‘Epiphany’ of Earth Mother: Sanctity, Well-Being & The Garden

 Epiphany, exhibition

       In desperate and disrespectful days, acts of memory, healing and affirmation can evoke the revolutionary. Where people are demoralized—numbed beyond caring for the present, or the future—a sudden epiphany lands like lightning, showing forth the life yet alive within us. Welcome to the works of visionary Greek artist Kadiani Veligrantakis.

       What would it be to live in a world that conceives of planet Earth as alive, awake, and sacred—as a living Mother to whom we always owe, first, respect and gratitude, because that is the true natural basis of our own well-being?

       We don’t have to look (or, remember) too far back to hear the voices of people(s) who really held and practiced such beliefs:

Goddess Gaia, mother of gods and mortal humans,

who nourishes and gives everything,

who perfects everything and ends the life of everything,

who brings and raises the seeds…

foundation of the immortal world…

          That was how one of the Orphic Anthems or Hymns spoke of Nature—a.k.a. Earth Mother, Mother Earth—even during that most rationalist age of ancient Greece in the Classical era. It was said that such sweet songs could coax rocks and trees to rise and dance: to show themselves, that is, as alive as their Creatrix.

          And that, for us, is the sudden and deep revelation that issues from the works of Kadiani, whose exhibition called Epiphany: Gaia & Gods of Vegetation opens to the public on Monday August 19th (2019) in the east-Cretan city of Sitia. What were its sources, and what are its implications?

Kadiani Sitia event flyer Aug 19 2019

       In Kadiani’s words, these works “wanted to come into the world”: they rose up into her mind from deep, beyond-conscious realms within. As artists will tell you, it’s those insistent and ego-indifferent promptings that bring on most of their best work. They talk of feeling almost unable to keep up with powerful driving half-blind forces working, somehow, through them—and it’s even more astonishing when the results have a substance all at once deeply traditional and revolutionary.

 Divine Mother

       In this cosmos, all things born of Her are identical and one with Her, divine, vibrating with life-spirit. And, like Earth, She bestows every gift and nourishment freely to those who honor Her and carefully cultivate the world. Within those relationships, there’s almost no surprise that the world becomes a garden—The Garden, which was never really lost and is as close as our own loving hands.

          This real-world “miracle” is attested also in the original Canaanite story of “the original garden,” on which the later Bible’s authors based their tale of a “fall” away from “God.” Those first books of The Pentateuch turned the religions and rites of becoming awake into its opposite: humans “must not become as gods,” must not be the knowing agents of their own existence, their own creations, their realities and their evolution.

       Yet, in the Canaanite story, the prototypes of Adam and Eve are immortal happy stewards of this garden, which surrounds the luminous Tree of Life—and we see that Tree again as a consummate image in Kadiani’s collection. The so-called unconscious brings every whit of tradition to new life.

Enlightened Tree

       Such were the powers also of every “green thing” born of Mother Earth. From ages even older than Minoan Crete, peoples of the land found deities in them, and allied their eternal spirits with their natures: they were/are the indestructible survivors rising out of every seeming-calamity from fire to volcanic fury, healing all ravaged lands and proffering again new flowers, medicines and nourishments.


       These webs of connections survived in language too. Minoans deeply identified their own lives with cycles of Earth and green things. This was kalliergeia: cultivation of the land was cultivation of the soul. With this, Minoans left us all kinds of “good work” (kalo ergo).

          These humanizing ideas persisted in later Latin, in the root of the word culture itself. Cultus: Nature and society posed not as opposites, but as complements—a feeling and an idea that fostered a world of “tending, care, and respectful treatment.” To cultivate The Earth like a garden was to live in one, a healthy and worthwhile place, founded in the grateful honoring of powers greater than ourselves.

       No, not Utopia. Yet, the merest hard-nosed summary of our true best original selves reveals, like that language and these paintings, how much we still stand to gain.

          So I write gratefully to Kadiani for bringing these healthy, original human roots back to our consciousness. What can be more important now than to reconnect our souls with what our bodies are doing, each day, toward all that gives us life?

Hermes Cranaios        Artemis

       As the poet Barbara Mor said, Look through a microscope or a telescope: Nature Works. But gaze into the eyes of Kadiani’s “Artemis” and “Dark Mother.” These Earth Mothers know what happens when a culture so deranges itself that it forgets what is greater than itself.

       It was said long ago, Who consents, She guides: who refuses, She drags. We can know Her as Gaia—or, as Nemesis, and Her retributions always come deserved.

       One crucial last point as we commune with these presences. It follows from all these expressions that the “faces of Earth Mother” in Kadiani’s works have human form. In Minoan pictorial art (for example), when a person is seized with the presence of Divinity, the divine being also looks (most often) like a person—they’re practically indistinguishable.

       But these images are nothing like the “personalizations of The Goddess” in narcissistic New Age productions. The message here is that by looking deep into these images, we look into ourselves (and, hopefully, listen, and remember our best). We are not here to make a separate peace in our so-called private selves with a system that exploits every living thing to death. Rather, we, the artist and the images are one—all functions of what Barbara Mor called Nature’s “continuous lust to make art.” And Nature’s message in some of these daunting visages is an urgent, healthily disturbing and inspiring cry: Wake up, for the time is shorter than you think.

 Dark Mother

       We fuse with Nature in communion with Itself. As Mor elaborates, “She [Nature] makes art from Her dreams”: “we are Her [Nature’s] extensions, Her poetic technologies.” Hence, “It’s only when you remember always that the only living god is Earth—then you get serious.” We come to our healthiest senses in these presences, and their eyes ask what, exactly, we intend to do for our Mother in so much pain.

       The faces hold back no patriarchal rage, no threat, no punishment: what Nature brings us next will be simply the natural fruits or the consequences of our own (either blind or awakened) making. In their gaze, we know that The Time Of The Lie that harms Earth Mother grows short and dark. Nobody now can invent a machine or run a business that poisons the world without knowing this is crime, deliberate murder and suicide. The proposition is, Evolve Or Perish.

       In our communion with Gaia through Kadiani’s works, we understand that practices which pretend to control and “develop” Nature with destruction teach only self-destruction. One way or another, Earth Mother will have us remember the wisdom that began our human story.

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58 Seconds of a Giant’s Good-Humored Humility

Noam Chomsky 2011

Not sure who’s done more in our lifetime for every kind of human freedom—So what does Noam Chomsky think he knows?

Always wondered how NC would put his answer to The Question—


—but felt sure it would go to say this!

What we don’t know about anything can be overwhelming. But his humor seems to say the universe has a laugh of relief in store for anybody who really works on their learning—forget about it, kid, no one can know much, but try again soon!

In grad school Orals I had to choose & discuss 200 “crucial” books. Problem was, just to choose them meant reading the library! Forget about it.

It’s all in the trying. Long live this exemplary man—


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Frontier Fool—America’s Priceless ‘Master Bubble’

Merrymount revels bw

Happy May Day—and in Massachusetts, Happy Thomas Morton Day too! Here’s a hope that you’ll raise a rowdy Maypole, join hands with neighbors, kick up your dancing feet and hoist some “excellent beer” to your singing lips, to celebrate 392 years since Thomas Morton’s May 1627 Revels at Merrymount, with Native Americans and “all comers” on Massachusetts Bay.

Your town could do worse than to claim, thus, America’s oldest civic festival, to foster multicultural community and center us afresh in the rhythms of nature—even as the National Idiot Election Machine gears up to sell its latest “lesser evil.”

To the feast this year I offer another first-of-its-kind story out of Morton’s 1637 New English Canaan: as usual for him, a bit of crucial common-sense perspective wrapped in biting comedy and hoots of laughter.

We’ll likely never know who was the real frontier clown dubbed “Master Bubble” in Chapters X and XII of Canaan‘s third book—but his seems a pretty sure case of “You can’t make this stuff up.” For he was “a man endowed with many special gifts” (Canaan 122) that you’re about to see in action, whose self-sanctified blunders remain too much with us on the international frontier.

“This,” Morton writes, “was a man approved by the Brethren” (meaning his neighbors, the evangelical “Saints” of Plimoth Plantation’s Pilgrim fathers), “and at the public charge conveyed to New England” during Morton’s first years there (1624-27). Why is worth knowing. For Plimoth’s congregation had years of trouble replacing their original beloved pastor, John Robinson, who had not been allowed to emigrate with them in 1620: his most famous counsel came in a letter after Plimoth had assassinated multiple Native New England leaders at Wessaguscus or Weymouth in 1623. “Oh, that you had converted some before you had killed any!” Thoughtful fellow! But as you’ll see from just this Canaan excerpt, there were indeed more thoughtful people hereabouts.

Massachusett territory

Before the Plimothers fetched Bubble over, they had tried one other fellow now known only as “Mr. Rogers,” but he proved even to them “crazed in his brain” and was dismissed. What was the problem, their England brimming then with fire-breathing Puritan “reformers”? For Morton, it was their contempt for solid Renaissance and humanistic learning based in anything outside The Bible—which (if we can trust their records) left them floundering in a flood of holy pretenders, charlatans and fools. When Morton says Bubble was brought over “for his zeal and gifts,” he names the two central but tragically-fuzzy Puritan criteria of choice echoed by Boston’s early minister John Cotton: fierce zealotry, and matching “gifts” such as oratorical fireworks and “the exercise of prophecy.” 

“Well,” Morton muses—as if watching the country prepare for Father Coughlin and Billy Graham—“if you mark it, these are special gifts indeed, which the vulgar people are so taken with, that there is no persuading them that it is so ridiculous….This that comes without premeditation [that is, by instant ‘inspiration of the Holy Spirit’], this is the Superlative; and he that does not approve of this, they say, is a very reprobate” (Canaan 186).

Not a good place to be—“without” God’s own congregation—warns the man who found himself “America’s First Rascal” and first political exile, burned and hoisted out the country for practicing the wrong kinds of culture. 

Merrymount bw

And what would take Merrymount’s learned, jovial, flexible and common-sense place? Here’s a quick Canaan gem about another holy candidate who foreshadows Bubble’s misadventures. “There was one who…had been expected to exercise his gifts in an assembly, who stayed his coming. In the middest of his journey, he falls into a fit, which they term a zealous meditation—and was four miles past the place appointed before he came to himself, or did remember whereabouts he went” (182).

Familiar, all too familiar, but these jokers were nothing if not ambitious “to dispense…edification.” Witness Bubble’s own sparkling resume of achievements leading up to his fool’s errand in the (inhabited) wilderness. For himself, Bubble had first intended “to pen the language [of Native New England] down in Stenography” (122). “But there, for want of use, which he rightly understood not, all was loss of labor.”

How indeed could an Englishman acquire Native speech without consenting, like Morton the successful trader, to the land’s already “mixed language” in frontier affairs? (Remember, Plimoth’s William Bradford hoped that America’s tongue would be Hebrew.) Well, Morton quips in so many words, it might have been worth the learning later in Bubble’s story, if he had understood Native language(s); but even after all the trouble, this never dawned upon him. The almost-murderous slapstick results were rooted here, and fast upon us.

Mass Bay map

Dropping the difficult Stenography, Bubble’s next unsurprising choice was ministry itself, trying his hand as “house chaplain” to the rough company of another unruly Morton neighbor: Plimoth’s first outcast John Oldham, living by then near the sea at close-by Hull. “Every night” Bubble began making “use of his gifts”—and his “oratory lulled his auditory as fast asleep as Mercury’s pipes did Argus’ eyes.” Maybe Chaplain Bubble did make a striking start in a speech or two, but “when he was in, they said he could not tell how to get out: nay he would hardly out till he were fired out, his zeal was such.” Losing his theological way, Bubble even then would not shut up, not until they kicked him out of the cabin.

So, Bubble would now “become a great Merchant.” He “removed” and “obtained house-room” among Morton’s own building company (“nine persons, besides dogs”), “because it stood convenient for the beaver trade.” Morton thought this “big-boned man” would be “a good laborer, and to have store of corn.” But Bubble brought no provisions, only “the trophies of his honor: his water tankard and his porter’s basket,” becoming another mouth to feed through Morton’s hunting and trapping skills. Bubble himself had none of those, either—but that didn’t keep him from rushing out to shoot ducks and geese “in haste and single-handed,” paddling out “like a cow in a cage” to wound many and scare off the rest, causing his host “to mutter at him.”

Merrymount picture

And once Morton’s gun had put some meat on the table? “This man and his host at dinner: Bubble begins to say grace, yea and a long one too, till all the meat was cold. He would not give his host [Morton] leave to say grace: belike he thought his host past grace.” And “in the usage of this blind oratory”—that is, Bubble praying with his eyes sanctimoniously closed—Morton “took himself abused, and the whiles fell to [eating]; and had half-done before this man Bubble would open his eyes to see what stood afore him.”

Morton’s years at London’s boisterous law school, The Inns of Court, were the professional crown of his youth. Surely he had mentors and help in seasoned elders there, whose pedagogy consciously curried young talent toward national service. Maybe that’s why we already see Morton’s patient indulgence toward Bubble. On the other hand, when he at last matched Bubble with “a couple of Indians for guides” (127) for an inland journey toward the matchless profits of the beaver trade, maybe Morton was ready to be rid of him. Bubble got ready by filling “a sack…of odd implements” and his head with “a conceit…that he had hatched a new device” or trading-method to obtain those furs, all zeal and gifts as usual.

Their introductions seemed cordial and comfortable enough, and with “both his journeymen glad he was [a] good man,” Bubble and his guides set off westward into central Massachusetts, lands of the Nipmuc people’s Nashaway and Showatuck clans. For Bubble’s sake, remember that they were hiking deep into Old Growth American forest (whose thickets and massive hardwood trees intimidated even the likes of Thoreau)—a greenhorn like Bubble simply had to feel intimidated, vulnerable, and watchfully afraid.

Morton tells the rest of what happened:

Night came on. But, before they were inclined to sleep, this good man Master Bubble had a fantasy creep into his head—by misunderstanding the Salvages’ actions. He must needs be gone in all haste, yea and without his errand. He purposed to do it so cunningly that his flight should not be suspected: he leaves his shoes in the house with all his other implements, and flies.

As he was on his way, he increased his fear, suggesting to himself that he was pursued by a company of Indians, and that their arrows were let fly as thick as hail at him. He puts off his breeches, and puts them on his head, for to save him from the shafts that flew after him so thick that no man could perceive them.

And crying out, “Avoid, Satan! What have ye to do with me?” and thus running on his way without his breeches, he was pitifully scratched with the brush of the underwoods as he wandered up and down in unknown ways.

The Salvages, in the meantime, put up all his implements in the sack he left behind, and brought them to Wessaguscus [Weymouth], where they thought to have found him. But understanding he was not returned, they were fearful what to do; and of what would be conceived by the English to have become of this mazed man; and were in consultation of the matter.

One of the Salvages was of opinion that the English would suppose him to be murdered: fearful, he was, to come in sight. The other, better acquainted with the English, having lived some time in England, was more confident. And he persuaded his fellow that the English would be satisfied with the relation of the truth, having had testimony of his fidelity. So, they boldly adventured what they had brought, and how the matter stood.

The English, when the sack was opened, did take a note in writing of all the particulars in the sack; and heard what was related by the Salvages of the accidents. But when Master Bubble’s shoes were shown, it was thought he would not have departed without his shoes.

And therefore they did conceive that Master Bubble was murdered by some sinister practice of the Salvages’, who unadvisedly had become guilty of a crime which they now sought to excuse. And the English straightly charged the Salvages to find him out again, and bring him dead or alive; else, their wives and children would be destroyed.

The poor Salvages, being in a pitiful perplexity, caused their countrymen to seek out for this mazed man; who, being in short time found, was brought to Wessaguscus, where he made a discourse of his travels and of the perilous passages, which did seem to be no less dangerous than those of that worthy Knight-Errant, Don Quixote; and how miraculously he had been preserved.

And, in conclusion, he lamented the great loss of his goods, whereby he thought himself undone. The particular whereof being demanded, it appeared that the Salvages had not diminished any part of them: no, not so much as one bit of bread. Whereby Master Bubble was overjoyed, and the whole company made themselves merry at his discourse of all his perilous adventures.

And by this you may observe whether the Salvage people are not full of humanity; or whether they are a dangerous people, as Master Bubble and the rest of his tribe would persuade you.


Did Bubble’s Native guides encourage a bit of fear in the man, to make him more dependent (or even grateful) for protection and profit? Perhaps, but without Morton’s seasoned confidence, one folly unfolds the next: Bubble misconstrues or misunderstands, decides to run away God-knows-where, and cleverly leaves his shoes behind, thinking this will fool his hosts that he’s still invisibly with them. Now he imagines they are with him, but chasing him, and with arrows; such that he strips off his pants, turns them into a helmet, and is “pitifully scratched” as he wanders “up and down” screaming. This it seems will not end well.

And where—in this the most extraordinary narrative turn in America’s earliest letters—do we now find the calm exercise of reason and experience? It speaks for the first time between Bubble’s two Native guides, who (in spite of wise fear about catching the blame) resolve to report Bubble’s “mazed” running off. But look how cautious they are about it: first they find out that Bubble has not returned, before they go into the midst of the English at Wessaguscus/Weymouth.

These guides are afraid of English fear—which they know will assume that Bubble has been murdered or killed in their hands. They know they’ll have to present the ridiculous facts on the very ground where, all too recently, “Captain Shrimp” Myles Standish assassinated others of their kind. Still, they go in and report, making their best case with Bubble’s sack of implements. But it’s Bubble’s own most preposterous ploy, his abandoned shoes, that brings on the fresh and very credible English threat to destroy their families, wives and children, if the fool isn’t found.

Terrified, the guides find and return Master Bubble in short order. And here at last, for all Morton has put his readers through, lands a thud of anticlimax. For Bubble tells all of his “perilous passages” with an empty-headed air of the “miraculous.” It was all about him. Not a stab of self-aware sunlight dawns on this “mazed man” for his chief part in this fiasco.

Morton drops it in the lap of those who would build America: all for himself, and virtually empty, Bubble would not listen, look or learn. Yet, through New English Canaan, we have twice the chance.



Canaan cover

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“Drink and Be Merry”!

New English Canaan by Jack Dempsey

Hope you enjoy my 1992 film Thomas Morton & The Maypole of Merrymount: Disorder in the American Wilderness 1622-1647, which by actual request is now complete (1hr47mins.) at YouTube.

A low-tech production on a shoestring budget via friends and local Public Access cable—damaged in a spot or two. But I think it captures Morton’s sweetness and courage, via many strong contributions from Native American and other scholars and performers who appreciated his achievements and “solemn foolery.”

A foundational American story, born from our first grand frontier party staged “for all comers” living on the land.



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What The Freak Was That! 3 UFO Observations

Hubble Deep Field Galaxies a 

Sooner or later, almost everybody sees something in the sky, night or day, that they cannot explain. I have seen three Somethings—and I offer these tellings always to invite explanations or points of view that might show where I’m missing something. To this day I have no remotely-likely idea based in our normal (!) world about what these extraordinary flying objects were—only the clear and absolute certainty that I saw them. Obviously, my long bafflement has outweighed trepidation about sharing them at all; but I have a writer’s itch for moments when hard-nosed looking brings us to sheer wonder.

Three Blinking Discs

The first sighting happened in spring 1963. Setting: my hometown of Stoneham, Massachusetts, a quiet green suburb less than eight miles north of Boston, the home of Logan International Airport. As our house stood that close to Logan, there was almost always a commercial jet airliner (or military aircraft) circling overhead for its turn to land, in the process crossing through bright blue patches of sky above the boughs of maple, oak, chestnut, birch and pine trees that lined our streets and open fields.

Some were no more than contrails at high altitude: others soared slowly southward at about a thousand feet over our house, descending gear-down into Boston with their features, colors and commercial marks clear against the sky. Quite normal, but peppered in those Cold War days with a sudden shattering out-of-nowhere thunderbolt, the sonic boom of some jet-fighter’s scramble-practice. Every one of them struck you like the sure first impact of nuclear war (Boston a target with its port, Navy Yard, and metropolitan surround of new high-tech industries driven by MIT), and then it dissolved in anticlimactic relief. Our protection from socialism was often terrifying.

One sunny spring afternoon in my eighth year, I stepped through our back door onto the small wooden porch and looked out on the day. Eastward to the left was a long patch of bright clear sky, and as usual a commercial airliner was sliding level and quietly through it—its 1000-ft. altitude likely the lowest level for circling the airport, and no more than two miles away on its northward leg. Cockpit and passenger windows, engines, tail-fins and markings were as plain as its colors, the usual silver belly and painted fuselage sharp against the blue.

Directly behind this airliner, moving smoothly along and keeping the same very close distance from its tail, I saw three sharply defined, opalescent, milky-white disks. Each disk, identical in color and shape, was a perfect flat-bottomed upper half of a circle, and each was about twice the size of (say) a military fighter-plane in relation to a large commercial jet. They were not only trailing along in silent, close and steady single file right behind the airliner—they were each taking alternating turns “winking out,” leaving nothing but blue sky in each one’s place until it reappeared in two or three seconds, and another of the three discs took its seemingly-random turn at the trick. Cruising along, their blank but milky-white opalescence had an otherworldly glow. In less than 30 seconds, the aircraft and its triple trail of white winking objects cruised steadily out of sight, and that was that. 

Except that I ran back into the house to find my WWII Air Force veteran father, and told him fully and calmly what I’d seen. He listened, looked amused, and then gave his best theory: military tow-targets? But, attached to a commercial airliner? He shrugged with no better idea. Yet those are the facts of what I saw, and I’m still eager for any credible explanation.

The Flying Ashcan 

Even with a lifetime of enjoyable star-gazing, I saw no such thing again for 55 years until just last spring (2018), where I live now in Crete. Setting: about eight semi-rural miles east of Crete’s largest city Heraklion. The island is roughly rectangular, the place is about dead-center on the north-facing coastline, and out here a spacious valley (Amnisos, once a chief Minoan port) spreads its small town and farming-fields inland, from a straight four-to-five miles of open beach. Homer says Odysseus once dropped by to ask deities directions.

My little house is near the top of a steep hill that forms this valley’s western side, and the view looks east across miles of beach and open sky toward a flat-topped headland (“Bad Mountain”) that closes the valley, with a small fenced-off military base on its summit. Other nearby hilltops also have radar and electronic systems on show. Another military base, for fighters and ground-unit training, stands perhaps two miles behind my hill, and no farther away from here along the north coast is Crete’s busiest airport (Venizelos International). So, this airport’s single runway receives and launches dozens of airliners and military aircraft per week. In approach or departure (depending on the wind), their line of flight is always directly over and parallel to the same beach for miles—hence, right past our house.

The point is that safety makes this area some of the most controlled and secure air-space on the island. Without very official permission, you cannot bring so much as a helicopter or small plane into it (let alone play around here with your new drone) without looking at deserved jail-time. In my first summer stays around here forty years ago, companies could still hire a small plane to drag a commercial tail-banner across the sea-view during crowded tourist seasons, but that was outlawed years ago exactly because of increasing airline and military flights. So except for that traffic, these skies are always officially clear of intrusions.

I often climb my little roof to drink the view, the weather and stars. One quiet April mid-morning last year, I was looking northward out to sea from there. Nothing unusual: a fair-enough bright day although with a ceiling of gray cloud at about two thousand feet. Then, down from beyond the crest of this hill to my upper left (with the mouth of the airport runway and the sea not two miles below), and hardly fifty feet off the ground as it descended that slope toward the ocean, sailed a slow-moving silent object that had no visible aerodynamic reason to be in the sky or moving through it. I actually rubbed my eyes, slapped my cheek, and cursed that my camera was in the house—but determined not to move for as long as I could watch this thing.

 Shape: for lack of a better comparison, it looked like an upright oil-drum or ashcan with no surface features: no wings, props, visible engines, nothing that humans call essential for flight. Size: close as it seemed, but without any good reference in simultaneous sight, I have to guess it was as big as an average school-bus. Color: a deep dull brick-red from top to bottom—and no lights, no windows, no markings or control-features whatsoever. I was plain-sight watching a kind of big flying upright ashcan fly slowly, lazily down the slope toward the sea, and right into the airport’s approach corridor. Normally in this area you can hear a dog bark two miles off (between roaring air-traffic, and there wasn’t any)—and from this thing, not a sound.

 It descended from the hill and sailed out over the near sea, in a kind of tentative wandering way that first made me guess it was moved only by the wind. This is for sure a place to feel winds from mild to wild, but this morning was still, very clear below high clouds, and quiet as they come. Now a second phase began. For as this ungainly thing descended closer to the sea’s surface without disturbing the water at all, it changed form altogether. In a few seconds, this blunt heavy-looking object became a white roundish point of flickering light about the same size, flickering but steadily and distinctly there. It descended, hovered on the water almost right in front of the airport runway’s mouth, moved slightly this way and that, or up and down—but it was there in plain sight for a solid ten minutes. I fought the torment of wanting my camera for the sake of not missing one moment.

 Surely this thing would dissipate into nothing, or fall into the sea like a leaky balloon? It did not. It hovered and flickered and moved at that one spot in plain sight, as just described. “Okay. Now,” I thought—“Just show me some clearly unnatural moves, some kind of apparent controlled flight, so I can make myself a tinfoil hat.”

 A few minutes later, slowly, and with a half-drifting tentative course like before, this flickering white point rose away from the ocean’s surface, right through the airport approach, and started climbing at a slant farther out to sea and toward the gray ceiling of clouds. I watched and squinted and never lost sight of it until, at last, it vanished up into the gray.

 I haven’t crafted the hat yet, but feel free to think that I should.

The Flying White Orb

Setting: Same place as the incident just above, a bright hot August blue-sky day last summer (2018)—except that this time I was down on that same four-mile stretch of Amnisos beach, in my wife’s delightful company. Like that day’s low number of tourists around us, we were swimming and sunning, and as usual, every few minutes another international jet-airliner was gliding down loud and slow, from right (east) to left (west) through our northward view of sea and sky. By this point in final approach, they are always at most about 500 feet above the water and less than a mile away in front of you; so, again, it’s easy to see every aircraft feature.

 The great majority of airliners first come into view far off to the east, flying in close parallel with the coastline as they ease down into Heraklion. I happened to be facing that way and my wife as I knelt on our blanket doing something, and I looked up to watch a particular jet coming in—because it was making a fairly rare approach straight out of the north, and then banking steeply to get on that final, beach-parallel landing corridor almost over our heads. Because this airliner was still in a radically-steep turn as it came in close and audible just beyond the top of Bad Mountain—the plane now not one mile away—I said something like “Look at this cowboy!” to my wife, who turned instantly around and then saw what I saw.

 Imagine something about the size of a jeep following right on the tail of a passenger jet. This thing quite suddenly just appeared in the blue sky, flying along smoothly right behind this common airplane: a flickering but intense white orb or rough sphere of about that comparative size. In the sunshine it seemed as bright as a torch, if not incandescent. It had no other features, no sound we could separate from jet-roar—but there it clearly was in tandem with the tail of the steeply-banking plane. We watched so intently that we did not notice if anybody else was seeing it: we must have frozen, because we did not even raise a pointing hand.

 As soon as the airliner managed to level off toward a normal landing—an outcome that this time, looked not wholly sure—this white flickering orb stopped dead in the air behind it, and let the jet go on its way. The orb hovered still in place in front of the whole beach for three or four seconds, and then from zero miles per hour it shot away at brain-bending speed back into the clear blue eastern distance, flying parallel with the coast of Crete till it was gone. I fixed my eyes on it and know that I saw it receding into spatial distance, rather than blinking out or vanishing all at once.

 “Did you see that?” I asked my wife. “Yes,” she answered. “Did you see that?” “Yes.” “What the freak was that?” We talked over every detail and thoroughly agreed on the description you’ve just read. We saw nobody else apparently aware of any of this. But to this day, neither we nor friends we tell have any idea what it was—not least because nothing that flies subject to human laws (let alone aerodynamic ones) had any business in that sky so close to such a busy airport.

 There you have them—a triplet of discs, a flying ashcan and an orb—and I hope your path too leads to wonder beneath mysterious skies.

M100 galaxy




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Happy Thomas Morton Day (NOT)!

New English Canaan by Jack Dempsey

Alles In Ordnung! This May Day is the 390th birthday of America’s first English poetry (posted on the Maypole of 1627 on Massachusetts Bay). And as usual there were no remembrances or celebrations in honor of the poet, Thomas Morton of Merrymount—whose brave, good-humored, multi-creative life among cultures on the New England frontier was snuffed by the frightened, dour and brutal Plimoth Pilgrims and Boston Puritans (our “founding fathers'” founding fathers).
Morton’s adventurous, cool-headed, jolly, multicultural, sexual and visionary 1627 May Day Revels scared the shit out of his racist Bible-toting neighbors as a bad example in front of the servants—and they still do. A successful place dedicated outright to “Maia, The Lady of Learning” was as un-future-American as it gets. Hence we return to the past’s foolhardy centuries of Morton’s malicious neglect.
The good ol’ Boston Globe failed even to acknowledge receipt of the wisp of an article linked below. After all, the first order of Business from Boston’s first “court of law” was an order to burn down Morton’s thriving trading-post and to hoist him out of the country. No matter what the proposal toward his deserved resurrection, Boston and Quincy find a way of not getting it done. Who needs, after all, new annual Revels that would be America’s oldest civic festival? Why should taxpayers or sponsors foster community, commerce and creativity?
The American Poetry Review, The American Poetry Society, and The American Poetry Foundation—like Salem’s “National Poetry Month”—are also annually uninterested in the Renaissance/American roots of their reason for being. Chicago’s spankin’ new multimedia American Writers Museum is already in silent lockstep. And while The Quincy Patriot Ledger cut this linked-below piece in half (why? cyber-“space considerations”?), it shares their page with the annual runner’s marathon called the Dedham Ramble—which its organizers dedicate to “a writer oppressed by government.” Naturally, this means reaching abroad to feature Ireland’s James Joyce.
Joyce was “oppressed” not by government, but by Ireland’s crass Christian corpse of a culture. An expat still learning from Morton and Joyce knows how they feel. When you kick all the angels out of town, you fill the woods with monsters.
Hope for today you’ll read aloud and feel a moment of Morton’s extraordinary music—“The more I looked, the more I liked it….”—at http://ancientlights.org/canaan2.html.
Both sides of The Great Waters, the real good guys go on waiting on the hill.

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