...because I think people are looking at the wrong thing again.

I was watching Shawn Ryan earlier. You know who he is. Former Navy SEAL. Has all sorts of people on his programme. Military people, intelligence people, survivalists, whistleblowers, UFO people. The usual crowd. This time he had a fellow called Brett Adcock on. He runs a company called Figure, and Figure builds humanoid robots. Proper humanoid robots. Not factory arms bolted to the floor and not those little machines that fall over when somebody sneezes. These things walk around, pick things up, carry boxes, make coffee and hold conversations. The sort of thing we’ve all been watching in science fiction films for the last forty years.

Now the robot itself was impressive enough, but that’s not what caught my attention. What caught my attention was when they started talking about production. Because I’ve noticed something over the years. Whenever somebody is trying to sell you a big idea, they get you looking at the demonstration instead of the numbers. The demonstration is there to keep your eyes busy. The numbers tell you what they’re really thinking.

The number I heard was ten million units a year. Ten million. I kept replaying it in my head because that doesn’t sound like a product launch. It sounds like population growth to me. Adcock kept talking about it like he was building iPhones. People hear ten million robots and think of ten million gadgets, but I hear ten million workers. Ten million pairs of hands arriving every year. Ten million labourers. Ten million warehouse staff. Ten million delivery drivers. Ten million security guards. Ten million people-sized machines entering the economy annually, except they’re not people at all. Ten million. All from one production plant. Think about that.

Then I started looking into Figure and realised they’re not alone. Tesla has Optimus, and Boston Dynamics is the one that looks the most like they’re building military-grade robots. Every year, these machines move a little better, balance a little better, react a little faster and become a little more useful. Everybody talks about them separately, but I keep finding myself putting them together in my head. One company is building workers. Another is building machines that can operate in dangerous environments. Another is building artificial intelligence. Another is building communication networks. Another is building brain-machine interfaces. Every year another piece arrives.

The thing that bothered me was that everybody seems to assume these machines are being built to help us. That’s the assumption sitting underneath the whole conversation. They’ll help workers. They’ll help businesses. They’ll help old people. They’ll help around the house. Fine. Maybe they will. But if somebody is genuinely planning to build ten million of them a year, then eventually you arrive at a very simple question. How much help do you actually need?

Because ten million becomes twenty million, and twenty million becomes fifty million, and fifty million becomes a hundred million. Once you’ve solved the manufacturing problem, the only real limit is how many you decide to make.

Everybody laughs at preppers because of our bunkers. Zuckerberg gets laughed at because he’s building compounds. Rich people get laughed at because they’re buying land in remote places. But what if everybody is imagining the wrong future? What if the point isn’t surviving the end of the world? What if the point is preparing for a world that works differently afterwards?

Because if you’ve got artificial intelligence directing operations, communication satellites connecting everything together and millions upon millions of machines capable of doing physical work, then eventually you start wondering where people fit into the picture. Not because anybody is plotting against us. Not because there’s a secret meeting in a volcano somewhere. Just because technology tends to keep moving in the direction it can move.

That’s the part I can’t get comfortable with.

People tell me robots will never replace humans because humans are special. Maybe they’re right. I hope they’re right. But I also remember being told computers would never replace paper, the internet would never replace newspapers and online shopping would never replace retail stores. Every one of those certainties lasted right up until they didn’t.

The strange thing is that nobody seems worried. Everybody is excited. The demonstrations get millions of views. The share prices go up. Investors cheer. Journalists write articles about the future. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here looking at a machine carrying a box and wondering what happens when there are a billion of them.

Because once you get to numbers like that, you’re not talking about robots anymore.

You’re talking about a civilisation.

And I can’t quite decide whether we’re building it or replacing ourselves with it.

This could be my last transmission.

...because getting to Mars and living on Mars are two completely different conversations.

Everybody talks about Mars as though the destination is the interesting part. It isn’t. The interesting part is Musk and everything else that has to happen before he gets there. That’s what I keep coming back to. People talk about SpaceX because rockets are exciting and everybody likes watching a launch, but a rocket is just a delivery truck. Once you’ve arrived, the real work starts, and that’s where I think most people stop looking.

I’ve been looking into James Vance Haynes again. That time back in 1987 when he walked into a Los Angeles television station during a live broadcast and pressed a BB gun into a newsreader’s back and demanded a statement be read out live on air. He was arrested, became a national joke for five minutes and spent the next forty years filed away under “crazy person says crazy things.”

What people don’t remember, though, is his manifesto. Haynes believed powerful institutions had been infiltrated by alien reptilian beings disguised as humans. He thought his own father had been replaced, and he believed that key public figures, politicians, the CIA, influential business leaders, and others in positions of influence and power were being replaced by these alien reptilians. Most people stop listening at that point. What interested me wasn’t the reptilian part at all. It was the reason he thought they were doing it.

You see, according to Haynes, all that influence, all that infiltration and all that control had a purpose. He said they were trying to get home, and home, according to Haynes, was Mars. That’s the part everybody forgets. They just remember the reptilians and forget Mars. They remember the television station and forget Mars. They remember the BB gun and forget Mars. What stuck with me was the idea that if your objective was something enormous, something beyond the reach of ordinary people, then influence becomes the most valuable thing in the world. You need access to governments, access to resources, access to money, and access to decision-making. Haynes thought that alien reptilians were doing that.

That’s where I keep finding myself looking at Musk. If Haynes had sat down and tried to describe what success would eventually look like, he might have described somebody with enormous wealth, enormous influence and the ability to move entire industries towards a single objective for decades at a time. That’s the bit I can’t get away from.

Everybody talks about Musk’s companies as though they’re separate stories, but the more I look at them, the less separate they seem. SpaceX gets you there. Starlink keeps everything connected. Optimus gives you a workforce. The Boring Company digs tunnels. xAI manages systems, and Neuralink links people to machines. Separately, they look like businesses. Together, they look like infrastructure. They look just like the kind of things you’d need if you were trying to build a civilisation somewhere that didn’t already have one.

Take the Optimus robots. Everybody keeps talking about them carrying groceries and helping old ladies around the house. That’s just the sales pitch. What I see is a machine that can work where human beings can’t. It doesn’t need oxygen. It doesn’t need a comfortable temperature. It doesn’t care about radiation. It doesn’t need a lunch break, and it sure as shit doesn’t complain about overtime. If you’re serious about building a city on another planet, you’re not sending people up there first. You’re sending robots. Thousands of them. You send machines to build factories and factories to build more machines. By the time the first human being arrives, half the work is already done.

Then you’ve got The Boring Company, which everybody treats like one of Musk’s jokes. Maybe it is a joke. He likes jokes. But the company digs huge tunnels, and if you’re living on Mars you’re not standing around on the surface admiring the view. You’re underground. You’re hiding from radiation, living in buried habitats, tunnels and caverns. And suddenly the tunnel company doesn’t seem quite so random anymore. Then you’ve got Starlink, which everybody thinks is internet satellites, while I see a communications infrastructure. Then you’ve got Musk’s xAI, which everybody sees as a chatbot, while I see management, coordination and decision making. I see a nervous system sitting right in the middle of everything, connecting all the other pieces together.

Then you get to Neuralink. Everybody calls it a brain chip because that’s easier to understand. But that’s not really what it is. It’s an interface. A bridge between human thought and machine systems. People look at it and think about medical applications. Fair enough. Musk doesn’t think in terms of five years. He thinks in terms of fifty years. Maybe a hundred. That’s when the whole thing starts getting weird. It’s the sort of undertaking that could take centuries, and that’s where I think the real problem appears. Not rockets, because he’s already got those. Not money, because he seems capable of finding that. Not engineering, because that’s what all these companies do every day. The real problem is mortality. If you’re obsessed with building another civilisation, eventually you run into the fact that you’ll die long before the project is finished.

So you’ve already got robots. You’ve already got AI. You’ve already got communications networks. You’ve already got brain-machine interfaces. Every piece is sitting there in public view. Nobody is hiding any of it. So what if Neuralink isn’t the destination? What if it’s just the first version of something bigger? Not immortality exactly, but continuity. A way of remaining connected to the project. A way of ensuring that the dream survives longer than the body does.

The only missing part is cryogenic sleep, but even then, cryogenic sleep isn’t really the interesting part. The interesting part is that all the other pieces already exist. The robots exist. The AI exists. The tunnels exist. The satellites exist. The rockets exist. The brain interface exists. Every component is already on the table. All I’m doing is looking at them and wondering why they happen to fit together so neatly.

Which brings me back to Haynes. Everybody remembers the reptilians and forgets the influence. They remember the television station and forget the objective. Haynes wasn’t really talking about lizards. He was talking about power. He was talking about what you’d need if your objective was so enormous that ordinary people couldn’t achieve it. Forty years later, I’m looking at a man with more influence than almost anybody on Earth, and every road he seems to be building leads back to Mars. Maybe it’s exactly what it looks like. Maybe it’s just ambition. Maybe it’s just business. Or maybe, if somebody had been given a glimpse of where things are heading, this is exactly what their life would look like.

And then I start wondering about all the disclosure stuff. Because if anybody has ever been briefed on things the rest of us haven’t, I doubt it’s the fellow fitting tyres down at the garage. It’s the people sitting where space exploration, artificial intelligence, defence contracts and government all overlap. Maybe Musk knows nothing. Maybe he knows everything. Maybe he’s hiding in plain sight. What I do know is that whenever people tell me he’s doing all this for humanity, I keep finding myself wondering what humans they’re talking about. Most of us aren’t going to Mars. I’m not. You’re not. The woman behind the grocery counter at the supermarket ain’t going. So when somebody says humanity, I can’t help feeling that’s a very big word being used to describe a very small group of people.

The more I look at it, the less it feels like a collection of companies and the more it feels like a blueprint. And every line on that blueprint seems to point to the same place.

Mars.

He’s going home.

This could be my last transmission.

...and maybe that’s what the New World Order actually was.

Not what they told us. Not the version everybody used to talk about.

I remember all that stuff. Secret governments. Black helicopters. Men in dark rooms deciding the future of humanity. Every conspiracy eventually led back to the New World Order. It was always just around the corner. Always about to happen. Well, maybe it did happen. Maybe we were just looking the wrong way.

I had to get a new starter motor fitted to the truck today. The fellow at the garage wanted paying in cash. I offered him four boxes of twelve gauge. Good ammunition. Worth more than the cash he was asking for. He still wanted the stupid paper money.

I found that oddly reassuring. Because if people are still choosing paper money over ammunition then perhaps society hasn’t completely fallen apart yet. Then I get back down here and discover Musk is now a trillionaire. And on the same day SpaceX goes public, the government releases another batch of UFO files, all on the same day Spielberg premieres Disclosure Day. Same day. That’s the thing. Same day.

I keep looking at it because it feels like one of those things that ought to mean something. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it’s just a busy news day. But every time I try to move on to something else I end up looking at the list again. Because twenty years ago if you’d told somebody the richest man in history would be building rockets to Mars while the government released UFO files and Hollywood prepared the public for disclosure, they’d have called you insane. Now it happens and everybody just carries on.

The thing about Musk isn’t the money. I don’t care about the money. Once you get into those numbers it stops sounding real anyway. What interests me is Mars. It always comes back to Mars. The man finally becomes a trillionaire and he’s still trying to leave. That’s what I can’t get past. Most people spend their lives trying to improve their situation. He appears to have improved his situation more than anybody else in human history and he’s still looking for another planet. Then you’ve got Zuckerberg building his underground place in Hawaii. One man wants rockets. One man wants bunkers. One wants to go up. One wants to go down. Neither seems particularly interested in staying exactly where they are. And maybe that’s sensible. Maybe they know something. Maybe they don’t. I don’t know.

But when I was younger the New World Order was supposed to arrive with tanks and soldiers and declarations and emergency broadcasts. Instead what we got was corporations bigger than countries, trillionaires launching space programmes, artificial intelligence talking to people all day, governments discussing non-human intelligence and everybody carrying a tracking device in their pocket voluntarily. Nobody had to take over anything. Everybody had already just sort of agreed to it.

Now we’re being told there are communication programmes. UFO files are being released. Disclosure films are being made, and trillionaires are either trying to leave the planet or disappear underneath it And I’m sitting here wondering whether these are all separate stories or whether they’re actually the same story. That’s the part I can’t work out.

The truck’s running fine now.

Everything else seems considerably less reliable.

Hell, this could even be my last transmission.

...because that’s the other thing nobody ever talks about.

Everybody wants to know where they’re from. That’s always the question. Every hearing, every documentary, every podcast, every researcher, every book. Where are they from? What planet? What star system? What dimension? Everybody’s obsessed with origins. I keep finding myself asking a different question. What are they doing here?

I was listening to Jacques Vallée again and now people are talking about communication programmes. Twenty years, apparently. Twenty years trying to establish communication with some kind of intelligence. Alright. Let’s assume that’s true for a minute. Let’s assume somebody somewhere really has spent twenty years trying to talk to something that isn’t human. Fine. The question that immediately comes to mind isn’t what they’re saying to it. The question is why they’re talking to it in the first place.

Because we’ve already got enough on our plate. We’ve got Greys, Tall Whites and Nordics. We’ve got mantids. We’ve even got reptilians if that’s your thing. Then we’ve got retrieved craft, biologics and now plasmoids. Every year the list gets longer. Nobody ever comes along and says, “Actually, we got that one wrong.” They just keep adding more. More species. More theories. More possibilities. More visitors.

Visitors. That’s the word that keeps sticking in my head. At some point you’ve got to stop staring at individual cases and step back a little. One species visiting Earth is interesting. Two species is a coincidence worth paying attention to. Ten species starts looking like a pattern. By the time you’ve got Greys, Nordics, Tall Whites, mantids and God knows what else all supposedly turning up here, you’re not looking at isolated incidents anymore. You’re looking at traffic. That’s the point I keep coming back to. How many of these things are there, and why does every road seem to lead here?

Because if Earth was strategically important, somebody would have claimed it by now. If Earth was valuable for resources, somebody would have taken what they wanted, and if Earth was about conquest we’d know about it. There would be a programme. There would be a plan. There would be demands. How come nobody is turning up and saying, “Take me to your leader?” Instead we get lights over forests, objects over military bases, encounters in the desert, strange things over oceans, reports from pilots and reports from civilians. Decades of arrivals and departures with no obvious purpose attached to any of it.

Nobody takes over. Nobody announces themselves. Nobody seems interested in running the place. They just keep turning up, and the more I think about it, the less it resembles an invasion and the more it resembles tourism. Or research. Or maybe wildlife observation. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it only sounds ridiculous because we’re so used to putting ourselves in the middle of the story. Suppose we’re not in the middle of the story. Suppose we’re just part of it. Suppose Earth is one stop among thousands. Suppose there are routes and destinations and places worth seeing, and somehow this little blue planet ended up on the must-visit list.

That would explain a lot. It would explain why there seem to be so many different kinds of visitors and why none of them appears particularly interested in introducing themselves. It would explain why they show up, disappear, come back years later and then disappear again. It would explain why, after all this time, we’re still no closer to understanding what any of them actually want.

Then again, maybe that’s because they don’t want anything.

That’s the possibility I keep coming back to. Maybe we’re assuming purpose where none exists. Maybe we’re assuming we’re the centre of the story because that’s what humans always do. Every sighting, every encounter, every strange light in the sky, we immediately start asking what they want from humanity. What if that’s the wrong question? What if they’re not here for us at all? What if this just happens to be a place they visit?

The more species people add to the list, the more that idea starts making sense. Not less. More. Because if there really are all these different intelligences turning up from all these different places, then Earth starts looking less like a battlefield and more like a safari park. That’s when the communication programme starts sounding strange to me, because if that’s true, then what we’re really talking about is the animals trying to communicate with the visitors.

A chimpanzee at the zoo can see the people standing on the other side of the glass. It knows they’re there. It watches them. It probably gets curious about them. But it has no idea where they’ve come from, where they’re going afterwards, what they talk about when they leave, or why they keep coming back year after year. All it knows is that they arrive, they stare for a while and then they disappear.

Maybe that’s us.

Maybe that’s what Jacques Vallée has accidentally got me thinking about. Not whether these things are real. I’ve been past that question for years. The question is why everybody assumes we’re the observers. Because from where I’m sitting, it increasingly looks as though we’re the exhibit. We’re standing here trying to establish communication with the visitors while they’re wandering around the gift shop wondering where to have lunch next.

The radio crackled again a minute ago. Probably atmospheric interference. Then again, that’s what they said about half the sightings back in the 1960s, and I’ve stopped finding that explanation quite as reassuring as I used to.

This may well be my last transmission.

...and maybe that’s because we’re asking the wrong questions.

I’ve spent most of today listening to Graham Hancock and I keep coming back to the same thought. Not Atlantis. Everybody always wants to talk about Atlantis. I’m not interested in Atlantis. I’m interested in the possibility that we’re looking at a collection of clues and assuming they’re stories when they might actually be records.

That’s the thing Hancock seems to spend his life worrying about. Something happened. Everybody agrees something happened. There was a catastrophe. There were floods. Things disappeared. Civilizations vanished. Knowledge vanished. Then the arguments begin. What was lost? How much was lost? Who survived? What did they remember?

The part I can’t stop thinking about is the remembering. Because if you look at ancient cultures all over the world, they keep talking about visitors. Sky people. Star people. Sun gods. Teachers. Messengers. Beings descending from the heavens. Different names. Different places. Different stories. Same basic idea.

Everybody says mythology. Fair enough. But mythology based on what? That’s where I start getting into trouble. If somebody carved a picture of a dog into a wall and archaeologists found it ten thousand years later, I’d be inclined to think the original artist had probably seen a dog. Yet when ancient people cover entire temples with strange beings descending from the sky, suddenly we’re expected to believe none of them saw anything at all. It was all symbolism. Every last bit of it. That seems optimistic.

I’ve been looking at some of the Egyptian imagery again. Everybody keeps calling them sun gods. Maybe they are. But some of those figures don’t look particularly interested in being gods. They look like visitors. They look like people who turned up, explained a few things, pointed at the stars, and accidentally found themselves running a religion three hundred years later.

That’s another possibility nobody seems keen to discuss. What if the worship was a misunderstanding? Suppose a group of visitors arrives. Suppose they know a little more than the locals. Suppose they understand astronomy, mathematics, navigation, things like that. They answer a few questions, spend some time wandering around, then disappear again. They come back later and discover statues have been built, prayers are being offered and half the population thinks they’re divine. I’d leave too.

The more I think about it, the more the tourist theory continues to make sense. Everybody assumes visitors would arrive here to conquer us. Why? Most tourists don’t conquer Florida. They look around for a bit, buy something overpriced, confuse the locals and go home. The universe may be full of exactly the same sort of people.

That would explain why they seem so inconsistent. One group appears helpful. Another group appears indifferent. Another group scares the life out of somebody and vanishes. That’s exactly what you’d expect from tourists. They’re not operating under a grand plan. They’re just passing through.

Which brings me back to Hancock. If there really was a lost civilization, and if some of that knowledge survived, then perhaps what we’re calling mythology is simply fragmented history. The information survives. The explanation doesn’t. Thousands of years pass. Stories become religions. Religions become traditions. Traditions become mysteries. Then modern people turn up and start arguing about what everybody meant.

Meanwhile the original meaning may have been perfectly straightforward. A visitor arrived. Somebody wrote it down. The wrong people survived.

And now we’re all trying to reconstruct the instruction manual from the warning labels. This isn’t mainstream archaeology here. But on the other hand, neither were the pyramids supposed to be aligned with half the things they’re aligned with, and yet here we are.

The generator has settled down this evening. That worries me more than when it makes noises.

You never know.

This could be my last transmission.

...and nobody seems particularly interested in that.

That’s the bit I keep coming back to.

David Grusch stands on the steps of the Capitol talking about whistleblower protections and everybody starts discussing whistleblower protections.

What caught my attention though was the plasmoid. I’ve spent the last day thinking about the plasmoid.

I hadn’t heard the plasmoid thing before. Biologics, yes. Craft retrievals, yes. Reverse engineering, yes. Non-human intelligence, yes. We’ve all heard those. Then suddenly we’re talking about intelligent plasmoid life and everybody just carries on as though that’s a perfectly ordinary thing to hear on a Tuesday afternoon.

Maybe that’s because everybody’s waiting for Jeremy Corbell to tell them what to think about it. I don’t know. Maybe George Knapp is working on a documentary. Maybe Ross Coulthart is writing another book. Twenty years ago somebody would have been standing in front of a whiteboard by now. Instead I’ve spent most of the last twenty-four hours trying to work out how an intelligent plasmoid gets from one side of the galaxy to the other.

At first I thought spacecraft. Everybody thinks spacecraft. Then I remembered that quantum entanglement thing from Joe Rogan. I don’t remember the scientist’s name. I remember the quantum entanglement because I watched it twice and understood it less the second time. As far as I can tell everything is connected to everything else in ways that don’t make any sense and distance may not be what we think it is.

The point is that if distance isn’t what we think it is, then travel might not be what we think it is either. We’ve spent decades looking up. Watching the skies. Waiting for lights. Waiting for spacecraft. Waiting for something to arrive from somewhere else. Then Grusch drops plasmoid life into the conversation and suddenly I’m wondering whether we’ve all been asking the wrong question.

If you’re a plasmoid maybe you don’t need a spacecraft.

And if quantum entanglement works the way these people say it works, then maybe nobody needs a spacecraft.

I keep waiting for one of the big names in the UFO community to start talking about this and nobody seems particularly bothered. Maybe they are. Maybe they’re discussing it privately. Maybe they’re all ten steps ahead and I’m only just catching up. But from where I’m sitting it feels like the biggest thing anybody has said in years and everybody immediately went back to discussing whistleblowers.

I had to go into town for supplies this morning. Again. I bought milk and left a couple of 9mm rounds on the counter as a tip because the woman serving me was helpful.

The thing that bothers me is that nobody appears concerned. Congress is discussing non-human intelligence. Physicists are explaining quantum entanglement. Grusch is talking about plasmoids. Scientists keep disappearing. Spielberg’s making disclosure films. The Church is arguing about extraterrestrials. Yet somehow everybody is still discussing lawnmowers and summer holidays.

Maybe that’s what normality looks like after disclosure.

Maybe that’s the part I’ve been getting wrong.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that if Eric Weinstein goes on Joe Rogan six months from now and starts talking about plasmoid lifeforms and quantum mechanics as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world, I want the record to show that I’ve been sitting down here thinking about it since Tuesday.

The generator just dipped again.

This could be my last transmission.

...and of course they haven’t sent a woman.

Now maybe that’s nothing. Maybe that’s got absolutely nothing to do with anything. But NASA thinks about these things. That’s what NASA does. They think about photographs and headlines and school textbooks and documentaries and mission patches and who gets remembered fifty years later. They think about symbolism. They think about narratives. They think about how history is going to look when somebody turns it into a Netflix series twenty years from now. Then they spend billions of dollars going back to the moon and somehow end up right back where they started. It doesn’t make sense.

The moon itself isn’t the issue. The moon’s just sitting there. It’s been sitting there this whole time. What concerns me is why everybody suddenly wants to look at it again. Every time I try to follow that question it goes somewhere I wasn’t expecting. The moon becomes Artemis. Artemis becomes Mars. Mars becomes Musk. Musk becomes rockets. The rockets become disclosure. Disclosure becomes Spielberg. Then somehow I end up right back where I started wondering why NASA appears to be repeating Apollo with better computers.

Apollo wasn’t really about the moon. Everybody knows that. It was about projection of power. It was about showing the other side what you could do. The country was tearing itself apart and they still found a way to put men on the moon. People remember the moon. They don’t remember most of the rest of it. That’s how projection of power works. You create a picture so big that it blocks out everything standing behind it. Now we’re doing moon missions again while Musk is talking about Mars, while Congress is talking about disclosure, while Spielberg is making films called Disclosure Day, and somehow nobody finds this sequence of events remotely unusual.

Nobody seems interested. Not NASA. Not the press. Everybody just carries on as though this is all perfectly ordinary. Meanwhile Eric Weinstein, who spent years telling people the official story didn’t add up, suddenly starts talking about being approached. That’s the word he used. Approached. Apparently there are now conversations taking place with people capable of explaining things to the rest of us when the time comes. That’s an interesting development, because if you’re preparing people for something, there has to be a something. Otherwise you don’t need the explainers. You don’t recruit physicists to explain nothing. You don’t brief people for no reason.

Maybe Weinstein’s talking about science. Maybe he’s talking about disclosure. Maybe he’s talking about something else entirely. I don’t know. What I do know is that we’re building moon missions, talking about Mars, making disclosure films and quietly approaching theoretical physicists at the exact same moment. People keep telling me these are separate stories. I’m beginning to suspect we’re running out of separate stories.

The generator just dipped again.

Hang on.

No, it’s back.

I keep ending up back at Musk. You start with the moon and somehow you always arrive back at Musk. Rockets. Mars. Artificial intelligence. Robots. Satellites. Every road leads to Musk. Maybe that’s why NASA doesn’t bother me as much as it should anymore. NASA I understand. Governments project power. Governments have always projected power. It’s Musk I don’t understand.

The battery indicator is moving around.

I don’t like that.

This might be my last transmission.

...and that’s the bit I can’t get past.

Steven Spielberg.

For years we were told disclosure was coming. Researchers told us. Podcasters told us. Conference speakers told us. Entire industries sprang up around the idea that disclosure would be the defining event of modern history. Then the government start declassifying things, hearings start happening, military footage starts appearing and suddenly Steven Spielberg releases Disclosure Day. The UFO community goes strangely quiet and somehow we’re all expected to accept that this is a perfectly normal sequence of events.

I’ve got a Spielberg folder now. I don’t know when that happened. At some point during the last forty-eight hours I apparently crossed a line where creating a Spielberg folder seemed like a perfectly reasonable use of my evening. Looking back, that’s probably the sort of thing a person should notice about themselves.

The question that keeps bothering me is not whether the film is any good. I couldn’t care less whether it’s any good. The question is how Steven Spielberg somehow ended up becoming the public face of disclosure. For years we were told disclosure was coming. Researchers told us. Podcasters told us. Conference speakers told us. Entire industries sprang up around the idea that disclosure would be the defining event of modern history. Then the government start declassifying things, hearings start happening, military footage starts appearing and suddenly Steven Spielberg releases Disclosure Day. The UFO community goes strangely quiet and somehow we’re all expected to accept that this is a perfectly normal sequence of events.

At some point somebody must have sat Steven Spielberg down and explained something to him. I don’t know who. I don’t know what was explained. I don’t know whether Steven Spielberg even realised he was being briefed. Nevertheless, events suggest information transfer occurred.

The timing alone should concern people. If the film arrived ten years ago it would just be a film. If it arrived ten years from now it would just be a film. Instead it arrives now, right at the exact moment disclosure is drifting into public consciousness.

And then there’s Elon Musk, who keeps turning up every time I try to think about something else. This is another problem. Every road seems to lead back to Elon Musk. The man’s building rockets, building robots and talking about Mars simultaneously. Nobody seems troubled by this. Everybody talks about it as though that’s a completely normal collection of hobbies. If your neighbour started building rockets, manufacturing humanoid robots and discussing the colonisation of another planet, people would have questions. Yet when billionaires do it we’re supposed to nod thoughtfully and call them visionaries. Visionaries of what exactly? That’s what I’d like to know.

I’ve spent part of this evening trying to work out whether Musk and Spielberg are connected. One man appears determined to get people off Earth while another appears determined to prepare people for disclosure. Perhaps these are unrelated developments. Perhaps they’re not. Perhaps somebody knows something. Perhaps lots of people know something. What troubles me is that the people who spent forty years claiming they knew something have suddenly become remarkably difficult to locate.

I keep coming back to that. The silence. The silence is what bothers me. The UFO community should be treating Disclosure Day like the arrival of a comet. Instead Steven Spielberg seems more excited about disclosure than the disclosure people. That sentence should not exist and yet here we are. I’ve reached the point where I find myself wondering whether Disclosure Day is actually part of disclosure. Not a film about disclosure. Disclosure itself. I realise that’s a strong claim. Fortunately I’m not making it. I’m merely saying I’ve been unable to stop thinking about it since approximately half past six this evening.

The generator has started humming again. The sort of humming that suggests either imminent failure or judgement. I’m not qualified to determine which.

If anybody receives this transmission, and frankly that’s becoming harder to determine thanks to the continuing shadowbanning of the UFO community, I’d ask only that you pay attention. Not to the aliens. Not to the special effects. Pay attention to the timing. Pay attention to who’s talking. Most importantly, pay attention to who’s gone quiet. The people who spent decades preparing us for disclosure appear strangely absent, while Steven Spielberg and Elon Musk seem increasingly determined to occupy the conversation. Maybe that’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything.

This may be my last transmission.

...and maybe that’s why nobody’s hearing these transmissions either.

That’s the thing I keep coming back to.

For years we were told disclosure was coming. Eventually there would be hearings. Eventually there would be witnesses. Eventually somebody would stand up in public and start talking about things that weren’t supposed to exist. Then some version of that actually happened and, from where I’m sitting, the people who spent years talking about it seem harder to find than they used to be.

People keep telling me they moved on. Maybe they did. One researcher disappears into fishing. Another starts talking about travel. Somebody else seems more interested in gardening than UFOs these days. Taken one at a time it doesn’t mean much. Put them all together though and it starts looking strange.

Because this was supposed to be the destination. This was the bit everybody had been waiting for. The hearings came. The witnesses arrived. Documents started appearing. Podcasts multiplied. Conferences expanded. Entire careers were built around preparing people for what would happen next. Then, just as things finally seemed to be moving, everybody wandered off.

I know how that sounds. I’ve heard all the explanations. People get older. People get tired. Interests change. Life gets in the way. Maybe that’s all it is, but it still doesn’t sit right with me, so I keep coming back to the same conclusion.

The UFO community has been shadowbanned.

Not disappeared. Not defeated. Not disproven. Just quietly pushed somewhere that nobody can quite see anymore. The average person doesn’t seem particularly concerned about any of this. That’s another thing I can’t work out. Given everything we supposedly know now, people remain remarkably calm. They still talk about holidays. They still argue about television. They still queue for coffee as though nothing has changed.

The post-WTSHTF economy has been especially disappointing, and I genuinely expected more progress by now. Only yesterday I attempted to exchange a small quantity of premium ammunition for a replacement extension lead. The cashier insisted on conventional currency and appeared genuinely confused when I explained the long-term value proposition. I left with the extension lead, but I also left with questions.

If disclosure happened, and I believe it did, then why are people still behaving as though disclosure hasn’t happened? If the old system is finished, why is the old system still working? And if everybody knows what is coming, why am I the only person making practical preparations?

I don’t have answers to any of those questions.

What I do know is that every time I go looking for the people who spent years preparing the public for disclosure, I find fewer of them than I expect to find. Maybe they’re still there. Maybe they’re talking to each other somewhere.

Maybe nobody can hear them anymore.

The signal appears stable for now, but I’ve said that before.

This could be my last transmission.