I'd yet to
overtly experience them with another person, but neither would
through much light on the mystery of existence. If anything, I
knew it might only complicate it. Both meant getting involved in
someone else's life, someone else's story, and I would form an
opinion of them – a mystery at the moment, and they would form
one of me. I wasn't sure if I'd like that. What if I went too far,
revealed too much of myself, made a fool of myself? I had no
idea what the progression should be, what the next move was. I
thought too much. It forever got in the way. But I liked some of
my thoughts, at least insofar as I could form them and shape
questions at leisure, through my reading, such as the books on
Astrology I helped myself to from the shelves of McColl's at the
top of Whitehall Street. As always I had one subject of study to
hand; myself. The books could be remarkably accurate about
what I felt I knew about myself. I could also feel life wasn't
completely passing me by, as this was all necessary study, self-
examination for it, and I could balance it out with continuing to
read popular studies in psychology, such as in the Teach Yourself
series, and the Psychology Today magazines in the small format I
enjoyed so much; they were more anecdotal in a way the more
formal studies weren't. The Penthouse Letters, in book form, their
books on the physiology of sex; more Marvel comics, horror
comics, sci-fi novels I tried to read while walking to and from
town, preferredly H G Wells; cartoon books, MAD books and
mags, books on birds and their eggs, adventure stories for kids,
Asterix The Gaul, books on the paranormal and UFOs, studies on
Witchcraft, A History of Torture. Pretty much everything we were
never taught at school, I could read. Kit Pedlar's Mind Over
Matter; this shortly before Uri Geller was on Parkinson, the talk
show. Or walk around at the weekend or on the way to a paper
round when I got one, and read about alien abduction and people
coerced into having sex with aliens, such as Villas Boas, as well as
some people experiencing terrible injuries or even death in their
encounters with the spaceships of supposed extraterrestrials;
comparisons with verses in the Bible and description of
sightings.

It was all fascinating stuff, though I very rarely got through a

whole book on these subjects. Music came closest to expressing
what I felt was something inexplicably missing in my life, and
could even give the illusion of satisfying the sense of lack of loss.
Or it could intensify it. That was the strangest and most
wonderful thing about music. At it best, it reminded me that
everything I needed was somehow inside me. Love could become
synonymous with music, even if I had yet to explore classical
music in any consistent way. Contemporary, rock and pop had
always done it just as well for me. In periods of ennui, alone in
our room, feeling listless, no TV for distraction or interest, and no
book I felt like reading, I could at least play music in our room
once I'd gotten a cheap cassette player. Usually I would play some
Bowie; that always improved myt mood. Sometimes I'd make an
evening of it, playing his whole ouvre to date, on albums. I didn't
know anything about bootlegs. Later I'd catch Procul Harum on
In Concert. I liked the way their music could conjure up a sense
of other times and places, though no one combined a better wit
and sense of irony combuibed with nostalgia, trhan Bowie. But
Deep Purple In Concert was incredibly exciting. Delivering
newspapers on my round in a kind of haze, I felt slightly delirious
with excitement and optimism, their blistering guitar solos and
vocals still rattling around in my head. It was all new. Everything
was new, or could be. A reminder that my increasingly
circumscribed daily existence wasn't the whole story, and never
would be. Not just because of the thought I could do music
myself one day, but of the very existence of it in the world.
Catching Bowie#s John I'm Only Dancing video on Top f The
Pops had much the same effect, if more subdued, until the
Cracked Actor documentary was broadcast. Listening to Deep
Purple could make me feel I might cope with anything. I would
use them as a mood lift, playing them at lunchtime when the house
was empty. I could indulge in my fantasies by posing in the
mirror to the music, feeling it was like a secret dream, blissfully
unaware thousands of kids across the country did exactly the same
thing, if not always to the same music. But no mater how much it
may have lifted my mood I always knew that circumstances, life,
school, weighed too heavily on me. Too much of a constant sense
of threat, from petty sleights to blatent humiliation in the guise
of...
Anything might happen. I would invent makeshift scenarios,
pounce on some insight that came to me, tell myself I would hold
onto it forever, that I'd never be uncertain, dfearful, shy again from
this point onwards. But it never lasted. I did same with avoiding
cracks in the pavement, trying to convince myself by some
magical process, that when I had covered a certain amount, just a
few yards in front of me without mishap, then my life would be
changed, I'd have entered into another consciousness, another
reality entirely, if still this one. And anyway, other people seemed
to function well enough. Not the bullies and wiseacres and
neurotics I was obliged to cme into daily contact with, but the
artistes, the performers, authors I didn't know Scientists were a
bit of mystery to me, as were any thoughts of academia in general,
though if they were anything like most adults around me. I'd
explore it in the future, perhaps. I liked what I liked, even if I had
a lot of trouble envisaging how it may ever come about. I over
thought everything, looking for certainly before I might [plunge
into anything, if I ever would. I couldn't imagine any other way of
doing anything. My life veered between being permanently on
hold and a kind of reckless optimism as if I were invulnerable or
just wanted to smash through everything, throwing caution to the
wind. In my third year there, I simply stopped going to school for
the most part, though the process was gradual. The horseshit
would never stop or be stopped, and anyway, life was too short.
I'd enjoyed reading Wells' The First Men in the Moon in the
cloakroomat llunchtimes when it was quiet, sightingng on the
radiator keeping my arse warm, uncomfortablele as it was. The
daily stupidities and arrogance, pointless lessons became
increasingly irrelevant to me. It wasn't about me at all, it was all
about them, And I knew, somehow, in essence, that as much as
they insisted on making their business my business, I knew it went
nowhere and was nothing to do with me. There was a whole
world out there, or with books and ideas, a whole to explore inside
myself. They were in a closed loop, stagnant, life-negating for the
most part, boring, petty-minded. Just big kids in adult bodies
keeping the status-quo and using the authority thay'd been
allocated as an excuse for wearng you down, breaking your spirit;
which seemed an impossiblity to me and anti-life. I knew there
was more to life than personality and ones job and their estimation
of me, and if they couldn't see that, then it must mean they
couldn't see it in themselves or refused to, or they they did see
something in me, then they were compelled to test it or destroy it,
however subtly, incrementally.. I knew I had to get out if I could.
For the same reasons, I also had the sneaking suspicion it was as
much of a conspiracy as an unfortunate conglomeration or
converging of events at times. It was too convenient. Nor should
they be taking everything so personally, even if I was incapable of
articulating my own conflicts. And anyway, it was blatently
obvious they weren't genuinely interested. I would never put
myself up to such people.
Simply put, my life was my own or should and the longer I
went along with it the longer I was allowing them to waste my
time and as my life was made up of momets in time, that meant
they were wasting my life. They were fools. There were more
interesting minds out there I could spend time with, mine
included. They'd have to tie me to a desk or lock me up to keep
me inside. I was done with it. Free meals at lunchtime included.
It was embarrassing lining up in the morning in the dining-room
for a ticket anyway, with the girls in line on the other side. More
than I could bear, my dear. Who cared about their rewards system,
their 'qualifications?' It hadn't made them better human beings.
None of it was worth aspiring to that I could see. Or it would be a
unavoidable sacrifice under the circumstances. They probably
knew that. The choice few resented me on every level anyway.
Grudging respect for having taken care of myself as best I could
when obliged to stand up to the psychos and wiseacres and from
them too, but you knew they were always biding their time,
waiting to make their move. There were a whole number of
reasons to pull the rug from under the whole scam, extricate
myself, get the hell out when I can. Odd how the boors, the
bullies were mostly still there during the periods I was temporarily
cows, obliged to be there, back in the jug again. The psychopaths
were invariably good atendees. Staying away was an unequivocal
statement on the whole set up, no pun intended. As likely because
I'd had an an experience that made it unequivocally clear that the
world, life, existence wasn't at all what it seemed to be or they
assumed it was. I was to forget it as quickly, blot it out of mind
perhaps, but on some level I never forgot it. I knew what I knew.
To be forgotten, then remembered again. Bit it's all too simple to
make sense of events; see meaningful, linear progresions in
retrospect. Most it it was subconscious if anything. But Lynne
was gone, which was probably just as well. There was little else
to keep me there.
______________________

Looking out of the windows on the stairs again, enjoying my

slightly strange state of mind, as if in a state of expectation,
waiting for something to happen. Nothing ever happened. It was
almost akin to music. If I were so inclined I could dismiss it as a
simple fascination with the stars. They were impossibly far away,
but close enough to see, undeniably real, yet too far away to grasp
their reality. The world was a strange place to be. The very fact
of being alive was inexpressibly strange. No one seemed to be
aware of this. Or didn't talk about it. Others took it for granted.
These clever idiots at school and the rest. Their mundane
environment and lives were everything to them. It was all about
inflating their own importance. They were so sure of themselves,
and their place in the world, and by extension, they 'understood'
the world.
The only exception had been our maths teacherr, Mr Heggie, a
bald,ineffectuall,kind-heartedd little fellow that no one
tookseriouslyy, even the gilts. The mediocrities would take the
piss in his class. I felt a bit sorry for him. I liked him, but had
taken him to be pretty dull until one afternoon, when for some
reason he had said that there would be many we didn't believe
now that would be commonplace in the future, such as men
travelling to currently impossible locations in space by molecular
displacement. The mediocrities laughed at this. They probably
assumed he'd been watching too many Star Treks. But I felt very
excited by this as if a part of my mind had lit up or the word had
become slightly brighter for a moment. Interesting ideas could
have that effect on me. I think it was the fact that a person had
said it, and right in front of me. It brought it out of the realms of
mere fantasy if an adult authority figure took it seriously Maybe it
was more than fantasy. I think he said it because he got annoyed
at them. It was his way of saying they that in their conceited,
egocentric little world, they didn't know shit I knew he was right.
I wished that our whole educations could be like this. Algebra
was so boring. Though I found I quite enjoyed it when I
understood it better through swotting for an exam. I failed
anyway.
Later, though I barely went to our English class, though Mrs
Rollo was alright, I forgot I'd done a test some time before, and
happened to turn up for the results and she read out our results as
she handed the papers back out. I got over 70 percent, so that was
quite amusing or gratifying. I noticed one or two of the more
intelligent girls like 'Franny' Hablett looking over in mild
bemusement. Marginally above mediocre, but impressive enough
to the ragbag collection that made up our class. Some got well
under 25. I found that equally impressive. I bumped into her in a
pub when we were twenty-one and she brought it up. “You were
never there!” she laughed, in pretend exasperation.

We got to bed quite late as usual, 11pm or thereabouts.

Enough time to chat quietly, joke, ruminate, whatever, before
drifting off. My bro and me slept in the same room, separate beds
now. I liked going to bed. Pulling the covers over me
protectively. It was a respite from the world. I didn't have to
concern myself any more with what anyone thought of me. That
was the trouble with wishing you could blend into oblivion and
have no self-image at all. It didn't matter what you did, you would
always have an image, a persona. And the more non-descript I
tried to be at times the more self-conscious I became about it. I
couldn't even truly escape in dreams as they represented the same
paradoxes and fears, but being dreams, I often found myself in
situations that were so diffused with strangeness and love it was as
if their purpose was to supply what I had thought or believed weas
missing. But I didn't think of them in such terms then. What
preoccupied me was how I could be so taken in, how my emotions
could seem to be so real in what turned out to be only a dream.
Not only that, but but however strange or outlandish the dream,
my emotions were just as convincing, as vividly real and intense
as the dream. Each seemed to reinforce the other. I enjoyed the
dream-world as much as anything I might in real life. Unlike
everyday life, anything could happen in a dream and for the most
part you were none the wiser until you woke, but that had as much
its tinge of frustration and puzzlement as either the dream had
vanished from one's mind, or you had no idea what it could mean
anyway. And the frustration might be reinforced by still having a
whiff of the emotion you experienced in the dream but the
circumstances of it was gone. Very occasional, there was the
possibility of bringing it back, by an association of ideas, like
making your way back in time, retracing your steps hoping to
rediscover something you had lost. Then when you did remember,
it did seem to compliment the emotions, hinted almost
tantalisingly that you might even fathom what it could mean, as if
there were some secret to be discovered, but you never did, and
that's when you could remember anything of the dream at all,
Most of the time your memory free-associated wildly and
increasingly desperately as the sublime or slightly disturbing
emotions faded, often a combination of the two, Then you would
try and be calm and collected about it, as if you might persuade it
into revealing it as welf by not scaring it away, a if it was
something separate from yourself, even though you knew it was
all you. At other times I would 'come to myself' in a dream,
probably during a light sleep still, or not long before waking and
marvel at how it could seem so real, so solid, though I'd yet to be
capable of examining or marvelling over my surroundings in any
detail without before waking.

This may have been the early stages. Hitting a table lightly
with a stick to a hammer, then increasing it as I marvelled at its
apparent solidity then wondering to myself in the dream how the
impact on the table could seem so real, so solid as in the real
world; completely forgetting the stick just as imaginary, or that I
could try it with my hand to see if I felt anything, pain. In fact I'm
sure I rarely felt pain in dreams; any distress was emotional,
psychological, whatever the scenarios. Sometimes when I went to
bed and lay my head on the pillow it was morning. I hadn't
dreamed at all and the night had passes as if it had never been.
Such a disappointment knowing all I had to look forward to was
another day in the jug with all the same faces, all the same
attitudes and thoughts and assumptions, all the same idiots. Even
the other kids I liked were mostly stuck in the same locked
groove., as if it were natural to be in this purgatory. Either that or
they were pretty good at disguising it. We all were. My mum
would waken us, whether I had dreamed or not, as often
interrupting one, the contrast all the more stark, abrupt, the
warmth of the bed and the covers all the more comforting, the
thought of having to get up all the more unbearable. Mostly she
would go back to bed, but if she could, she liked to get up
inexpectedly, her way of keeping an ete on me, never leting me
taking anythg for granted, but in the guise of doing the correct
partental thing and so I could never say to anyone she always
stayed in bed, as if that made any differnece. I'd haver stayed in
bed too if I could. Sometimes, when I'd reached the stage of
taking a day or days off at a time I'd take too long to get ready. If
I kept the sitting room door closed I could play some music before
I went out. In contrast to playing some Bowie, usually The Man
Who Sold The World before I went to school. It was weirder and
more aggressive than his other elpees/albums, I'd play Ziggy
Stardust at the weekend or some evenings along with others, and
Deep Purple at noon sometimes, before I had to be back to school.
But I knew on some level that meeting aggression with aggression
wasn't the answer as it would only increase my uncertainly, even if
I could commit myself to that route. There seemed to be no way
out. Everything was so real, solid, overwhelmingly oppressive,
unrelentingly violent as I knew it to be. It infected everything,
affecting everything, even what should be relatively carefree,
pleasant. I could never 'switch off', forget myself when with
others, critical of both them and myself, especially with girls I
didn't know or I liked. It was all too complicated. There was no
answer to it except to self-destruct through retaliatory destruction,
and that wasn't an option. I had too many dreams to live for, too
much to look forward to. I knew I couldn't let these numbskulls
get the better of me that way, but the whole thing was wearing me
out, I felt frazzled. Life was like one dark cloud forever hanging
over me, the periods of respite all too brief. The sense of
exhaustion, the odd fadeouts I'd experienced, though quite brief,
were ominous, however bemused I had felt at the time. Soon to be
forgotten as always. There was no one to mention it to. It'd have
been dismissed as simple nervous exhaustion anyway. As if life
and people were ever simple.

We weren't sleeping yet that night, lying quietly in the dark,

not talking for a change. Our bedroom was at the back of the
flats, top floor, just a few flights up. The flats were arranged in a
large rectangular formation, the space in the centre was the back
green, dark, quiet, a smattering of arranged sheds of the
neighbours. A big old telegraph pole for the phone lines just a bit
off centre from our window, about halfway across to the opposite
block of flats where my schoolmate Mark lived on the first floor
of one close. We were never in the same class. We all had back
doors. No one locked them then, or very rarely. I preferred to
sleep sideways, in the foetal position. I was lying on my back
still, some moments later, eyes still open when the rays of light
streamed across the ceiling form the window and the top section
of the opposite wall, and over my Bowie posters which covered
the whole wall, then reflecting on the door. I felt a sudden sense
of unreality, of disbelief, 'denial' in a word, and subdued anxiety,
but not fear as the reality I had knew seemed to have blended into
the impossible in the space of a few seconds. The rays had been
oddly shaped, disjointed, individual stands of focused white light
of different lengths and thickness, quite impossible to describe
literally. If I'd thought about it I'd have said it was like laser
beams, though while not quite the stuff of science fiction, I'd never
seen any before. Our science class only went as far as Bunsen
burners. It was over as soon as it had began, our bedroom in
darkness again. I looked over at the window. That was in
blackness too. I knew I wouldn't be sleeping. Not until I
investigated. It would be absurd not too. I kneeled as I peered out
into the semi-blackness. It was summer, the sky wasn't so dark;
the shapes of the sheds were quite visible in the gloom. A
luminous globe, floating slowly above the roof of the block of
flats at the left side, opposite, diagonally from me, Tommy
MacD's flat, directly on the corner. That side was Fullerten Street.
Francis Hablett liver on the ground floor, a pleasant orange-haired
girl, her natural colour. She was in my register class at school.
We were in Gardiner Street, slightly further up the slope which led
to the Law Hill, or 'the Law.' The luminous ball was moving
slowly, parallel to the sharp eaves of the roof, or so it looked to
me, I couldn't sure. What was unmistakable was it was moving
towards the centre of the flats opposite and my field of vision,
rather than wandering aimlessly or vanishing over the rooftops. I
was mesmerised. This was the strangest thing I had ever seen or
was ever likely to see again and I knew it. I had never been so
positively alert, electrified. I was in a state of subdued
wonderment but none of this was verbalised, conceptualised. I
had stopped thinking. The phenomenon held all my attention.
Thoughts were too mundane compared to this aspect of my reality.
And I had no doubts it was real. As real as I was sitting there, in
my pyjamas, forgetful of everything of what had transpired in
front of me. The past, the future were gone; there was only the
wondrous present, an unfathomable now, as time stood still,
everything I knew, faded into abstraction. The light-filled ball was
slowly turning inwards as it was getting closer to the halfway
point of the roofs of the flats opposite, and incredibly, seemed to
be coming directly parallel with our window, with me, almost
imperceptibly, it had been so gradual. Now it was approaching the
big telegraph pole with all the phone lines, illuminating the sides
as it came closer then directly parallel as it slowly passed and was
now directly opposite me, but still a good number of yards away.
There was no question it was real. That was a given. Then it
stopped, still floating, suspended, luminous in the night.
By now I knew it was there for me. Something inexplicable,
incomprehensible was taking place. And I wasn't about to spoil it
by getting all overexcited and trying to tell anyone. Certainly not
the sceptics in bed in the room opposite, if they were in bed. They
would have no way of dealing with it. They could barely
comprehend me and this would only add to it. And anyway, I
might miss the show.. I'd forgotten about Steve, my younger bro
(still in bed lying awake, too cautious or ambivalent to get up. We
discussed it again in the mid 90's). The world , my life had
become something else now. Unconsciously.... Something else
was in control. This was real authority, the truly numinous,
beyond the power and limitations of the world. Whatever it was.
It was the teacher, I was the pupil. I could only look on in awe
awaiting to see what transpired, if anything. This was surely
enough. But it was in control, running this little show. Whatever
would be would be. It was only years later I pictured the obvious.
That the rays that had streamed through our bedroom window
must have come from this object, however it had originated,
virtuall+y materialising out of the sky for all we knew, and
perhaps the rays beforehand, or simultaneously. An almost
inconceivable scenario, none of these implications having crossed
my mind at the time. The globe remained immobile for some
moments. Then, a slight flickering at one side of the globe, and
suddenly, multi-coloured rays of light streamed out, then quickly
spread around it in an arc. The experience was indescribable. I
was enraptured, utterly awestruck, a heightened state of
consciousness. Beyond gobsmacked. It was both personal and
beyond comprehension. Or emotional and psychological
description. On an unconscious level I was now on different terms
with the world. It last only for some moments. The rays filled the
'sky' (the flats were visible behind the whole time), the apparition
was now so large overall.
The globe hadn't been the purpose of it as I'd thought, the rays
were; the overall scenario. I didn't think about it. It was an
experience. I was the receiver. The rays drew slowly back in, or
decreased in length, until it was only the transcendent, luminous
ball of light, floating serenely as before. I wasn't going anywhere.
Somehow I knew that the show was over. There would be no
topping what had just happened and no need to. It was as if I
came back to my everyday self. A ball of light floating in mid-air
right in front of some yards away was now almost mundane. Or at
least I felt more relaxed, a critical, curious observer again. I could
try and examine it as neutrally, as dispassionately as possible,
looking to see if I could see anything in its bright opaqueness. For
a moment I thought I may have seen swirling colours like
Brownian movement on oil, then couldn't see it at all, that it was
probably my imagination. It was impossible to be sure. I also
knew that it was intelligent or there were an intelligence behind it,
aware of me the whole time, as it was now. The situation was
incomprehensible, but entirely non-threatening. I felt completely
safe. It's luminescence began to slowly fade, as gradually as the
object had appeared, or entity, if entity it was. I still didn't think
about it. Then it faded completely and was gone.

I told a couple of close frends the next day after school. Billy
P lived in the next close to ours and he believed me, even though
he knew I had some books on UFOs/'flying saucers'. He'd always
been more open-minded than most. Tam McD across the way
didn't, and laughed. It was too outlandish for him. It didn't
surprise me. What was interesting was he was a born follower,
whereas Billy was a born leader, his own person. He did well at
school and respected himself. Her also had a vicious streak if
pushed and wasn't to be taken lightly. I always avoided making
that mistake and anyway, I liked him for the most part. For myself
I was never sure what I was. I felt all over the place. Strong-
willed and certain sometimes, hopelessly indecisive and passive at
other times. But only because unlike most people I knew, I hadn't
prematurely made up my my who I was and what I thought life
and the world was. Tam McD had a mean streak as well, but it
was based on pettiness, a form of cowardice, but I liked him too,
and he liked me, as did Billy. It was when people were in three's
that there were problems, and I could be no exception. It seemed
to bring out the worst in people. Billy was above that for the most
part, or so I thought. My anger was mostly hidden, even from
myself by the time I was in my teens, though I could still be very
aggressive. Self-consciousness and guilt complicated it all. One
of the things I'd preferred about childhood (as opposed to
adolescence), was I thought less and acted quicker.

Bro and me were, understandably enough, too excited or

agitated to sleep. I wanted to have a look outside in the back, and
he was up for it too, so we got out of our beds and put our clothes
back on and I opened the bedroom door quietly – it was only a
few feet from the front door; that would be the tricky part, but
fortunately the door never creaked, nor did the floorboards in the
lobby, so it was only a matter of closing it just as carefully then
being just as quiet going down the stairs to the bottom of the
close, then out of the back door and into the semi-darkness. I
wanted to get as approximately as possible to the area of ground,
in the long grass the light-ball had floated above before stopping;
well above, considering it had been parallel with our window on
the top floor.
I was looking for 'angel dust', a strange substance that is
sometimes left after UFO incidences. I'd read it lingers for a while
before dissolving. It sounded like the candy floss we would buy at
carnivals. I felt a bit foolish at the thought of telling my brother
about it, younger or no, so I don't think I did. There was no sign
of anything anyway. I felt like I was cheating him somehow by
not being open about what was going through my mind, partly
because I hardly believed the possibility myself, however
extraordinary the circumstances; that is was almost like wishful
thinking. Yet I felt disappointed not to find any, though God knew
what I'd have done with it. Poked at it... But I could tell him years
later, in the early 90's, when it came back to mind again. It was he
who reminded me we'd got up and sneaked out of the flat. I'd
completely forgotten about that. As he described it , it came back
to me. Of how we had went out and looked around, speculated,
wondered, explored, checking the high telegraph pole also, but
knowing there was nothing to see there. Then walking through the
long grass in a diagonal to the left towards Tommy MacD's on the
corner. The green was a big rectangulat mound that sloped
abrupty before the back of the opposite and long block of flats on
the other side of us. There was a gap on each corner that led out
into the streets/roads, each blocked by short horizontal railings,
except for his side. You could walk right down past the smaller of
the two old air-raid shelters from WW11, then down into the
corner of Campbell Street and Fullerten Street, his street.

He lived on the top floor. But just as we were about to cut

down the slope, a bit to the right of the corner, we saw that there
was a glow of light, blocked by the end of the block of flats.
“What's that!” I said, in a subdued mix of anxiety and a hint of
the sense of unreality I'd felt when the rays of light had streamed
across the ceiling of our bedroom. And just for a moment, an
unthinkable thought; that it might actually be the source of my
experience just a short time before. This would be too much. I
felt a genuine fear of the unknown over the thought it could be
something even stranger. We were both thinking the same thing
but didn't voice it; we didn't have to. Then we twigged it both at
the same time. I hope. “It's just the street lamp in the corner!” my
bro said.
Perhaps I was understandably more sensitized than he was.
Sudden relief, and we walked and slid down on the grass, but
there was nothing of interest of course. I'd put our door 'on the
snib' so it hadn't clicked shut as we closed it and got back to bed.
I may have thought of giving Billy a knock next door then decided
against it. They lived on the bottom floor, and unlike us, slept at
the front, probably because of the traffic. But as he had two
younger brothers, I'd waken them too and that would only make it
more likely they'd make too much noise, and his dad didn't have
much sense of humour, or not with me, and the cat would be out
of the bag. I'd have to tell what had happened or make something
up and god knows where it would all end. Simpler to leave it and
tell him the next day. It's also possible the thought had flitted into
my mind during the actual experience itself, but then I'd probably
miss the show, so it was out for that reason. My brother had also
said in '93 that when when the plasma ball had faded there had
been a hissing sound. I had forgotten about that too. If I had
heard it at all. A possibility is my bro imagined later that he'd
heard it if he'd read accounts since. But it's just as likely I'd
forgotten in the same way I had forgotten that we'd sneaked
outside to scout around on a strictly amateur reconnaissance
mission of sorts.
I told Billy P and Tommy MacD the next day, as I say. Along
with my brother, that all in told who knew about it. I kept it to
myself; thought there was a potentially interesting addendum to
this, or could have been if I'd went through with it. One of those
oddly placed or serendipitous synchronicities, though I thought
more in terms of coincidence at the time, in my teens. Very
shortly after, when flicking through a comic I'd bought, there was
a questionnaire for anyone to fill in who'd had a UFO experience
of any kind. It was that specific. I must have thought about
filling it in of course, but didn't. Maybe I'd meant to at a later time
then forgot and couldn't find it or the comic was thrown out. Yes,
this is what happened. I'd felt a keen sense of annoyance and
frustration. I couldn't even the remember the name of the comic
so as to try and get hold of another issue. It had been a British
comic for a change, not a Marvel Comic , which might explain my
memory lapse. It's possible it was TV21. It's as likely I'd
forgotten I could just buy a later issue and get their address. It
would be typical of me to think in terms of a strict questionnaire
as if it was an official document, like being in school, if not quite.
At the time I'd been ambivalent over the possibility of drawing
any kind of attention to myself, I was so self-conscious. The last
thing I felt I needed was any kind of publicity, however provincial.
I had this horrible picture of it excalating. That I'd been known as
the local oddball who'd experienced something strange, made it
up, or a 'flying saucer' or 'aliens' had taken a shine to... Forget it.
Either way, any way, it would look bad. Then shortly after as I
say, I felt I'd missed a golden opportunity to get it on record,
however unofficially. I didn't know anything about 'official'
organisations I might contact. I didn't trust any authorities, so they
were out.
A healthy instinct overall, because it was in the mid or later
'90's that there was an article in one of the UFO mags of the time
on a legislative ruling that had been quietly passed by or on behalf
of the military-industrial-complex whereby anyone who had been
exposed to electromagnetic radiation was to be treated as a
biological hazard; virtually an enemy combatant as it seemed to
me. The criticisms were that this was as much an excuse, a
pretext to silence 'contactees' or anyone who had experienced
anything out of the ordinary; which they would classify as a
threat. I came across the article again some years ago on the
Exopolitics website. But that was then and this was now. A
magazine was asking for articles on UFOs. I thought it might be
possible to integrate my experience into a more general piece, if I
could keep it relatively formal. But there were too many other
interferences and distractions going on the time. There was a
spate of UFO magazines during that period, including Uri Geller's
Encounters. A favourite was Jon King's. I'd had his MAG in
mind. UFO Magazine survived for years then they were gone too.
I still have many of them all.
 Sometime after, we, my bro and me, woke up one weekend to
find we'd both sprouted a number of warts of different sizes on our
stomachs, to one side and just above the groin area. It seemed
pretty bizarre to me that they could just appear during the space of
a nights sleep but we weren't quizzed about it or doubted either, as
there was no way my younger bro wouldn't have told them for any
period. Our mother called the doctor and he came to the house.
This insensitive prick matter-of-factually outlined the options for
us with our mum, saying that he could give us a solution that
would burn them off over a period of time but it would probably
be better to get rid of them now by strangling them. “Huh?” We
didn't get a say, nor was I asked. It amazes me I was ever
acquiescent with these patronizing cretins. It didn't last forever.
He instructed her to fetch a pair of scissors and some thread then
without ceremony or any kind of warning took the scissors to the
warts and twisted them all, then tied them with the thread, one by
one. For a moment I'd thought he was about to cut them off. By
this time my brother was crying of course, as he was only ten or
eleven. But I understood why he'd done him first. Then it was my
turn. The attitude seemed to be we'd been where we shouldn't,
somewhere filthy no doubt. How else could we have got the
warts? As if we spend any spare moment rolling around in muck.
But it was possible we'd picked up something from one of the old
empty flats or examining a dead bird. The possibilities were
endless.

As I'd hardly told anyone about the recent experience, no one

suggested I may have confused what I'd seen with Venus or the
moon or some other absurdity, when it was right in front of me,
the block of flats opposite, behind it now. Another would be
pouncing on the fact that as I'd read about UFOs, this offers a
ready-made explanation. That I simply confused fantasy or a
dream with reality. And anyway, it's not as if my brother actually
saw it as he stayed in bed. I would say that as he was literally a
child he had a good excuse, unlike some adults or scientists say,
who would stay in bed too, not unlike the astronomers of the time
who refused to look through Galileo's telescopes. God forbid any
one of them should be the one to give the fantasist any credence.
I can tell the difference between sleeping and waking. In between
is a different matter. I know I'm not asleep or dreaming right now
or when I put some water in the electric kettle for tea or instant
coffee. Sometimes I might forget and put in too much water then
have to empty some out... I might even forget about it or forget
why I went into another room and if it doesn't come to me to me
right away, come back to the sitting room where it will come to
me, but at no point have I assumed I actually fell asleep or was
sleeping. Then again I very occasionally imagined I'd went to the
loo, this in my teens and almost peed the bed, but it woke me. But
I didn't then assumed my dream was reality. I still had to go to the
toilet. I couldn't dream it away. We didn't both have the same
dream or fantasy we'd got up in the night and sneaked out the flat,
though I did forget about it, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen
or I imagined it, and neither does reading about other's
experiences, before or after. I'd have to be so suggestible I am or
was capable of hypnotising myself. Or someone else did without
my knowledge. Why would anyone do that? How likely is it?
What would be the point? And fantasy and reality are a matter of
interpretation, only I didn't know that then. But the experience
perhaps put the seed in my mind, or brought to the surface what
was already there, or rather, it didn't, as I promptly forgot about it
pretty soon after, though it would come back to mind periodically,
a mystery to keep on the back burner until some relevant info
turned up, if it ever did. Mark B opposite us did describe how,
with his younger brother Paul, a streak of blue lightening had
some shooting into their bedroom and ricochet off the walls before
shooting out of the window again. I can't recall if it had been open
or closed.
As I had Bowie posters on our wall at, his Aladdin Sane
period, the time of our experiece, this meant it was very likely
sometime in 1973 when I was fifteen. I didn't write anything
down at the time as I had no privacy anyway, but the posters make
it easier to place. I'd forgotten about that too, and was never quite
sure whether it was during 1972 or '73, but I wasn't aware of
Bowie until he came into national prominance, and that meant TV
and Top of The Pops. I didn't see earlier Old Grey Whistle Test
session. There's also the possiblity it was early 1974 while the
posters were still up, and I did see the Omnibus documentary
which included the scenes from his Diamond Dogs tour of the US
as well as his very recent last show of Ziggy Stardust and The
Spiders From Mars at the Hammersmith Odeon, though I thought
of his Aladdin Sane persona, after the album title, as Ziggy
anyway...which was earlier. As my birthday was near the end of
December – and still is - so I was still fifteen, this is as likely.
Because I know I wasn't sixteen. I missed Bowie at The Caird
Hall in 1973, when I was fourteen. As with L at school, leaving
the country, these combined as a major emotional and
psychological blow and sense of loss. Not that I was wholly
aware of this as I had grown up in denial of my feelings over her
in any case, or more accurately, the problem was in doing
anything about it, however enthusiatic even she might be and was.
Combined with the stress of home life and a school that
resembled a borstal, there were an accumulation of negative
factors in place that almost assured it might all end in tears or
worse. .