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by Franklin Crawford

Before Alcoholic Anonymous, or AA, there were Ancient Astronauts, the first-ever AAs. I met some of them when I was drinking spiked Mother’s Milk in a far away Power Place called The Womb and later, after getting deported, at the Friday night Mensa meeting in Halifax.

They were a fast-talking fun-loving crowd but none too clever given they chose Earth as a crash pad. That was their big mistake and a dead give-away that these so-called Ancient Astronauts were on the interstellar lam and just looking for a new place to party.

How this relates to Power Places
in a moment.

First, let’s consider Mars.

Mars was inhabited by these Ancient Astronauts, right? And they drank a lot, see? On Mars, Happy Hour was one hour longer than a 60 Minutes segment in Braille. That’s because on Mars there are twenty-five hours a day. But don’t get excited: The place is a giant detox center now. You really wanna dry-out? Go to Mars.

Lissen:

I’m about to tell you something I didn’t learn from TV Ed, a former radio and telecommunications repairman with whom my father happened to be on the same frequency. That frequency peaked in the Ebb Tide Tap Room where Dad first encountered TV Ed and learned that the stranded Martian had lost his Earth-family owing to an affinity for cheap suds and speed-rack gin. More importantly to Dad, who was ever on the lookout for promising start-ups, Mr. Ed was getting evicted from his storefront TV and Radio Repair Shop as well.

The opportunity to cash in on an Extra-Terrestrial misfortune proved greater than my father’s distrust of foreigners and he invited TV Ed with all his toys tools and gadgets to stay in his carpentry shop for a nominal sum that was never paid in full because TV Ed drank like dad and alcohol costs money.

On Mars, alcohol was free There, it was Oxygen that cost you.

Rarely beyond arm's reach of a beer and a bottle of popskull, the skinny Martian in the soiled tee shirt artillery green utility pants and Pall Mall pasted on his bloody lower lip, this TV Ed, plied his mysterious craft behind a wall of radio and TV units that belonged to some former customers, also from Mars, who were anxious to have their items returned as they used them for guiding other Ancient Astronauts to refueling stations on Earth also known as Power Bars. This put a lot of pressure on TV Ed and he did not sleep in peace on the cot beneath the taxidermied sailfish that grandpa Houndstooth caught from a charter boat off the coast of Fort Lauderdale.

It was serendipitous that I should be introduced to Ancient Astronauts personally by TV Ed, who on a bitter February night in 1974 crouched inside a gutted Magnavox cabinet and directed my attention to any number of little phosphorescent jellyfish coursing a fevered circuit along an invisible arc between rabbit ear antennae up, up, up an insulated wire across the asbestos ceiling then leaping from a broken fixture onto the sailfish bill presently crawling inside the lacquered trophy where they conspired against TV Ed's efforts to overcome economic insecurity.

I'm a visual learner so I felt cheated to not see these bright beings and complained. An expert in TV repair should, I thought, produce a vivid picture of the proceedings. TV Ed dismissed my lack of vision in severe tones saying that given the quantity of fruit bats and Jujubes clogging my eye sockets it was surprising I saw anything at all. This insult shocked me so much I immediately reported it to Dad and Dad said “why that phony sonofabitch has got the DTs.” I'd never heard of the DTs but it sounded like TV Ed had a lot of them, too many to contain inside himself, so they took to trafficking around Dad's shop in riots of day glow color.

TV Ed did not last as long as lodgers in need of safe tuck ought to. He outlived maybe three countless Earthling binges before getting the boot. I mean Dad literally kicked his ass right the hell off the property and into the streets. Ancient Astronauts from Mars, at least in our atmosphere, are possessed of no special powers except that of thirst.

All of which is to say that TV Ed
did not tell me the following:

The Earth is a giant Power Station!

This I learned from the very thing that would make TV Ed’s life a misery, namely, Internet Television.

But just to finish off what I learned from TV Ed: There is no life as we know it on Mars because most Martians drank themselves to death. Apparently, unlimited access to free drugs and alcohol is what makes their planet so red. Survivors, armed with the gift of desperation, made it to Earth and that’s why AA membership numbers are up these days. They got here in lunar nodules housed in empty bottles. And that’s why, to this day, rockets are shaped like bottles and vice versa.

More vital to our national security is this post-truth: The Earth is a big fat EverReady battery. You betcha. You can tell by lining up the pyramidical Power Places on Earth using chaos software and something as simple as a 1950s Zenith TV screen such as TV Ed used to contact his hallucinations.

Bust my afterlife if the Ley Lines connecting these Power Places don’t form a lattice work — a veridical Geodetic Matrix! Upon close inspection, it’s easy to see where humans got the idea for making chicken wire.

Wait! There’s more: Each of these sites on our planet are occupied by — YOU GUESSED IT!
Gender Neutral Toilets.

Further, they are handicapped accessible if you happen to be an Ancient Disabled Astronaut (ADA) with scuba training.

Isn’t that a pip? I mean, how do you like them apples?

Almost as importantly, these Geodetic comfort stations (the biggest heads are underneath Hong Kong, Moscow and Midtown Manhattan, respectively) are covered with 1970s-style petroglyphs.

Where do you think you can find one that is not submerged? (Cue didgeridoo bubbling):

Right here! In Ithaxacopetl where, as I write, Ancient Astronauts are zipping around in hybrid cars desperate for a bottle of port and a portal for to get their batteries juiced on a Sunday night.

To say we’ve come a long way is to utter something even more meaningless than everything you’ve read up until now and if you have you’ll know that the only true Power Place anywhere on Earth is
between your ears so duck and cover accordingly.

>>><<

Franklin Crawford is a recovering Martian living in a fancy pants refrigerator box somewhere near Shit's Creek, NY.
He is a standing member of the Ithaca Order of Ancient Astronauts. Lucky Powerball numbers: 4, 9, 18, 29.
You pick the rest. Favorite Fortune Cookie Saying he's never read:
Sparkle Suckers, This is Life

 

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Places of Power
an Introduction

by David S. Warren, Editor

Here is a map showing supposed lines of force, or connection, or power transmission, or something simply mysterious called “Ley Lines”. When they intersect, Ley Lines are said to create places with a special power - typically the habitat of Bigfoot or powerful spirit beings, the landing place of aliens, or serving as portals through which one communicates with other worlds or other states of being. Spiritual centers, sacred places, and locations of political power...
(Go to Story)_______________________


Places of Power
Earth

by Tarka Wilcox PhD

Reply: Have you ever seen a small chunk of pure sodium metal burn, shriek, and tear itself apart when dropped into water? The energy release during the extremely rapid oxidation is impressive. It’s not the same as the earth, but in some ways it’s analogous - earth is burning (slowly), and tearing itself apart constantly - as a result of trying to cool off.
(Go to Story)

________________________

Montségur
by David Rollow

At this site on top of a rocky outcropping a castle once stood
that was the main stronghold of the Cathars, the heretics who were systematically wiped out in the Albigensian Crusade. At the time, I knew nothing about the Cathars. I went to Montsegur because
a friend put it on the map for me... (Go to Story)

_______________________

The Brook
by Franklin Crawford

The most powerful place I've ever known isn't there any more except between my ears.

It was a flat swampy wetland with a brook flowing through it that once fed a shallow lake that Mom said she had skated on in long ago winter times. I imagined Mom skating in a mental newsreel, black and white and shaky; not a memory of my own at all but of something else I never knew but wish I did. (Go to Story)________________


(more "Fish Eye" cartoons by Mark Finn)

______________________

Water Power
by Georgia E. Warren

It seems that humans can’t resist following water. I am sure that it didn’t take primative peoples long to know how much easier to get from one place to another perched on a fallen log and then a hollow log, a canoe and then finally a boat.

If you get tired going down the river, you pull to the side and stop. If there is a waterfall too steep or rapids too rough, you pull to the side and stop. Build a hut and eventually it becomes a community. (Go to Story)
_______________________

"Collector's Luck
in France"
review by
Josiah Booknoodle

It seems that humans can’t resist following water. I am sure that it didn’t take primative peoples long to know how much easier to get from one place to another perched on a fallen log and then a hollow log, a canoe and then finally a boat.

If you get tired going down the river, you pull to the side and stop. If there is a waterfall too steep or rapids too rough, you pull to the side and stop. Build a hut and eventually it becomes a community. (Go to Story)
_____________________

The Stone at the
Old Same-Place
by David S. Warren

The Old Same-Place, as we called it when we lived there in the seventies, was a nineteenth-century farm house next to a small, unmowed cemetery under tall White Pines as old as the stones where Blackcap Raspberries thrived in a couple of patches. Wild Morning Glory vines hooded the tomb stones and climbed the old pines to their first branches twenty or thirty feet above the ground. The old Pines had grown so large that their sprawling roots tilted the vine-hooded tombstones so that they seemed to be running away

One morning I was poking into the cemetery with my dog Kasha to check on some ripening BlackCap berries in which Kasha had no interest, she lay down in patch of Morning Glory vines near a stone I had never noticed before. It was mostly obscured by the vines but the thing was bigger than a bowling ball and glowing red. (Go to Story)


______________________

Entering a
Powerful Place
by Davey Weathercock

Connecticut Hill, about the wildest part of Tompkins County, has some reputation as a portal between worlds, a landing spot for space aliens, and the habitat of Bigfoot. I don’t know about all of that, but I have hunted, prospected, and skied for years on that hill, and I don’t get how people manage to come across Aliens and Bigfeet there, and not even notice the numerous Littlefeet: the small yellowish natives who retreated to the Gorges when the pre-Iroquois Algonquins arrived, and left the gorges for the hills when the Iroquois took over.
(Go to Story)

______________________



A Note from
Gabriel Orgrease

In the 70’s I was known in Tompkins County as someone that had an interest to play with stones and this fellow wanted to find a particular boulder to set on some property in Ellis Hollow at the northeast quadrant at the corner of Turkey Hill Road and Ellis Hollow Road. He explained there was a confluence of ley lines in the area and that it was full of power. He wanted to place a boulder at the intersection to make it even more powerful a meditation space. This was, as I recall, to be called something like The Temple of Light.
(Go to Story)

_____________________


by Franklin Crawford

Before Alcoholic Anonymous, or AA, there were Ancient Astronauts, the first-ever AAs. I met some of them when I was drinking spiked Mother’s Milk in a far away Power Place called The Womb and later, after getting deported, at the Friday night Mensa meeting in Halifax.

They were a fast-talking fun-loving crowd but none too clever given they chose Earth as a crash pad. That was their big mistake and a dead give-away that these so-called Ancient Astronauts were on the interstellar lam and just looking for a new place to party. (Go to Story)

_______________________

 

PRAIRIE LAKE

We would drive the buggy where
apart from the wheel tracks
we’d left last week
there was no trace of anyone
the land was so very flat
in all directions
we must unknowingly have crossed
one horizon after another

we might have been
let down from an angel chariot
for all the time
that distance seemed to take
your summons uplifted me
when the horse had its head
the prairie just rolled back
as steady as knitting

and in that pleasure
the body takes when it is
inured to hunger
and the fierce desires
in the renewed
appearance of tranquility
in each moved moment
we rehearsed our satisfaction

over and over so that
later I would find myself
repeating it even in my sleep
where there could be no expectation
of sharing it with you
how your call abides
that invited me
to look from that grassy shore

across a blind eye of water
with the ducks returning as
soon as our carriage-sounds stop
in a line that flattens as the surface
approaches beneath it
only to spill apart
and splash into several gratitudes
at the last moment

Chris MacCormick
___________________

Wake Me
by Mary Gilliland

In the treeless light of Delos
mullein flowers burn round
and the stone lions
have waited so long
some have lost their smiles,
others their heads.

In Eleusinian bus exhaust
rain beads like wax
drops along a candle
toward the smashed ruins.

In Samaria the temples
are not slabs of stone.
Water cold as fire
channels the gorge.

In the neglect at Dodona
Persephone has burned
to a shade thinner than sorrow
and fled to the caverns
leaving a painted turtle
to stare down the lizards.

'Nice Girl' first appeared in
The Greenfield Review 14, 3/4 (1987)

__________________

Places of Power
Mt. Shasta

SISKIYOU COUNTY JOURNAL

In the fall of 2016 our prose writing workshop (“Traveling, Thinking, Writing”) read books by Eddy Harris, Linda Grant Niemann, and Robert Michael Pyle. Pyle’s book is called Where Bigfoot Walks and one weekend in early November we endeavored to go out walking in one of the places where Bigfoot is reputed to walk, Siskiyou County in northern California. We drove north for five hours—in a rented van—from Berkeley. (Go to Story)
____________________


Places of Power
Mt. Shasta
OR NOTHING
LIKE THAT AT ALL
by Peter Fortunato


I’m originally from Kansas, and that’s why the name has stuck. A guy I met when I first hitchhiked to the Mountain started calling me that, and I liked it, and so on Shasta I became Kansas for keeps. That was my first time up there, 1976. I came down from the Mountain when Rinpoche arrived in the Bay Area, and there I made some new friends and we all stayed in the same house with him in the hills near Orinda. A lovely, friendly little town in those days—I wonder what it’s like now? (Go to Story)
______________________


The Texture of Music
by Peter Wetherbee

As a musician, audio engineer, and listener, I would like to define beauty in sound. What is it that makes something sound good? What is my favorite kind of music? If there could possibly be such a defining measuring stick, how would one quantify the magnitude of a given piece of art or music, the depth of beauty, or the absolute weight of meaning in the artistic gesture or statement?

I would like to call this magical sweet spot the location of power in music. (Go to Story)
________________________

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