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Author: Mark Russell Bell
Orfeo Angelucci was enthusiastic about his nonfiction book The Secret of the Saucers (1955) edited by his publisher Ray Palmer; however, his initial report presented in his newspaper-style publication Twentieth Century Times (1953) would seem to be the most reliable source, especially concerning the quoted transcendental discourses — where the meaning intended to be conveyed could have been drastically altered with any incorrect word; or influenced by Angelucci's own beliefs and interpretations.
Twentieth Century Times had been conceived as a monthly publication but lack of interest resulted with the first issue being the only one published by Angelucci. The previous blog article presented an excerpt from Twentieth Century Times that described Angelucci's first contact experience, which had occurred during the early morning hours of May 24, 1952. What follows is how the second contact experience was described in the same source.
As an introductory note, the reader should understand that Angelucci’s wife was manager of the snack bar at the Los Feliz Drive-In Theatre and he regularly assisted her there. Her brother owned the drive-in and had also built nearby the residential complex where the Angelucci family lived. Curiously, Angelucci commented that in July: "Now, for the first time, he felt he could write spontaneously, from pure memory, unlimited revelations in a manner nearly professional." Furthermore: "The month of July turned its half-way mark, and from that point is history written with us forever. The skies seemed to open with a barrage of continuous aerial displays, and many people became convinced of interplanetary visitations, excitedly expecting a landing or some contact. Others attributed the phenomena to fulfillment soon of Spiritual Prophecies, while others to harbingers of woeful events. And there were even those who cared not one way or the other."
On July 23, 1952, Orfeo failed to report for work. He just did not feel up to it. At 8:30 in the evening he walked from his house to the snack bar of the drive-in theater. He felt relieved in company. The young women attendants were speaking of flying saucers, and how their husbands would like to see even one.
Orfeo joined in the conversation, which eventually turned to a humorous and lampooning slant. There was laughter. Laughter which for him would soon come to an abrupt end. Yet, for a short while he had joined the multitudes, normal people, and saw things in their light. Then he finished a cup of coffee and started back for home, to retire for the night.
This theater has two screens, facing opposite ways, and the walk took him through the empty side facing southeast. At the other end is a lonely spot, where the Glendale Boulevard and Hyperion Avenue bridge spans overhead.
Half-way through the lot Orfeo felt his upper chest and throat well-up and relax rather pleasantly, and seemingly in control by someone else, something. But there was not the slightest sense of pain nor impending doom. At once a voice, coming from his own vocal cords, reprimanded, citing shame on him, vet in a musical aria, said, “O-Hee-O.” It was loud, smooth, gentle, and suggested a latent talent.
He smiled it off to himself; nevertheless his thoughts went immediately to the recent events, the superior beings, and eternity.
At the end of the lot he opened the corrugated metal gate and closed it again behind him. He was now alone, with the overhead concrete bridge ahead. Beyond that, so close, yet soon to be so far, the eleven unit apartments, where he resided. Here he would soon be asleep.
There seemed to be a hazy, misty obstruction between him and the arch of the bridge just ahead. It was barely visible. It was like a reproduction of a ghostly Eskimo igloo, but so transparent it hardly seemed real, so like a half-bubble of soap, with the bottom curving outward, much like a turtle.
Almost at once a section seemed to become dark and spread out, as an inverted cone. The interior, now translucent and more real was revealed. As if in a trance, Orfeo walked to the aperture, hesitated a split second, and knew there was no alternative but to enter.
There was no sign of life, nor sound. All the recent events became realities in his consciousness again. Once more this was the only world that actually existed. Come in, be at home with people he knew but saw not.
A pearly, comfort chair on the far side cozily suggested he sit here; come home. It was a pearly interior, all pearl, shimmering and tending to recede from view constantly; this dome-like, utterly empty room.
He sat down, feeling very secure and comfortable, as though he had done this before. But what would happen now? Was it perhaps to meet someone “well known” to him? How could he be so self-confident in such a situation; developing so smoothly in less time than it takes to tell it?
As he sat there the wall itself seemed noiselessly to expand and close the aperture where he had just entered, closing toward the left.
Orfeo felt completely cut off from his family and friends. Yet he felt secure, and in the hands of friends who could overcome any situation for him, and who had purposes to all that they undertook.
All sound was now shut off. The pearly interior allowed a trickle of light here and there, giving the inside a twilight, satisfying glow. He felt engulfed by a pure and esthetic environment superb.
A low vibrant hum, more felt than heard, took on a crescendo and he felt gently “pushed” against the comfortable chair; pushed by every inch of his body, as though his body were pushing backward beyond any control on his part.
The interior became dark, as though some great shadow engulfed the entire dome. The floor seemed as solid as if it were the ground itself, vibrating deep, hidden currents of the earth, in a gentle, constant flow. The sensation of push against the chair by his body did not increase. But neither did it cease.
Reason began to take form, and a grip of fear was beginning to overpower him, when an orchestration, of one of his favorite songs gradually arose. It was “Fools Rush In” where angels fear to tread’; an exact transcription of the Voices of Walter Schuman. The strains had an orienting effect on Orfeo, for it lent a thread of association. Memories returned to him in a conglomerate sensibility.
Soon the interior lighted up softly again. Orfeo noticed how his soiled work clothes, which he was wearing, stood in bold and ugly relief in this exquisiteness. He felt that his entire body and soul were equally unfit to be privileged such divine, visual, realistic a dream.
He felt so well and comfortable that he gave but scant thought to the possibility of the air diminishing, or becoming toxic. He gave little thought to anything, but the developing of things at hand. The soothing music played on ethereally as his body seemed to push back on the chair perpetually. His thoughts were not of the past, nor of his wife, sons, or other relatives, but of the immediate present — and minutes ahead.
The musical rendition neared its end. What then? Was he to spend an eternity in this pearly igloo? The body now seemed to gradually relax its backward push against the seat, until it ceased.
At the same time the music came to an end. The smooth vibration of the floor also slackened some, but this did not stop completely. It was surely evident that some motive power was housed somewhere in the floor. Orfeo thought of the incident on Forest Lawn Drive, and that perhaps he was carried there again, to continue the “dream” to a more tangible comprehension. There was complete quiet, and fear was impossible under the circumstances... continues
Copyright©Mark Russell Bell
Reproduced courtesy of Mark Russell Bell
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