Whitley's Journal

The Hour is Late

It is late here, midnight passing. December has come again, and for the past few months I have been enduring the same demonic nights that I experience every year at this time, as my spirit relives the hard pilgrimage that led to the night of December 26, 1985.

The feelings are so complex, the fears so deep and the love, too, so deep, that sometimes, even after all these years,the whole emotional avalanche of having the visitors emerge into my life threatens to drown me.

It was not all bad, not by any means, and that what makes my present condition so hard. I have lost loves, great loves, towering loves, left behind me a life and experiences that are somewhere close to the pinnacle what can happen to a living man.

I know that what I did is considered nothing--the foolish bagatelles of a pitiful man with a deranged imagination, or even a frank liar--but it was all real, and there was far more of it than I have ever said, and I am so lonely now that it is a physical agony, and yet, along with the loneliness there is also a fear that is greater than my blood, greater than my soul, I would think, that breaks me on its wheel in these lonely hours in the early winter, every year.

I have lived most of my life, and over its course been given a great blessing, to see truly and accurately to a land beyond death, and see its sacred population, and even gain friends there.

But what did it mean? Is there really an afterlife, or was it a trick to force me into the state of question in which I now live? Am I standing before a door, or, like Tantalus, doomed to forever seek a meal I will never consume in the form of answers I will never receive.

I am deeply, profoundly angry at the way I have been treated by the world. I brought one of the premiere human experiences to the surface and my reward has been a mock Science Fiction Hugo, and to become a star of the television show Southpark as the victim of a 'rectal probe'--the character skillfully changed, of course, so that I could not sue or claim theft of my story.

It hurts to get raped and it humiliates beyond what you may be able to believe. Indeed, it humiliated me so much that it took me twenty years to tell my own wife the frank truth of it. Seeing myself mocked week after week on television, and not just on Southpark, God knows, and knowing that I was telling the truth and they were tormenting me because they believed otherwise, was a horrible thing.

I have been hounded also by official sources. Right before my last nonfiction book "Confirmation" was published, Parade Magazine suddenly printed a false story that I was a temporal lobe epileptic and had given a large contribution to the Epilepsy Foundation.

This story had been placed there to destroy my credibility, and it worked. Sales of my books were already plummeting because of Southpark and other tormentors. I got Parade to publish a retraction, but the damage was done.

So I have known all these years that there were dark forces involved in this, forces that want to keep mankind weak and confused, and never let him out.

Now, in this late hour at the age of sixty three, I feel an extraordinary bitterness. What a waste, all that knowledge and relationship! But I was driven broke with my courageous wife to a life far away in Texas. Since then the people who bought the house haven't noticed a thing, but is was not for the house that the visitors came, it was for me.

What a rich trove of knowledge is being wasted by denying their reality, and not just what I have to offer. I'm only a small part of a great movement that will, in the end, affect human life and human meaning more profoundly than anything else that has happened across the whole reach of history.

And we pretend it isn't even happening.

The visitors told me that we came out of a race of lemurs, which explains out our love of bright objects. For millions of years longer than we have had civilization, we reached for the fruits in the trees, and our material culture is the result. Show a human being a jewel or a bright automobile, and he feels the same lust and the same delight that our ancient forebears felt when they saw a bright, ripe berry.

We live in a civilization that uses fuel to make fire, and fire to change the chemistry of thousands of materials, and make object. In other words, we have a material culture based on fire.

But the visitors do not. They gather their energy in other ways and their culture has other aims. These have to do with the only thing of any real value, which is the soul--what the Master of the Key called "conscious energy."

This, not cars and boats and diamonds, is what this universe--and the life of man, too--is all about.

The Romans had steam-powered toys, but the idea of using engines never crossed their minds. Go to Rome now, and see the result of their failure to grasp their own true needs.

We are in the same position now, but with a huge difference. Be it dark or light, dangerous or glorious, or all of the above, something extraordinary is beckoning to us out of the night, toward a future that we are refusing to embrace.

If we do not embrace it, our future is absolutely clear. To see it, all you need to do is walk the bare bones of the old Roman Forum.

Oh, well, it is late here. I'm tired and feeling beaten to death. I must give up the ghost, its been a long day.

NOTE: This Journal entry, previously published on our old site, will have any links removed.


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