Category: Writing

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Alien Skulls?

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Our flight from Montevideo, Uruguay to Lima, Peru was a short four and a half hours, but leaving for the airport at 2:30 AM on 05 July 2016 meant little sleep the night before. No sleep on the plane and none after we arrived because our tour to explore “Lost Ancient Technologies and Consciousness Of The Ancients” started upon our arrival as we (my husband Doug and I) introduced ourselves to other fellow explorers and experts from around the globe. We were there to learn more about advanced technologies and view dozens of artifacts found in ancient Peruvian ruins now displayed in local museums. By seeing them with our own eyes, we would know if the evidence presented rang true for us.

Doug was aware of my two UFO sightings. One occurred on the island of Cyprus shortly before the Turks invaded in July of 1974 while I sat dining with friends at an outside table in the Kyrenia Harbor. Another happened when I was nine years old and living with my family on the outskirts of Tucson, Arizona. Fascinated with aliens and UFOs as a child, I became even more hooked after a silvery, metallic disk swooped down and hovered mid-air near my personal observation post on a flat hot rock. The alien ship was illuminated with bright colored flashing lights (reminded me of a child’s spinning toy top) and floated so close I could see two gray pilots with extra large, long foreheads and big saucer eyes. My dog Brownie never uttered a sound. In fact we were so shocked we couldn’t speak or move until the lights intensified and the craft lifted and disappeared.

When I asked Doug what piqued his curiosity about aliens and ancient civilizations, he mentioned Frank Edwards, an American writer and broadcaster who wrote a book called Stranger then Science —a collection of stories about strange happenings that science can’t explain.

The following morning, bright and early, we were on our way to Paracas, Peru to see strange things that science has yet to explain to my satisfaction.

As we left our renovated mansion hotel in the manicured, upscale Miraflores neighborhood of Lima, I noticed a sudden change of scenery from bright blue, green, and purple walls to lean-to tin slum dwellings. Next came rows of faded containers in the industrial section and our guide Brien explained that Peru is a self-sufficient country which produces everything but cars and electronics. Piles of rock and sand dotted the landscape waiting to be made into concrete for buildings, roads, and bridges. A green park at the next exit announced an approaching cemetery. Nice to see a spot of green grass and trees. We had left the bustling metropolis of Lima far behind and were heading south to Paracus to see elongated skulls in a local museum. En route, Brien told us a brief history of the Incas and presented interesting information about the elongated skulls cranial volume (25% larger than human skulls) and weight (60% more than human skulls).

Upon our arrival in Paracas, we checked into our resort hotel overlooking the Pacific Ocean and then boarded the bus to visit the small, private Paracas History Museum. This unusual museum had a superb collection of Peruvian elongated skulls, the star child skull, human remains, and a couple of mummies. I remembered first seeing elongated skulls in the anthropological museum, Museo de Antropología de Xalapa, in eastern Mexico in 2005.

As I looked closely at the skulls on display, a fellow traveler asked me for my opinion on whether they looked human or alien.

“Alien to me,” I answered. “I’m no expert, but I have seen aliens.”

“You’ve seen aliens in a UFO?” she asked. “I’m so jealous.”

“Yes. Twice.”

“Where? Did you have witnesses?”

“My dog was my only witness the first time in the Arizona desert.” I laughed. “The second time was on the island of Cyprus and two of my friends watched it with me. The strange looking pilots had extra large, long foreheads and big saucer eyes. Like these.” I pointed to the elongated skulls on display.

“Brilliant!” she smiled.

Later that evening over dinner in the hotel restaurant, I heard others in our tour discuss our guide Brien’s latest revelation about new genetic tests showing the elongated skulls contain extraterrestrial DNA—DNA previously unknown in any human, primate, or animal known so far.

“Very impressive,” I said. “I wonder if National Geographic will report it that way.”

Someone commented, “National Geographic views are like getting news from the Daily Mail.”

Giggles from EU residents seated nearby told me they also questioned National Geographic for accurate information.

I smiled remembering when as a kid I believed every word in each month’s issue to be gospel and truth about everything National Geo reported. It was well respected then. Not sensational. “I’m sure they reject the idea of alien heads.”

Conversation continued around the table as we discussed the scientific theory of binding the head and flattening it to make it grow a certain way. Artificial Cranial Deformation. And how changing the shape doesn’t increase the weight or size of a skull.

Remembering the side by side comparison of a real human skull next to the ancient elongated skull we had viewed in the museum earlier that day, I nodded. “For me, seeing is believing. Definitely alien. Cosmic!”

 

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Why Uruguay?

I live with my husband Doug, three dogs and a cat, in a sleepy beach town in Uruguay. I’m often asked, “Why Uruguay?” And I answer with confidence, “Why not Uruguay.”

There are dozens of reasons I can state, but the bottom line is nature and peace of mind. I have lived in many other countries and in today’s troubled world, Uruguay is a peaceful place to call home with friendly people and a relaxed life style.

Geographically the second-smallest nation in South America after Suriname, Uruguay is 68,038 square miles and about the size of the state of Washington (66,544 square miles). Washington state has more than 7 million people—and families and corporations continue to move there. In contrast, Uruguay is home to only 3.3 million people, of whom 1.8 million live in its capital and largest city, Montevideo.

The population of Uruguay is of European origin–mostly Spanish and Italian. Other foreign nationalities have immigrated here and contributed to its mix of culture diversity.

And Uruguay’s beaches are beautiful—one of the best kept secrets in South America.

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Here’s a photo of our dogs discovering a river dolphin on the beach near our home in Atlantida.

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Our quiet beach town of Atlántida, Uruguay has a significant collection of quirky, cool buildings featuring a variety of innovative architectural designs.

One of the most famous structures was designed and engineered by Eladia Dieste, an architect who made his reputation by building numerous elegant structures from grain silos to churches. His buildings are a fusion of cutting-edge design and functionality featuring self-supporting double curved arches, built without any structural columns. We see this church often as it’s located near the butcher shop we frequent. It’s a must-see to share when we have visitors from abroad.

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Iglesia del Cristo Obrero, designed by Elasio Dieste was built in 1958.

Another must-see favorite for originality is El Águila – The Eagle. In 1945, Italian millionaire Natalio Michelizzi, commissioned an Uruguayan builder (Juan Torres) to build him a statue of the Virgin Mary. Tores instead built a place where Michelizzi could read, paint and entertain. This meeting place for friends has given rise to several legends—from a Nazi observatory, a cosmic energy center, to a smuggler’s hideout.

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And we also find Uruguay to be the perfect base for exploring other countries in South America. We’re traveling to Peru in July to tour some ancient civilization sites. Anyone ever heard of the knotted string records??? They are some of the most tenacious mysteries of ancient Peru kept by the Incas.

Why Uruguay? Why not Uruguay.

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Good Morning Diego Garcia–Super Review

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http://writerwonderland.weebly.com/goddess-fish-tour/good-morning-diego-garcia-review

​A good adventure is one you survive. A great adventure occurs, when not only do you survive, but you learn something from it. Ms. Joyce survived not only one, but also two great adventures. While she details her adventures from a first person narrative, including many personal details, it also highlighted how little respect women were afforded even in the 1970’s. From Ms. Joyce not having control of her money to her husband making the decisions that involved both of them.
This enlightening memoir included growth and insight along with her travelogue touches. It also took me back to a time where traveling across the world was not an easy thing, and was often dangerous. Kudos to Ms. Joyce for being lucky in this lifetime and in all the others too.

Thank you! writerwonderland!

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Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 9

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Trincomalee, Sri Lanka 1975

The sun lowered and began its descent. Time to stop for the day and go
to dinner. Alon insisted on staying with the boat, and urged Dylan to
go with us and enjoy an evening out. Dylan agreed, if we could stop on
the way and check on the navigational charts at the ship’s agents office.
The clerk was on the phone when we stopped by. Dylan suggested he
wait and meet us at the Chinese restaurant.

He joined us a few minutes later and announced, “still no charts.”
“Unbelievable,” Mia said, “We’ve been waiting for weeks.”
“What are the charts for exactly?” I asked.
“Nautical charts of the Indian Ocean, from Trincomalee to the
Seychelles,” Dylan answered. “Maps showing water depth, buoys,
obstructions; information which ensures safe passage.”
“They sound essential,” I said.
Mia nodded in agreement and rolled her eyes.
“I’ll give them another week,” Dylan said.

A smiling waiter took our drink order.
Dylan and Charles ordered beer. Mia ordered tea.
“Wine for me, please!” I said.
Since Mia and Dylan had eaten here many times, we suggested they
order their favorite dishes.
They did and more too; wanting of course to have plenty to take back
to the boat for Alon.
“Can you sail without charts?” I asked Dylan.
“Best not to,” he answered, “but if necessary, I can navigate by the stars.”
“Celestial navigation,” Charles said. “I’m impressed.”
Dylan looked excited at the thought, and smiled.
“Your eyes sparkle like Sinbad the Sailor at the idea,” I said.
Dylan laughed.
“You’ve read about him?” I asked.
“Of course. He was a gutsy dude.”
“And story teller,” I added.
“Famous for his adventures and navigational skills,” Charles said.
“He saved a ship and found a map to the hidden treasures of Alexander
the Great. And he had all those fantastic adventures without charts,”
Dylan said.
We laughed, clinked our glasses of drinks and toasted, “L’chaim!
Without charts!”
The food was amazing. We left fully indulged, and I wondered if our
cuisine would be as tasty in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Somehow,
I doubted it.

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Good Morning Diego Garcia Excerpt Chapter 5

Agra, India
June 1975

The taxi drove us to the river bank and agreed to wait for us.

The night was warm. The steps to the water’s edge were filled with pilgrims making their way over the sandy bed of the Yahuna River. For some reason I expected a cremation ceremony to be serene and quiet. Heavens no, the atmosphere was electrifying, with action all around us. Rowboats waited near the shore to take visitors along the river for a quieter viewing.

As far as I could see, the shores of the Ganges, Hinduism’s holiest river, was dotted with dancing fires. Dusk descended, candles were lit, and I watched people of all ages assisting in the rituals.

Planks of wood were measured and weighed to make certain the
correct amount of firewood was used, according to the physical size of the deceased. Funeral pyres were built. Holy men stood in a long line,chanting verses, while waiting to perform the last rites. Bodies were wrapped in several layers of cloth, set on wooden planks, and taken to the sacred river for cleansing. After the cleansing, the body was placed on a pyre and the fire was lit. The evening was alive with a fiery glow, and the sounds of ringing bells and beating drums.The odor of burning flesh filled the air. I covered my nose, watched and waited with others for the moment when bones burned to ashes, and the soul ascended to heaven.

Amidst the chaos, I felt a calm, an appreciation for being witness to the departure of so many souls. A sacred moment.

We returned to the hotel for dinner and an early night. Of course I had many questions for the hotel clerk on duty.

“What happens after the cremation?” I asked.

“The focus changes to purifying relatives of the dead. Exposure to the corpse makes them impure.”

“Wow,” I said, “I thought it was beautiful watching relatives clean and wrap the body.”

“The eldest son or male relative shaves his head and wears a white robe and pours milk over the pyre.”

“Oh,” I said, “another reason the cow is sacred.”

“Yes. Family members wash and pass under a cow yoke and pray to the sun, and walk away. Never looking back.”

“How long is the mourning period?”

“Ten to thirty days, depending on the caste, and the age of the
deceased.”

I thanked her for answering my questions. We headed to the restaurant for dinner.

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Good Morning Diego Garcia! Excerpt Chapter 4

Good Morning Diego Garcia, by Susan Joyce

Bombay, India
June 1975

We asked about good restaurants in the area. She suggested the Harbor Bar, a lounge bar in the hotel where you can enjoy drinks and order food from any Taj Hotel restaurant.
“Nice!” I said. “The airline clerk recommended it.”
“Yes, and it’s famous for its selection of drinks; the first licensed bar in Bombay,” she added.
“I’m feeling perkier already,” I said.
“Let’s check it out!” Charles smiled.
“Be sure to ask the bartender about the signature cocktail,” the receptionist said, pointing us in the direction of the elevator and lounge.
“Sounds perfect,” I said.

Entering the Harbor Bar, we noticed the liquor license plate: proudly hanging, proclaiming its place in Bombay history as the oldest licensed bar in Bombay.
The greeter showed us to a comfortable window table facing the historic waterfront—overlooking the Gateway to India.
A smiling waiter welcomed us to the stylish lounge bar.
“We have a selection of fine wines, malts, spicy cocktails, and international food fare,” he said. “But first let me tell you a bit of our history.”
We smiled, waiting for him to continue.
“The Harbor Bar opened in 1933,” he said, “during the Prohibition era, and was the first licensed bar in Bombay.”
We nodded.
“An American, traveling across the Indian Ocean in a yacht, was docked in our harbor when he received a radio call from his wife telling him Prohibition in America had ended. He had no alcohol on his yacht and decided to walk to the Taj Mahal Hotel and get a drink to celebrate the news. Entering the Harbor Bar, he asked for a special drink to quench his thirst after many years of not drinking alcohol. The bartender agreed to make him a special drink to commemorate the happy occasion. Using Indian fruit juices, he promised to concoct a tasty cocktail which would blow his mind.
With the first sip of the exotic cocktail, the man shouted in glee. ‘What is the name of this amazing drink?’
The bartender smiled and said, ‘Sir, since it’s an original made special for you, you can name it.’
The American stood, raised his glass, and shouted, ‘From the Harbor Since 1933!’”
“What a great story,” I said, laughing. “I’d like to try it.”
“Flambéed at the table,” the waiter said.
“Flambéed?” I asked. “Even better.”
Charles nodded. “When in Bombay … we’ll have two.”

The waiter returned with a cart holding two wine glasses filled with sliced fruit and another glass filled with fresh squeezed fruit juice and ice. He poured the content of the two glasses into a shaker and shook it with the fancy flair of a seasoned performer, and poured the mixture into two fluted bowl shaped glasses.
“Gorgeous glasses.” I said. “Shaped like the kerosene hurricane lamp my grandmother used during storms when power went out.”
“It’s called a hurricane glass,” he said.
I laughed. “Of course.”
He poured gin into another waiting wine glass, and struck a match to light it.
“Oh,” I said, watching the flames rise.
He swirled the glass and flames around, and slowly poured the flambéed gin into our hurricane glasses. One last stir and the signature cocktail was presented with a broad smile.
The flames disappeared. We sipped the tasty cocktail.
“Peachy and light,” I said, asking for the recipe.
“Gin, crème de peach, pineapple juice, and green chartreuse.”
“Thank you!” I noted the ingredients in my travel journal.
“Flambéed to perfection,” Charles said.
We clinked glasses together, and said, “Cheers!” in unison.
The waiter smiled.

We decided to order dinner from a restaurant located in the hotel named Tanjore. Our waiter explained their menu offered dishes from all of India’s diverse regions. He suggested we order a sampler platter for two, which represents all of them. “You won’t be disappointed,” he added, and explained tastes of India vary tremendously, as a result of local culture, geographical location, seasons, and economics.
Charles asked the waiter to select a white wine to go with all of the different cuisines.
“An Alsace Pinot Gris,” he suggested. “It provides a touch of sweetness.”
“Perfect,” Charles said.

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Good Morning Diego Garcia! Excerpt Chapter 2

Good Morning Diego Garcia, by Susan Joyce

My new book will be released as soon as I receive feedback on nautical terms and lingo from my beta reading sailor friends. Needless to say, I’m anxiously awaiting their feedback.

Thought you might enjoy an excerpt from Chapter Two, while we wait. Hope it
resonates with you.

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I glanced at Charles. He was sleeping.
My eyes closed and I returned to remembering the first big travel adventure.
From JFK Airport we flew to London, and boarded another flight to Tel Aviv. A driver, holding a sign with our family name on it, greeted us at the Lod Airport in Tel Aviv, and showed us to a sherut (a shared taxi) which took us (along with other new emigrants) from Tel Aviv, through the Negev desert, to the village of Arad, where we studied Hebrew.
“Amazing adventure,” I said.
Charles patted my knee. “Were you dreaming?”
“Remembering; same thing,” I said, smiling. “And now we’re up and away again; seven years later. Another adventure. It’s exciting”
“Chicken Marsala or Beef Stroganoff?” the hostess asked.
I put my seat forward in an upright position and lowered the food tray.
“Chicken for me, please,” I answered. “And Chardonnay.”
Charles chose the Beef Stroganoff and red wine.
“You look like Dr Ben Casey,” the airline hostess told Charles. “I love his show.”
“So, I’m told often,” Charles said smiling. “In fact, I’ve never seen the show.”
“You haven’t?” she asked. “It’s a great medical drama. A neurosurgeon at County General Hospital. Anyway, enjoy your meal.” She moved on down the aisle.
I uncovered a steaming dish of chicken smothered in mushrooms with pasta. “It’s true,” I told Charles. “You do look like Dr Casey.” I took a bite. “This is delicious. I hope the food is as good on Air India.”
“Maybe better,” Charles said.
“Charles?” I asked, touching his arm.
“Yes?”
“What will you do, when we return to California?”
“What do you mean?”
“Workwise? If your company doesn’t have a new assignment for you?”
“I’m sure they will by then.”
“And if not?”
“Something will turn up. Why do you ask?”
“We’ve been in limbo a long time. When we lived in Virginia Beach, The Little Theatre there advertised a play by Samuel Beckett.”
“And?” he asked, giving me a strange look.
“I wanted to see it, but arrived too late one evening to get in.”
“What was it about?”
“Two people waiting for someone named Godot—wanting someone else to move them forward; prove their existence.”
“Sounds ridiculous.” Charles grimaced.
“Of course Godot never shows.”
“Why on earth would you want to see that? Sounds ridiculous.”
“It reminded me of our situation. Waiting on your firm to tell us where to go next. Like we have no free will. “
Charles didn’t answer. He finished his lunch and went back to reading.
I went back to remembering.
Following the upheaval of the Cyprus War in July 1974, we were homeless and confused about where we’d live. After our evacuation to England, Charles awaited news daily from his employer, a Swiss firm, on where they planned to send him. He had worked for them for years, both in Europe and in the Middle East, and they hoped to place him somewhere. So we waited, and waited some more. I read lots of books, took long walks in the English countryside, and wished for a place to call home.
After weeks of waiting, Charles received a telephone call one day telling us to book flights to Virginia Beach, Virginia, where Charles would work out of the company office near Langley.
Upon our arrival, we found a beautiful, fully furnished home for rent on the 10th hole of the golf course, near the beach; bicycles included.
I stared out the plane window and watched billowing clouds float past. The flight attendant stopped to ask if we’d like more coffee or tea.
“Coffee please,” I replied.
“Cream, sugar?” she asked.
“No thanks. Black please,” I answered. “Smells fresh.”
Charles said no thanks and continued reading.
She smiled and moved on.
I took a sip of coffee.
“Since when do you drink black coffee?” Charles asked.
“Since Virginia Beach and visiting the Edgar Cayce Library.” I answered.
“The Cayce Library?” he questioned.
“Yes, while you were busy visiting military bases, I spent my days riding the bike along the boardwalk to the public library; researching the Cyprus War. One afternoon, by accident … ” I hesitated. “There are no accidents,” I added.
Charles nodded.
“I rode past the Edgar Cayce Foundation Library. People laden with boxes were busy moving books. A volunteer worker explained hundreds of books were being moved from the old Cayce Hospital Library to their new home. She invited me to go on in, have a look around, and make myself comfortable.”
“And you did,” Charles said.
“Yes. Entering the library, I felt as if I had discovered a secret chamber of knowledge; a vault filled with mysterious truths. My head tingled with excitement, so I knew I was in the right place.”
“What does this have to do with black coffee?” Charles asked.
I told Charles all about Edgar Cayce, “The Sleeping Prophet” and how he had the ability to put himself into a relaxed sleep state and connect his mind with all information in time and space. From this state he could respond to any question asked: from practical to trivial, to secrets of the universe. His psychic insights became know as “readings” and were recorded by a stenographer. People from all over the world sent letters requesting information on someone or something. All Cayce needed to know was the name of the person requesting the information and their location before he went into a trance and collected information.
I thought Charles would go back to reading his book, instead he seemed to be listening to me.
“The library was divided into several sections,” I continued. “I found myself drawn to one about discovering your mission in life and another section with books and articles about exploring ancient mysteries. Although I had always felt there was more to life than this life, the Cayce Library was my introduction to the idea of the existence of souls, and how they live on and on after physical death. I felt certain I had experienced past lives … and been lucky in all of them.”
“You were lucky in Cyprus,” Charles said. “We were lucky to get out alive.”
I nodded and continued. “I was soon lost in a sea of information on Edgar Cayce and his thousands of readings.”
“What does this have to do with black coffee?” Charles asked.
“Oh,” I answered. “Cayce talked about diet and the importance of balancing alkaline-producing foods with acid-producing foods and eating locally grown, seasonal foods. And he gave a list of things to avoid like not eating large quantities of meat or cheese with starchy foods.”
“Such as?” Charles questioned.
“Enchiladas, for example.”
Charles laughed.
“Milk, cereal, coffee with milk or cream,” I added, sipping my black coffee.
“To each his own,” Charles said. “No one can convince me Mexican food isn’t healthy.”
“I love it too. I stopped eating cereal after the discovery though.”
Charles opened his book and continued reading.
I removed my travel journal from the seat back pocket in front of me and scribbled images of the jagged clouds and noted some random thoughts about the uncertainty of being in limbo.
Uncertain? Unclear. Unsettled. Unknown.

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We Love Memoirs Day–Monday, August 31

Mon 31st Aug, 2015 will be We Love Memoirs Day!

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We Love Memoirs was set up on 31st August 2013 by two memoir authors, Victoria Twead and Alan Parks, who wanted to create a place where memoir readers and authors could come together and chat. Victoria Twead is a New York Times bestselling author of “Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools” and the “Old Fools” series, while Alan Parks is the author of “Seriously Mum, What’s an Alpaca?” and the “Seriously Mum” series. Victoria and Alan were determined to foster a warm community and have always discouraged authors from pushing their own books at readers. The results have been astounding, and WLM has grown quickly. New friendships are formed every day, and WLM meet-ups across the globe have become common. Small wonder that the We Love Members community – which can be found here – is often described as “the friendliest group on Facebook”.
Join the conversation!
Thanks!
Susan Joyce