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The Universe and Our Hands
by Georgia E. Warren


Some stories are true stories, some are fiction. This is my true story and most of it happened in Cobbleskill, NY, although a piece of it occurred at Beardslee Castle in Little Falls, NY. I had a booth at both of these and this lady DID sit down with me and we really had these discussions. I am going tell you her story as I experienced it.

“Hello, do you have time for me to have a reading.”

I looked up from my table at a psychic fair in Cobbleskill to say, “Sure, have a seat.” As I did I was looking up at one of the tallest women I had ever seen. When she sat down, it was more like she folded up into the seat. Her hands were in the pockets of her beige trench coat. She wore very dark sunglasses and her ill fitting wig covered an obvious bald head. I asked her why she stopped by my table and if she had specific questions that we could talk about during our hand reading.

She replied, “I heard you talking at dinner last night and I decided to come here for a reading. I must admit, at first, I was going to talk to Mr. Cole but he was booked up, so I came over to see you. Don’t get me wrong, I liked what you were saying, but you talked as if you were skeptical about extraterrestrial life and he was strongly defending the idea that there were intelligent alien life forms already here.”

I was perplexed about her answer. Dennis Cole, Bob the Book Guy, and I had a discussion about space aliens during dinner, but the restaurant was closed to the public and only the psychic fair participants were there, plus two waitresses and the chef/cook. The waitresses were not tall at all and the chef was a man, I would have noticed this lady, if she were in the room close enough to hear us.

“I didn’t see you in the restaurant last night.” I said.

She said, “I heard you.”

I let the subject drop. I was new at this show and even though it was busy, I had not been and I wanted to do a reading. I was trying to get into any shows I could. I needed money for my car; it was showing its age and cost as much as a car payment a month in repairs. I needed the car to do the shows and the shows to keep the car.

“Okay, so let me see your hands and we’ll get started.” She took her hands out of her pockets and they were just beautiful. She had long, slender hands and fingers. “You have what we call ‘air hands,’ or creative hands, if you are not doing something creative in your life, you will not feel fulfilled, and if you are you should try to keep that creative aspect all your life.”

I always look carefully at the back of my client's hands, sometimes the backs will tell me as much as the palms. Strangely, her hands had a golden tone to them. I looked up at her face and even with most of it covered by the sunglasses, what did show was the same metallic gold color.

Her hands trembled and she began to speak, “That’s why I came here, I am so unhappy. I came to this place taking a job that pays well, I left my home and my family so they would have a better life. I didn’t think I would be here doing statistics for this many years. I am so lonely. That’s why I came to your show. I am so lonely. I miss my children and my home. They haven’t come back for me yet. I keep sending reports, I’m not getting any replies. I want to go home.”

"Well," I said, “let’s take a look at the palms while we talk. We can see what your hands say, first though, could you take your sunglasses off, it's hard for me to talk to someone without looking at them." She took off the sunglasses off slowly and as if it pained her to do so. Her large almond shaped eyes had irises and pupils of almost the same shade of black. Her eyebrows were drawn on in eyebrow pencil. When she smiled I noticed she had no canine teeth, (and she did smile a couple of times during our reading).

I continued, "I am skeptical about most of the psychic modalities, even my own. I will tell you what your hands say, but reading palms and hands is something I learned and you will need to interpret for yourself whether it fits your life or not.”

Her palms as well as the shape of her hands were fitting a creative personality type. I told her that she had a well developed mound of Venus. Her mind and life line melted into one another which meant that she was what I have always called a “heart person.”

I looked at the rest of her dominate hand (the strongest of a person's hands usually the one with which you write, draw or play sports), then both of her hands. All of the lines on both hands either started or ended well below the mound of Pluto (the bump on your hand at the bottom where your hand and wrist join). I said,

“Oh wow, according to your hands you sure have amazing Psychic Potential. Some readers would say: ‘You are in this world but not of it.’”

“Oh, that’s what I’m trying to tell you, but I have kept my secret for so long, it is hard to say. I am not from your planet. I want to go home. Please, I just need to talk to somebody, I heard you and Dennis Cole, last night talking to the man across from you who sells books. You two said that if you met someone from another planet and they wanted you to keep it a secret you would. The book selling man said that he didn’t think he could, that it was too important for humanity to know we were here and that there was intelligent life on other planets.”

I noticed my client had no accent or dialect. From what she said to me next, that would be expected. According to her narrative she had been right here in the middle of New York State for more than five decades.

“We came here in your year of 1954. For a while my boss and the rest of the crew checked out what was happening on your planet. They knew from seismic activity that there were atomic bombs dropped in the 1940s and that there had continued to be testing on stronger and stronger bombs. We had to make sure that your scientists were not going to find the next step of mass destruction that would not only wipe out your planet but set a chain of events that could move the delicate balance of the entire universe on a destructive course. Once they did their study they set an office up for me in a house in an isolated area near here. They set up a fund for me that would grow and give me living expenses. My pay check at home would go to my family. It was a lot. I couldn’t say no.”

Given my financial circumstances at the time, I could understand how she felt. I looked back at her hands, trying to see something in the lines there that would give her comfort.

I couldn’t see anything in the lines of
her hands that showed her “going home.”

When she began to talk again she said. “I can read most Earth languages and have subscriptions to major newspapers and scientific magazines. As soon as you all caught up to computers I started following the news that way. I easily hacked into the scientific community workplaces. I kept writing my reports. I kept sending them off to my bosses. They told me not to expect answers, they didn’t want Earthlings to intercept messages coming across space. It wouldn’t raise suspicions that I was sending messages out, suspicions would only come on incoming messages. It is very frustrating. I don’t know if they are listening. I don’t know if something happened and they never even made it back home. I just don’t know.”

I had to ask her a few questions: “How long did it take you to get to Earth? You said you’ve been here since 1954, you must have been an adult then, you don’t look all that old, are you very old?”

She answered me: “We got from our star system to yours in a matter of a few Earth days. The Solar system is a bit of a mess and we had to slow way down. It took almost a month to steer around hunks of debris in your system. You people are so egotistical, you think you are the only ones. Intelligent life just isn’t so very rare. Your people started out on the planet right next to Earth and ended up blowing it into millions of pieces after you had sent prisoners to this one to start colonizing. Looking at your history, I don’t even want to think what they did here for thousands of years to degrade themselves and then start building back up.

Yes, I came here in 1954, your time. I am old by your way of reckoning time and age. We live many years longer than Humans. I don’t like Humans much at all. People in grocery stores make fun of me. I wear these dark glasses because they make fun of my eyes. I keep my hands in my pockets in stores unless I am taking objects off shelves. I don’t smile because my teeth look strange to Humans.”

I wanted to know if her people were perhaps our ancestors. There were so many similarities, even in the lines of her hand. Were they the original inhuman Humans. She did not know.

It was Sunday and the show was closing at six o’clock. By the time we finished talking the other participants were starting to pack up. She gave me her e-mail and I gave her mine.

For a few years she would write me, not often, but often enough to let me know she was still there. After around four years I was doing a show in Beardslee Castle, I saw her come in. This time she had a blond wig covering her bald head and a white trench coat instead of the brown one she wore before. Nobody had contacted her from home yet, she paid me for a reading, even though she only stayed a few minutes and then she walked away.

I have no idea if this lady was a space alien.

I have read about Marfan syndrome. Many of her physical traits fit into the symptoms of Marfan, long arms, hands and legs, tall and thin, crowded teeth. "Marfan syndrome is a genetic disorder that affects the body’s connective tissue. Connective tissue holds all the body’s cells, organs and tissue together. It also plays an important role in helping the body grow and develop properly."*

The golden color could have make up, the eyes could have been contact lenses. Was one of our waitresses a friend and told her about the dinner conversation?

I have not heard from her for years now. I tried e-mailing after the Beardslee show and all of the e-mails came back to me “unknown.”

Whether she was a space alien
or just alienated, humans
did not show her the kindness
and friendship she deserved.

*The Marfan Foundation - marfan.org

(back to home page)


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

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)


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)




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


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
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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