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Unidentified Aircraft?
Jay Bremyer
Sara yells. Tilted forward in the oak rocking
chair, she is in her study gazing out the
window. Mid-afternoon, it’s sunny and warm. Against
the blue pitch of the eastern sky, she is watching a pure white
jet. But it’s just hovering there, maybe a hundred
yards above the meadow.
She yells again, more urgently, "Jay, look
out the window" I'm at the kitchen
sink. Turning the water off, I lean forward to
get a better view. What is that? Not alarmed, my mind unfolds around
an idea. Over there above our pasture something
from another world or from a television screen
... But it is supposed to be sky. White clouds
don’t behave that way. White jets don’t appear out of nowhere and
float slowly and silently in front of our house.
It's nosing toward the abandoned missile site we
own -- six acres immediately to the southeast
of our drive. But why? What is it?
Grabbing the binoculars, I run through the garage
and out onto the driveway. It has barely
moved. Can it be going that slow? Or is it incredibly
huge and far away? No, it is close. There are no insignias on
its surface. It seems to be made out of white plastic. Even without
binoculars, I can see portals along the side. But
I can't see through them. Maybe there are
passengers looking down at me, a pilot and
co-pilot in the cone front where, I assume, there
are windows. Binoculars don’t help.
Slowly tilting the near wing upward, it starts
to bank away from the missile site and move
east. But it keeps banking until it has reversed
and is moving back north -- still silent. Then, at the edge of
our twenty acres, it banks further to complete the
circle and moves back south and passes in
front of us again.
When it finally disappears into the distance going
south, I reenter the house. Sara has seen
the same thing. We agree that it was an unidentified
flying object. Not hostile or threatening, it looked to us
like a top secret passenger jet. But it did not obey the rules of
this dimension.
During the last several months, lacking an explanation,
what we saw has become less distinct in our
memories. But yesterday, during the late
afternoon on 1/27/98, coming home from town on old 81 highway, about
one-half mile ahead of me above the road just past
Jo & Shelby Littrell’s
house, I saw what I thought was a passenger or cargo
airplane of WW II vintage crossing the road
going east so low and slow that I thought it might
be crash landing in the field.
I immediately thought of the ufo sighting
and started to turn into Jo’s drive to proceed as fast as
possible to the east of the trees so I could witness
what happened next. But as I reached the
drive it looked like the plane was simply moving on,
although very low, so I kept going to just north past the trees, then
pulled over to watch.
I was aware of other traffic coming toward me and
behind me and wondered what they were seeing.
No one else stopped. When I had first seen
the plane one-half mile ahead, it had seemed extraordinarily large,
slow moving, and low vis a vis the car traffic below
it. Now, pulled over and viewing it moving
slowly away across the fields perhaps a mile to
the east, I thought it must be an antique cargo or passenger plane
(e.g. ten rows of seats) which an enthusiast had
purchased and was flying for fun or perhaps
an old plane purchased by a crop duster and adapted to his
business. But it didn’t seem to be dispensing chemicals.
The white jet which had appeared over the meadow
in front of our house had been closer, larger,
spotlessly clean and modern with a plastic-like
surface. This plane appeared to be old, used, and dirty. Concluding
that it was strange although probably not inexplicable, but intending
to tell Sara about it, I pulled back onto the highway and headed
home.
I had been listening to the story of the hunter
who is also the hunted, and therefore, at
the end of his career, upon killing the king of the
gazelles, gives up his wife and home and becomes the keeper of the
tribal mysteries. After starting up again, having
reached the end of the story -- where the
hunter goes off to meet the assembled tribe while his wife,
saddened but proud, takes her six-year-old twin-grandchildren into
her arms to tell them about eternal time when past,
future, and present coincide -- I switched
to the 4:00 o’clock news about Clinton’s most recent
sex scandal.
Pulling into our garage, I had forgotten the event
in our skies. That happens when we listen
to the reports from Washington.
Archetypal stories
open us to transpersonal realities. Political stories kill them.
Jay Bremyer’s most recent books are The
Chymical Cook: A True Account of Mystical Initiation in the Georgia
Woods (published by Barrytown/Station Hill), and The
Dance of Created Lights: A Sufi Tale (published by New Falcon).
For autographed copies, send $17 or $18, respectively, to:
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