|By: Paul S. Cilwa||Viewed: 11/16/2018
|Topics/Keywords: #AlienAbductions #MichaelManion||Page Views: 1511|
|How I said hello to Michael, and farewell to the aliens.|
On a Thursday in late November, 1996, I met Michael.
I was teaching a class in New York City, next door to the World Trade Center. With one day of class left, I had little to do in the evening so decided to drop by a gay club that was located not far from my hotel. The place wasn't crowded, but it was one of those places where the habitués very carefully don't look at anyone else—except one person, Michael, who displayed a brilliant, open smile the moment he saw me.
I reflexively smiled back. We talked, and when I mentioned wanting to get back to my room in time to catch Star Trek: Voyager, he told me he enjoyed the show, too. So I invited him to watch it with me.
The next day we agreed to meet for dinner before I headed for the airport. He lived in Manhattan, and knew all these funky little places to eat. Impulsively, I invited him to come to Manchester for New Year's Eve and attend First Night with me.
"What's that?" he asked.
"An alternative for people who prefer not to drink their way into the New Year," I explained. "They open a bunch of public buildings for performances, singers, dancers, readings, and so on. And there's street food like hot dogs and fry bread. It's sort of like a carnival, but with more artists and fewer clowns."
Since I didn't know Michael, I was unaware that I had said two "right things". One, I had invited him to be a guest in my home. I learned later that, in New York City, that only happens when people have really connected. And two, I had invited him to a non-alcoholic event. Michael's parents had both been alcoholics and he (understandably) has a big button about drinking.
We talked a lot on the phone over the intervening weeks. By the time New Year's Eve came along, I had already pretty much forgotten what Michael looked like—I remembered long, dark hair but not really much else. I picked him up at the Manchester airport, somewhat relieved to discover that he was, in fact, attractive. I took him home so he could unpack and change for the evening, and then drove him to Concord, where the most interesting First Night performances were scheduled.
We heard local singers, including the phenomenal Doug Clegg; enjoyed the New Hampshire Symphony Orchestra; ate ourselves silly. With midnight approaching, we returned to Manchester and visited Manchester's gay dance club, The Front Runner.
I like to dance, but I don't think I do it very well. However, Michael seemed to really look forward to our going; so I grinned and tried to put myself into a positive frame of mind. I needn't have worried. Michael is one of those people who loses himself in dance; as I watched, he smiled and glowed and his quantum frequency soared so high I could scarcely believe it.
At midnight, when they stopped the music for the countdown, and Michael and I counted with them and we locked eyes and smiled, out of breath and sweating from dancing—I fell in love.
An hour later, I fell in love again as we drove home and Michael sang along with a cassette in the car. He had a beautiful voice but, more to the point, he was singing to me.
I'd always had to do the singing.
The next morning I put him back on a plane for New York, but we'd already made arrangements for our next date, when I returned to Manhattan for another class in a couple of weeks.
That night, after I went to sleep, I awoke suddenly to find three aliens in my room. I wasn't frightened, just curious. All three of the visitors waved goodbye, the gesture startlingly human despite their four-fingered hands. One ended his wave with a casual salute. They then walked through the wall and out of my life.
Ten years, the thought echoed. I didn't know what that meant, but I knew with certainty the visitors had just said goodbye—maybe forever, maybe just for ten years—but, for now, they were gone.
I should have been relieved. I should have been more doubtful. But I wasn't. I was very much aware that I had fallen in love the night before. It seemed quite possible that Michael and I might wind up together. So why, why, had the aliens chosen this night, of all nights, to terminate our relationship?
I could not believe it was coincidence. Or rather, that it was a meaningless coincidence. But, if it meant anything, I was certainly at a loss to guess what it was.
Between classes and travels to other places that went through New York, Michael and I managed to see each other every couple of weeks. In February, we drove together to Washington, D.C. As we talked, it quickly became apparent that Michael's interest in metaphysics was as intense as mine. Although he didn't appear to be an abductee, he'd had otherworldly contacts of his own.
Specifically, during a visit by the Dalai Lama to Manhattan, Michael had had a vision or visitation by a being that identified itself as an archangel. This entity told him that he would be asked to transcribe a great deal of metaphysical information, and that the duties of his day job would shift in such a way as to make this possible. Sure enough, the next business day his boss reassigned him to monitor a telephone in an otherwise empty office. There were no visitors and the phone didn't, in fact, ever ring. So Michael used the time to fill dozens of notebooks with information regarding spiritual energies, the nature of God and the characteristics of time and space that came to him as quickly as he could write. He, himself, didn't understand much of what he'd written.
But when he shared this information with me, I was shocked to realize that the data he'd been given by angels, was basically the same I'd been given by aliens. He had the words but not the scientific background to understand the concepts; I had the concepts, but not the words to express them.
The central point seemed to be that "God" is less of a person than an energy. A person has emotions, jealousies and gets angry—you know, the kind of things the Biblical god Yahweh demonstrates in ample doses. An energy, on the other hand, can be our tool, if we learn how it works.
Another of these pieces of information was that every one of us is connected to God in such a fundamental way that we can never "lose" God or require "salvation". This connection to God makes all information available to us. So, when I mentioned to Michael my discomfort with the aliens' sudden departure, he suggested I simply ask myself what it meant—and then let my own voice provide the answer.
"Do it like you would writing a book," he proposed. "Have one character ask the question, and then write down another character's answer. Just make it up. If it reads true, it is true."
I did as he suggested, and the answer came immediately: We are leaving you for a time so you can find words for what we've shown you. You must then use those words to illuminate the others of your kind.
I realized that they had, very possibly, guided Michael and me together for this specific purpose, just as I'd seen them guide other couples together for specific reasons. And perhaps, aware that my frequency had sunk so low after the Steve debacle, they had made sure love was built into the new equation so I would be able to do the job.
Well, that was fine with me. And if not Michael, whoever—I had come to realize that I had little or no say-so in the major flow of my life. The Universe—or God-within—had a plan for me, and part of that was learning that my soul contract cannot be refused.
And another part of the information I reluctantly possessed: There is no such thing as sin, because it simply isn't possible to defy a God whose will becomes reality.
There are certain built-in limitations to being all-powerful. One is that God cannot lie: Anything that God says, is. A corollary of that is that God, who created all things, cannot create something He doesn't like. Logically this includes murder, taxes, homosexuality and two Darrins on Bewitched. It all must work into God's plan. Our task on Earth is, simply, to learn this.
There remained another question, however. "Who are the visitors?" I asked myself. The response was equally prompt.
Do your homework.
So I had my job cut out for me.
At least, Michael's smile would make it a joyous task.