Submit news tips and press releases to Editor at WeeklyUniverse dot com. All submissions become property of the Weekly Universe and deemed for publication without compensation unless otherwise requested. Name and contact information only withheld upon request.


About Us





Conspiracy Watch

Consumer Watchdog

Girls In Black




Quirky & Bizarre


Weird Science


Hollywood Investigator

Horror Film Aesthetics

Horror Film Festivals

Horror Film Reviews

Tabloid Witch Awards




by Ronald J. Horsley III, guest contributor.  [November 20, 2004]




[]  When I was about thirteen years old, I had the closest thing one can assess to a "vision." I was not fully asleep, so I can't immediately ascribe it to being a dream. I remember thinking "This is clear. This is something I'm seeing without being out of consciousness."

I saw Heaven, as my brain apparently approximates it.

Heaven is a blue-gray place of steel limbo. Falling spaces. Gracious, feather light to the eye.

And at a "level," I found that there was a series of a bone-white, ivory-substanced "gridwork." Miles-long length of graceful, rib-like lengths, an arch that made a long, wide walkway for me.

But this print at


The lengths intersected at regular intervals, with nothing but space in between them to create the 'grid' I've described. Just more of that open blue-gray-light air. A smell of clean, empty existence.

The best I can describe it is the quality of light in a Raphael painting of an overgrown meadow on a summer afternoon when the clouds have obscured the sky but a single line of beams breaks down and across a treeline far distant from your vision.

And at each junction of arches was a tower. A wide, cylindrical tower with no windows or entrance -- I suppose it was really just a pillar.

Only you could see over the edge of the walkway to see that the pillar continued through the intersection, down through that air into infinity. It was one level of planar existence, all else suspended away into cloudless eternity.

No wafting music or glowing choral clouds. No harmonic answers to infinity or God's audience line waiting for endless miles to have a moment with His Presence. In fact, aside from a few dim blots on the far -- I guess it was the horizon, though a horizon with the sky below as well as above it -- I saw no evidence of anyone else in this heaven.

And when you looked up from where you stood at the juncture, the pillar continued upwards, similarly infinite ... almost.

Empty faces. Vortices of silver flickers and lightning, jagged and smelling of ozone, cinnamon, water, the feeling of rose silk, petals crushing underfoot in a rainy, sodden field. All these sensations shoved and flying around in a hole that never stopped feeding itself.

The closest I can call them are emptyfaces.

And just beneath the periphery of these swirlings, a vaguely anthropoidial form. Gray-skinned and sexless, nippleless, hairless. A shuddery, dry sort of thing. Clay unmade into humanity, but I sensed we were not made in their images. In fact, the only lending of human nature into their design was actually borrowed from us, rather than loaned to us.

And rising from the shoulder rise of their chests was a series of hands. Thin, delicate-fingered apparati that rose and fell in undulating waves of thousands. I realized that our brains must somehow have seen these creatures before, but feathered wings was the closest we could translate such an image of collective, reaching, clinging motion into the daylit world.

And as the groin became two stems of thick-bodied, lineless legs, I saw that the legs terminated into the towers of the archways, that Heaven and its angels were permanently interbound.  The legs bent down like tripod lengths, flamingo-graceful but not tapered or thin -- just coming down to become to solid foundation work holding this grid heaven in place, interconnecting its arch-walkway-bridges.

It was a terrifying vision of Heaven.

I felt a completely unreal indifference washing down in their luminescence. A mixture of curiosity and bestial ambivalence towards us from these angels. They didn't speak to each other or interact. They just hover-stood where they were, gigantic beings larger than skyscrapers over and before me.

They cast no shadows, but were instead the source of much of that half-light I described. I would have called them aliens instead of angels, had I been physically in that place, actually having to encounter them. They felt that inhuman, that strangely different and disparate from any experience I could relay from my own life.

They are not timeless. I got the feeling that they are in constant states of regeneration and realignment. Their senses are multitudinous and vaporous, changing like swayings of sea-kelp on eternity. At times they can see, and see much, at other times they are deaf and blind, left with the senses of just riotous meditations of the vortices that make up their faces.

There is not so much a God they recognize as there is a collective understanding of a Will, and a Dream, and a Forgotten Mistake. I have no idea what these actually were -- one of them extended a wing/arm/hand/finger/glance down towards me, and my head tried to assimilate it with only a painful snap of something frayed and thin inside my skull as a response.

They tried to lend me an image of something, not Fallen like the Lucifer story, but shattered and left to them to reassemble with no idea as to what it was they were expected to rebuild.

I think ... I really think that what I was seeing was that God, or whatever it was that might have been what we call God, Buddha, Allah, etc., detonated from the force of Creation. That all of Creation is thus inherently some of It.

These Angels are not guardians, overseers, beloved children or blessed mentors. They are other aspects of the energy of Creation. They exist in this place of ethereal breathing and thinly-membraned understanding. Their shiverings and touchings, caressings and roarings are just the futile sounds of frustration as they constantly try to reassemble God Itself, and find mistakes at every turn.

In a weird way, I think in the vision I had the arrogance to suggest that another human translation, the miracle of transubstantiation, was to account for it. That God, in the act of suicidal creation, was no longer the same substance for a deity/infinite/omnipotent being to be created from. That God/etc. had become something outwards, and that would be impossible to reassemble, even dangerous depending on how far along in their attempts they got before reaching another dead end.

Somewhere in an omnisci-genetic level, where solar flares and spiritual epiphanies were sending tesseract greeting cards to these "angels," letting them know we were here, evolved from misspent cells and primate ambitions on a small segment of atomic soil in a molecule of their understanding, they were trying to further understand what part we were in God's reclamation project.

Heaven is not a reward, nor Hell a punishment. More like a specimen jar, a living butterfly exhibit.  Not of pain or love, no particular experimentation or observatory method being followed. Just bringing us to that place and watching. Knitting a million-handed wings in worry and consternation.

I could get little sense of what it was I could risk falling into if I walked off the edge of one of the arches. Only that that blue-gray-steel-white could keep going. That changing things were at power down there, whatever "down" or "there" meant to these angels. That something, another part of the puzzle they weren't nearly ready to tackle, was down there.

I got a distinct feeling that if there is any truth to the "Fallen" story, that it is not the segment of any angels that actually fell, but that it is actually those parts of God's existence we ourselves fret over at the seeming contradictions (evil, death, pain) that the angels cannot figure out how to fit into the whole.

That's what I saw and felt, anyway.

I don't know how offensive that is to some people to hear, or how confusing. I myself only can follow the words that generally seem to click and snap into places where they probably shouldn't, if I were describing an everyday object in this world.

I just get a feeling that Heaven is curious, and Heaven is not Heaven at all. Not a way station for Limbo, not a baptism punishment for unchristened children.

In fact, I got about as much a sense of "Christianity" there as I would get from your average treatise on fiber optics, or a vending machine candy bar. No religion is at play, here. Merely a transmission of energies. No Wicca or brother love, no hell or pitchforks.

Nothing but the same comparable sensations we are aware of here, on a level where perhaps we are viewing more than had ever been expected of us to be able to. No champions or contests. No argument at all, really -- not that has anything to do with us in the larger schema. Nothing to save us from or damn us to. Just us. Just us as much as a gnat's egg under a fiddlehead leaf. Not insignificant, either, just -- a small part in a big picture.

I was not raised in any sort of religious household. My family is Episcopalian, however I was never taken to church on any regular basis, and my father never liked tithing, so said that he believed in God's power enough to think that He was aware, whether you went to church on Sunday or not. I was told I could make my own choice, and I chose not to believe.

I chose to believe in the possibilities of greater perceptions beyond those we encounter in an everyday world, but I do not accept the entire doctrine that somehow we small congregations are specially chosen for a Eurocentrically-minded Heavenly reward.

I'm not putting on Reeboks and drinking cyanide Kool-Aid, either. I have nothing that would be considered "New Age" about me. I think in many respects "New Age" or non-doctrine beliefs are as thin and unsatisfying as your average gruel dinner -- in other words, the extreme other end of your "traditional" churches, who are as heavy and guilt-inducing as lard gravy.

But Heaven becomes a strange place when you feel you've seen the reality behind our self-placed curtains and backdrops.

I don't know. You may have your own visions or opinions. But I find myself feeling chilled about it, like I just sat for an hour in a deep freezer.

Copyright 2004 by Ronald J. Horsley III.


Ronald J. Horsley III is editor of The Midnighter's Club, which is also the name of his website.


"Weekly Universe" and "" and "Mystic Gray Buddha" trademarks are currently unregistered, but pending registration upon need for protection against improper use. The idea of marketing these terms as a commodity is a protected idea under the Lanham Act. 15 U.S.C. s 1114(1) (1994) (defining a trademark infringement claim when the plaintiff has a registered mark); 15 U.S.C. s 1125(a) (1994) (defining an action for unfair competition in the context of trademark infringement when the plaintiff holds an unregistered mark). All articles copyright the author or