Monday, May 14, 2012

Happy trails, buddy

In my life, I can count the most extraordinary experiences or things that defy immediate understanding on the fingers of one hand. More of them involve this girl, Connie Boulton Bauer, the only girl I dated more than a couple times in college, than anyone else.

There was an obituary for her in The Oklahoman. Ordinarily, one would think she'd died, but even that is a little mysterious—as in, "there's something funny about this."

Connie was one of those people with a billion friends; yet, she's claimed to be dead and many of her old friends know nothing about it months later. Social networking being what it is today, I find that surprising, and unlike anyone else's death I recall. Are we this isolated? Yes.

Kind people I know think I've contemplated it too much, and think I've had an inordinate fascination with her. That isn't as true as it seems. However, the odd circumstances surrounding our acquaintance are striking and not things I've felt comfortable discussing with others. For the first time, I've started telling some of the stories, and people say they think they're very odd.

Three weeks ago I requested a copy of Connie's post mortem report from the medical examiner's office by e-mail. She didn't reach life expectancy (7-12-54 to 11-24-11), so in accordance with state law her body would have been taken to the medical examiner. The medical examiner's office hasn't responded. The next step is to corner someone in that office and find out if they have a report. I get the funny feeling they don't, but it's more likely they just don't work their e-mail.

If there is no autopsy report, then it's an actual mystery. And, I have to ask myself if I should even be curious. I wouldn't be except for the unique progression of events of my meeting her and things that happened. Explaining it challenges my overall picture of reality even now, over 40 years later.

She and I started in life living less than a mile apart. I didn't meet her or know of her as a child, but we grew up in roughly the same neighborhood, and I sensed her presence without meeting her or knowing her name.

I first saw her in a dream in late 1967, a vivid dream that seemed more like it happened while I was awake. I can still see the picture. She told me she'd be my first love, and to watch for her. As solitary then as now, I took some comfort in it. I didn't consider it a premonition. I don't have premonitions. I didn't think of it as divine intervention. But, I did think of it as my real and true fate, and if it naturally developed, what I was to do.

I also was a little frightened by it, because the dream was so real I had to wonder if it was phony, as in bogus, induced by technology. I already knew about the suppressed work of Nikola Tesla, and I realized someone could have put that thought directly into my mind, although I wasn't aware any people were actually doing such things. Her face, the light in her eyes, her voice, were indelibly carved into my memory.

Connie moved to my school in January, 1971, and the first time I saw her in the hall, I knew she was the girl in the dream, as in, "oh my God, it's really her." Time went by, and I talked to her a little, and sure enough, she was exactly the person I saw in the dream, precisely.

She dated an old school friend steadily, and I pondered how odd it was. The girl I saw in the dream was a bit older than Connie would have been in 1967, but it was definitely her.

Two years later, Connie as first love came true, with little prompting by me. It was a miracle to me, but for her I was a drop in an endless ocean. Sadly, every girl I'd known since 1967 and I had lived in the shadow of this experience, which I took as the unyielding, real version of what would happen. It didn't help I was also shy and emotionally broken. People took it as aloofness or snobbery. Some girls took it as a snub. I'd ask any girl I know to read this and consider, this is what I was sure I was to do.

It wasn't even that I wanted to do it, because Connie was very charming, I was drearily plain, and she would surely grind me into dog food. I didn't entice her. We were acquainted, and I hope she found as much fun in it as I did. We had more than our share of great days.

From start to finish, Connie made it clear I should not think of her as a significant other or plan for a long term relationship, that we should date others because I was only a friend to her and a friend she planned to eliminate soon. That wasn't the hardest thing about knowing her. Meanwhile, her family hated me and blamed me for all society's crimes, sins and disease. If I'd managed to consort with Connie further, they might have had me framed for murder, and were able to do such things. They were serious about seeing their beloved with anyone else.

That too was odd: I'm not perfect, but these are the only folks I've known who complained I was The Only One True Great Satan. Connie didn't need anyone's help killing it, and they knew that. They mistakenly believed we were "going steady." We weren't, although I might have wished a time or three we could be.

I'm called a terrible liar and worse for relating such strange stories, so I haven't told that one to anyone before the last few months except Connie herself. And, you have to admit as she did it's a stupid story: even if it's true, so what? Inside me, it was and still is a genuine, authentic experience, and I can't posit a satisfying theory that explains it. I didn't have that experience with anyone else, and I don't generally talk to people I meet in dreams. Connie was always a mystery to me. You can understand why, if you can accept that meeting her in a dream more than two years before seeing her in the world was a real thing in my mind.

The strange story of Connie's vanishing sweater

I have another good reason to suspect she and I participated in somebody's lousy scalar lab experiment. I was going to tell this story to my nice cousin in London who has a demonstrated fondness for electric gadgets, so I figured why not share it with everyone?

Connie came to visit on a crisp, autumn Saturday night. I was happy to see a familiar face, however briefly. She wore a fuzzy white sweater that, once inside, she removed. She laid it across the back of the living room chair next to the sofa in my small, one door, three room apartment. We sat on the sofa to watch TV, ignored the TV and had a lively conversation.

She stayed a couple hours, and got up to leave. We were alone, and together every second. Yet, for some reason, her sweater was gone. No one else was there, nothing had happened, and for some reason her sweater simply wasn't there.

We both knew neither one of us had touched it. She left, and I tore the place apart looking for it. I searched every square inch of the little apartment every day for two weeks. The sweater wasn't there.

It was Saturday two weeks later. I got out of bed and sat on the sofa reading a textbook for about five hours, and it was the afternoon. I got up to put water in my glass, and was two steps outside the room for 15 or 20 seconds at the kitchen sink. When I stepped back into the living room, I had to grip the glass to keep from dropping it.

On the back of the chair where Connie had laid her sweater was—her sweater—not stretched out but tightly folded square. I was surprised to see it, of course, but the real surprise was there was a bright light shining from the center of the folded sweater that immediately went dim. I wasn't in the room when the sweater arrived, but was a split second after it arrived.

I cursed and cursed for 20 minutes. It was beyond my comprehension that this thing happened, and I knew I'd think about it every day until I discovered any explanation. When I was finally able to move, I unfolded the sweater to see if something inside had caused the light. Nothing. I got Connie on the phone and told her what happened. She thought it was strange. She knew its disappearance was extraordinary.

Momma always told you things don't walk away by themselves, and certainly that's a common belief. Connie's sweater demonstrates things not only leave by themselves, but come back that way, too. Here's the money shot: this thing happened in October, 1973, 39 years ago.

I've thought about it every day. Finally, I discovered an explanation. This is an example of Tesla's hidden space theory, which the Navy performed with Tesla's help in 1943, the year he was killed and his files stolen. After a lifetime failing to sell his work to defense, the Navy understood Tesla could do what he said he could do when he moved a ship from one place to another instantly using some small electronic devices.

I play that old saw a lot because it's so endlessly tragic. Hidden space is an engineered wave routine that lets you move things and people anywhere. It creates a "bubble" in what I assume is the endless, tightly packed sea of negatively charged electrons that is the universe, surrounding the thing to be moved, When the object is enveloped, it leaves this spacetime and doesn't exist here. The hidden space can be engineered, bent, pulled or pushed and allows travel at speeds faster than light, such that the transported object moves little in hidden space and can re-enter this spacetime at a place far away. Or, not so far away.

The Navy had operations at the university as they'd had since World War II, so it's safe to assume someone was playing with the technology, and she and I were under close surveillance by military intelligence-special operations, which still creeps me out—bad.

That's not all. I'd forgotten about this until just last spring. A few days went by and it was November. I began having a distinct visual perception of the metro area being destroyed by a nuclear warhead. I could see this thing very perfectly whether awake or asleep. It was a slow-motion video of the detonation, the fireball, the shock wave blowing everything away, then I seemed to glide over the devastated landscape like the image of a camera on a track, all of it in slow motion. There were several different versions of this horrific video, from different vantage points all around the city, complete with recognizable landmarks. The perception had no sound, and was accompanied by a profound sense of calm and peace.

For ten days and nights, I saw this very clearly. I could sleep but not well, and didn't sleep at all the first five days. Then, as quickly as it started, it stopped. I was worn down, depleted. and I figured my describing this to Connie was perhaps the death blow to our friendship, and we were going into finals for which I was unprepared. It had been a very hard semester.

Connie was busy herself and unconcerned about it, which was cool.

Another year passed, and the relationship was rocky. As time went by, she tried harder, and I was proud of her. Things backslid a little, and she was nowhere to be found the following summer. I took some summer classes to round out my degree requirements.

One was a speech class taught by a guy with a scary personality. One day a couple guys in suits took him aside at the beginning of class and talked to him privately, wasting half the class. All the while, the professor stared at me in horror. They left, and he spent the rest of the class giving a nervous speech about how some people wanted to conduct an interesting experiment as some schools at the university do from time to time. The experiment was to see what two people would talk about while trying to solve a simple puzzle, and that while participation was voluntary, it was explained to him they needed someone very special for the experiment, and that very special person had to be—no one but nondescript me.

I already wasn't his favorite guy, and this didn't help. I didn't want to do it, but curiosity got the better of me, because I'd never seen an experiment solicit test subject this way.

I rode my bicycle to the test site that day. I was seated at a table with a fellow about my age, and we were given a puzzle and a time limit. We were told to say anything that came to mind. He started right up with how he worked for Navy intelligence, and I immediately decided to ignore him. I just let him talk, and he rambled on about this and that, mostly nothing. Finally, I said, "sounds like dangerous work," which isn't what he expected. I got up, hopped on the bike, and took the most elusive route back home as fast as I could.

The Vietnam war had just ended. He wasn't trying to recruit me. I didn't attach this "experiment" to Connie's vanishing sweater or my perceiving nuclear obliteration. I wondered if there had been a problem with Connie's stepbrother, for whom I'd helped fill out his application to join the Navy and on which application I'd signed my name. He didn't mention it, I didn't ask, and I received a letter shortly thereafter from the Department of the Navy saying he'd gone AWOL and I could make five bucks if I'd be good enough to take him to the nearest recruiting office!

Within the last year, I've realized I was their test subject, and they wanted to know if I were aware. I didn't connect my experiences to Tesla's theoretical physics, know they were classified technologies or that the Navy was involved in their research and development. But, I knew in the back of my mind Tesla did the paperwork on such things, yet as far as I knew they were historical curiosities only. That was incorrect.

That was a long time ago; in fact, two generations. Nothing else like that happened to me, thank goodness. But, something like that happened to my brother, if you read the previous post. It's my biggest sorrow that great technologies like these aren't at everyone's fingertips.

Connie told me she didn't want to see me or talk to me, and that she wasn't in love with me. She apparently wasn't in like with me either, and by God she meant it. I hadn't talked to her in 37 years. The picture was taken in 1975. Connie is putting on her coat, getting ready to leave. Look how happy she is. This is the last time I saw her, and she knew it. I suspected it, and we were laughing about how great it was going to be for her to be rid of me. The camera was handy, and she let me take this last snap without stopping it. In the picture, she seems to be giving me the finger. We were close friends with another couple, and she dumped her boyfriend as Connie unloaded me. They went on to say they got their hearts broken, but that's not what happened, and they know it.

Before I deactivated my Facebook page, I was puzzled to find Connie punched my button—the only peep I'd had in almost 40 years. I told her this story. I don't know what she thought about it. She said she'd give it some thought and write more later, but she didn't. She told me her stepbrother committed suicide. It was quite something to talk to her after all that time. I told her she was very live to me, and I was glad she was in the world, that I'd like to talk with her but she should think it over, because it drives all girls' friends and families crazy to think she'd talk to bad Uranus, and I knew hers would be no different, and it wasn't a problem to me. She didn't respond. I tried to add her on another Facebook page, and Facebook linked me to her obituary.

While thinking of her every day, I never knew where she was or what she was doing, and did my best to abide by her wish for my silence and absence.

On the edge of the tub is the green and white fingernail brush that's been there ever since Connie gave it to me. It's cleaned my grubby hands and feet a million times, yet it looks brand new. We used to make such good things in the United States. I still use the plastic colander she gave me to strain spaghetti although it's cracked. I have a few photos, a few memories, tiny pieces, as much as I have of anyone. I had great hope and fatal errors. I feel this much loss when anyone I know passes, but I don't have more extremely odd and perplexing experiences with anyone as with Connie.

What it means

They're small things and giant mysteries. The events of our lives have to be fake, as in, not of our own navigation and not left to random chance. I'm lately struck by the idea someone less than Absolute God manipulates our lives with sophisticated technology, from big events to the smallest details, and our lives are no more or less than what they are made to be. Some of these people are earth people, but I'm not sure all of them are, and none of them show any real concern for the well-being of their test subjects. There is evidence of the ability to move fluidly through time. Indeed, I was unable to post a sentence to Facebook recently that stated time occupies a place on the electromagnetic spectrum, can be engineered and is a gigantic secret kept at all cost to humanity. Facebook wouldn't let me post that sentence, not that it proves anything more than Facebook doesn't want someone sharing this idea. I used to think such theories were hogwash. Now, I can't think of a way to explain why these stupid things happened or why most all of our lives are filled with stupid things. It isn't that way for everyone. All the ways we explain why one person's life is different than another's don't adequately explain it. This gave me much agony, more pain than anything, and could only be purposeful for satisfying a sadist. Connie was a good kid and I loved her, but I'm a pushover and no big thing to other girls, either. Keeping great technology at this state of development unavailable so long is the mom and dad of all crimes. I've been visited by fedgov intelligence surveillance spies throughout my life, and still don't know why. Can I help you guys find something? Leave me alone.