The orange blobs, my oldest acquaintances, going back to 1968ish, evolved out of a flash of light in the head. This has a background story. Whilst dwelling on the premises of Mr Samuel Shuffler, loyal patriotic armenian and supporter of Mr. Johnson's War, with my co-deviant The Grim Reaper (like Doctress Neutopia, his legal name. Draft Board: "Why did you change your name to The Grim Reaper?" Reaper: "If I'd'a been a baseball fan, I'd'a changed it to Mickey Mantle." Denouement: Unfit for service). Just at the time I was approaching the magic age of 29, as in Logan's Run, uncelebrated July 26, 1969, we said in unison, "Oneovus hasgotta move out or Foss is an official public faggot," the apt. was broken into by one Barbara E. Hert, hardcore Drug Abuser, much else. The impetus was urgent need for place to crash; her meth'd worn off; she took up Permanent Residence, neatly solving the other problem. She was dis...gust...ing to even me; but I had infinite Acceptance, in accordance with the Threefold Law of Gainful Employment and Sex:

1. If it's any good, someone else is doing it.
2. Ya gotta do it with people you can't stand or ya don't get to do it at all.
3. Ya gotta keep proving yer goodatit, or ya gonna git fired by someone who's no good at it.

At this time, I was sexually impotent, for political reasons; this was the '60s Left, and all that shit, remember, where I was politically in favour of "Do It!" and crap of this nature. As for The Enemy, she claimed to have been Sent by the "Jupiterians" from the movie 2001, by the Jewish boy, Stanley Kubrick, whose intellect was so far greater than hers, what could she know from aliens. I dismissed this crud as psychotic delusions.

"Come with me," I said, "I will show you the orange blobs."

At this time I was Quality Control Officer of Fred Enterprises. Fred died, in 1981, as an allarmenian hero, blocking with his body the intended victim of a New Year's Eve barroom murder. Intended victim lived; murderer lived; Fred didn't. Fred Enterprises, in 1967-1970, operated under Immunity conferred by Fred's father having "done" Guatemala and a coupla other places for the CIA. The CIA was All Over The Place, especially in a place called Skytop, doing JNSQ ("Je ne sais quoi"); some rumours as to what that was were everywhere, told to anyone. One certain Thingie was that it was Them who bought the pamphlets imported from Hanoi telling Charlie's side of the story in Charlie's idea of English and sold exclusively at the Syracuse Book Center, Achilles Nicholls, proprietor. The CIA's name was bruited about, also, in regard to Hancock AFB, a place so secret the roadmap warned that its location, as depicted, was misleading. The Syracuse NY Metropolitan Development Administration, just before the Invasion, in 1965, boasted that "the Syracuse area's economy is solidly based on defense-related industry."

You grasp the total weirdness of the gestalt of this totality?

I showed Barbara the orange blobs just before she gave me Vietnamese Clap.

Which took a mere two hits of Fred's Blue Dot ("for sure shot") for her, five for me. Fred had already become the Henry Ford of LSD. Blue Dot sold for $1, even, less volume discounts, a hit. Which held until Fred invaded upscale niche markets with thermonuclear-powered Yellow Dot, @ $4 per dose. Fred pioneered in all aspects of the industry. (a) Volume manufacturing: With no need to hide massive purchases of raw materials, vast quantities came in; huge (if visible only if you squinted at one of the smaller batches) amounts sloshed off the line. (b) Large disciplined nimblefingered industrial labour force: Young female streetpeople, often at starvation's edge or just plain hungry all the time (as obese streetpeople-women were), were fed nutritious, salubrious peanutbutter sandwiches, often with jelly for highperformance personnel, in return for the regulation 12-14 hour shift. Highest-skilled personnel were used for the demanding task of eyedropper-dripping, the precision splopping of blue glop on the Eaton's Corrasable Bond Typing Paper. (c) Saturation promotion. Some favoured consumers, occasionally even me, received Free Samples, as was common in Syracuse NY. Blue goo of other kinds was frequently left on my doorstep during testmarketing campaigns, and I would be asked "What do you think of new ERA?" I'd say, "I wouldn't put anything else in my washing machine," and get told, "This is Political Science, idiot." Anyhow, every single public phone booth in Syracuse and vicinity (Onondaga County) would be scrawled upon by Marketing Division personnel wielding magic markers, "BLUE DOT FOR SURE SHOT." What was ingenious about this was, Syracuse NY was the home of Electronics Park, wherein, before the invention of Japan, many more General Electric products were manufactured, including flashbulbs, than were now economically sound; this didn't, of course, apply to the cost-immune Heavy Military Electronics Division and its related facilities. Nor to the Chrysler plant making transmissions for battle tanks. We digress.

"You will first see the orange blobs as a flash of light in your head. You heard about a 'light brighter than a thousand, ten thousand suns?' Forget all that crap. This is Different. Do not think of lights, orange blobs, or anything except getting back home as we attempt to do so, which I warn you will prove unexpectedly difficult." We were ascending Marshall St, where the streetfreaks did their streetfreakery, but that was near the corner of S Crouse. There were four blocks to the Hill: College, University, Comstock, Ostrom. First block, I said, "Why, that wasn't difficult at all." Part of me answered that, "And why might it have been difficult, as you expected, hmmmm?" So I said, "Don't bother me, gotta concentrate singlemindedly on getting home, else All Is Lost." It sez, "Just tell yourself, for the record, why it's so important to get home. For instance, what is it you intend to do when or shall we say if you get home?" "Why, nothing, of course," I said to myself, who or what Else was I supposed to be having an interior monologue with, not God for sure, the supernatural got no damn place in mystic experiences. This gotta be a Rigid Rule, see, or you get Silly.

"You admit, then, that your existing existence, assuming you exist in any meaningful sense, which would be most tendentious on your part should you assert such rot, has no point at all; whence it follows, axiomatically, that you lack any good reason, any bad reason, for that matter, for reaching the top of the hill," we were two and two thirds blocks up the hill, "so you might as well give up now, 'cause I can get really rough."

Barbara The Space Lady and I collapsed in giggling fits. The building fronting the sidewalk we were sprawled across was inhabited by, inter alia, Rosalie Wallock, to me "The Lovely Rosalie" and Perfect Ideal Being, whose company I'd prefer a million times over to that of The Space Lady. Whom "the
Jupiterians" had given a Mission, to "heal me," which damned near sterilized me from Vietnamese Clap. I shoulda got a purple heart.

The light - Barbara claimed to have "seen" it go off in her head the same instant it went off in mine but she was a pathological liar - was blue. Sirius hot blue. Not Blue Dot blue. With mental training, discipline, and sufficient Blue Dot for doing these things, it became possible to retain the light in consciousness. Then, starting from basic white, have it change colour at one's will until it reached it's ultimate state of orange, under which condition it opened up in one's head, when one assumed the spiritual posture (as opposed to the bodily posture which proved irrelevant) of Meditation, like a stained glass window.

That was an Orange Blob. When I got Really Good At It, I could turn it on during TV commercials, even. When I had the Orange Blob working, it "Told Me Stuff." This is as close as I can get to what was communicated between the Orange Blob and myself. Previously, to pickle LSD-imparted fakewisdom in perpetuity, I'd taken to scrawling four-ish word sloganoids with magic marker on oak-tag. What made sense, even minimally, the next morning, I believed; and if or when in the toils of Writing Blocks, I'd build a chapter around one of these Thingies. Which wasn't possible with whatever I got from an Orange Blob. The only thing I can possibly repeat is, "This cannot be repeated."

Anyone calls this "an Experience which cannot be expressed in words" I call "an asshole." What it was, was an Orange Blob. An Orange Blob is not a Space Alien. I told Barbara the Orange Blobs were Space Aliens to make her forget the "Jupiterians" she bothered me with. I lied. There is nothing whatever Space
Alien about an Orange Blob. Now you see it, now you don't.

I swear the foregoing is True.

Someone else please figure out why Earthwomen want to get Abducted by Gray Slugs they suppose wanna Sexually Abuse them, but as we know, don't know what an Earthwoman is, and find the Earthwoman as dis...gust...ing as the latter find the gray slug. Can't solve that one, cuz I have undergone Aversive
Conditioning, which induces screaming pain from sex ideation. Recall Room 201 in George Orwell's 1984? They've learned a few tricks since then.