By Uri Geller
We were eating in a restaurant in New York City, Yoko was with us, so this was after their big breakup and reconciliation. Yoko was expecting their child, Sean, and John was excited — he was going to love this baby day and night: feed him, change him, teach him to talk, teach him to love music.
He did all of that. And he was going to watch him grow into adolescence, through the tumbles from bicycles and terrors of schooldays, from reading to dating to college. He never got to do that. John started talking about UFOs.
He said he believed life existed on other planets, that it had visited us, that maybe it was observing us right now. He took me to a quieter, darker table, lit a cigarette and pointed its glowing tip at my face.
“You believe in this stuff, right?” he asked me. “Well, you ain’t f___in’ gonna believe this.”
“About six months ago, I was asleep in my bed, with Yoko, at home, in the Dakota Building. And suddenly, I wasn’t asleep. Because there was this blazing light round the door. It was shining through the cracks and the keyhole, like someone was out there with searchlights, or the apartment was on fire.
“That was what I thought — intruders, or fire. I leapt out of bed, and Yoko wasn’t awake at all, she was lying there like a stone, and I pulled open the door. There were these four people out there.”
“Fans?” I asked him.
“Well, they didn’t want my autograph. They were like, little. Bug-like. Big bug eyes and little bug mouths and they were scuttling at me like roaches.”
He broke off and stared at me.
“I’ve told this to two other people, right? One was Yoko, and she believes me. She says she doesn’t understand it, but she knows I didn’t lie to her. I told one other person, and she didn’t believe me.
“She laughed it off, and then she said I must have been high. Well, I’ve been high, I mean right out of it, a lot of times, and I never saw anything on acid that was as weird as those f___in’ bugs, man.
“I was straight that night. I wasn’t dreaming and I wasn’t tripping. There were these creatures, like people but not like people, in my apartment.”
“What did they do to you?” Lennon swore again. “How do you know they did anything to me, man?” “Because they must have come for a reason.”
“Your’re right. They did something. But I don’t know what it was. I tried to throw them out, but, when I took a step towards them, they kind of pushed me back. I mean, they didn’t touch me. It was like they just willed me. Pushed me with willpower and telepathy.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know. Something happened. Don’t ask me what. Either I’ve forgotten, blocked it out, or they won’t let me remember. But after a while they weren’t there and I was just lying on the bed, next to Yoko, only I was on the covers.
“And she woke up and looked at me and asked what was wrong. I couldn’t tell her at first. But I had this thing in my hands. They gave it to me.”
“What was it?” Lennon dug into his jeans pocket. “I’ve been carrying it round ever since, wanting to ask somebody the same question. You have it. Maybe you’ll know.”
“I took the metal, egg-like object and turned it over in the dim light. It seemed solid and smooth, and I could make out no markings. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Keep it.” John told me. “It’s too weird for me. If it’s my ticket to another planet, I don’t want to go there.”
When we first met on November 28, 1974 he was suffering terribly from his separation from Yoko. His drug abuse, and drinking, linked to the sorrow of Yoko’s recent miscarriage, had driven them apart, and John desperately wanted to mend the relationship.
He just didn’t know how to make the first move. The night Lennon and I were introduced, Elton John was playing at Madison Square Gardens. Elton was trying to persuade the ex-Beatle to get up on stage with him, and John was torn — he wanted to perform but he was scared.
Finally he turned to me and offered a deal, as though I were a negotiator sent by God: “I’ll sing,” he said, “but you have to make Yoko call me.”
Like all of John’s jokes, this one was a plea from the heart, wrapped in a sardonic quip. Yoko phoned John out of the blue, 36 hours later. I think John always believed I had beamed a mind-control ray at her. For my part, I think that of all the synchronicities that have shaped my life, that was one of the strangest.
Now, 24 years on, when I hold the cold, metal egg in my fist, I have a strong sensation that John knew more about this object than he told me. Maybe it didn’t come with an instruction manual, but I think John knew what it was for.
And whatever that purpose was — communication? healing? a first-class intergalactic ticket? — it scared him. I wish I could have warned him… that however scary aliens seem, it’s the humans you have to fear.
————————————–
“There’s UFOs over New York … and I ain’t too surprised.” — John Lennon (“Nobody Told Me”)
by R. Carter Gray
AUGUST 4, 2007 — World renowned psychic Uri Geller claims to have received his telekinetic spoon-bending and telepathic powers as a child from the planet Hoova. He further believes he is on a mission to prepare the world for the formal appearance on earth of extraterrestrial life forms, which makes the weird story told to him by the late John Lennon about a visitation by aliens the former Beatle experienced in the wee hours in 1975 all the more intriguing.
Among the things the energetic and very charismatic Geller likes to do, because he can, is mix and mingle with the stars. He is well-known on the rock ‘n’ roll circuit, in ways that I can only dream of. He rubs elbows with the likes of Mick Jagger (who reportedly may also have entertained aliens) and Elton John, and attends rock ‘n’ roll weddings. But his most significant relationship with a rocker is the one he maintained with former Beatle John Lennon, whom Geller claims in writing and interviews once approached Geller and gave him something very strange: a metallic egg, about the size of a large walnut, which Lennon says he was holding after encountering blinding light and four “bug people” outside his door at the Dakota apartment building in New York City.
Lennon claimed publicly on radio (and in the liner notes on a solo album) to have seen a UFO hovering over his New York City apartment building August 23, 1974, and, several years before his death in 1980. John actually felt he was being stalked by a UFO (not to mention apparent agents of the CIA and FBI) toward the end of his life. Stories of Lennon’s outrageous behavior with the Beatles and before are legend. The worldwide media sensation he created with the Beatles, and his untimely death, have elevated Lennon arguably to super-icon status, and made him perhaps the most important and influential artist and musician in the history of human civilization. That point is worth hanging onto as you read the following story, a portion which is told by Geller himself, as he wrote out his peculiar claims about Lennon and UFOs and “the bug people” for an internationally known daily newspaper. Lennon’s encounter with aliens, i.e. “bug people,” occurred in 1975, five years before his death, in his Dakota apartment in New York City. Geller says this meeting with John occurred while Yoko was expecting Sean, John’s only child with Yoko. Sean was 5 in 1980 when John was killed.
The fact that Geller claims Lennon was accosted by four bug people (the unfab four?), that John was suddenly and inexplicably unconscious at one point during the encounter, waking up in his bed, and that Lennon was holding the egg when he came to (truly making him, Geller believes, “the Eggman”) make the bond between Lennon and Geller very special and unique — maybe as significant as the relationship he shared with his former bandmates but virtue of how Lennon confided in the psychic. One wonders if while Lennon was out a semen sample might have been taken from him so that a cloned version of him might one day … nah.
The following is the story that ran in December of 2004 in the London Telegraph. Geller’s story about Lennon has appeared in other publications as well. He currently writes columns for a number of major new outlets, such as the London Times, the Weekly News, the Mirror and the Jewish Telegraph, and from his website, it is reasonable to conclude that he is one very, very busy and organized man. He intends to take his reality show ideas to the world, and with his track record, who would challenge Geller on anything he says he is going to do.
Here’s the piece:
There is an egg-like object in my pocket. It was given to me by John Lennon. And it was given to him by … well, I’ll come to that.
We were eating in a restaurant in New York City. Yoko was with us, so this was after their big break-up and reconciliation. Yoko was expecting their child, Sean, and John was excited — he was going to love this baby day and night: feed him, change him, teach him to talk, teach him to love music.
He did all of that. And he was going to watch him grow into adolescence, through the tumbles from bicycles and terrors of schooldays, from reading to dating to college. He never got to do that. John started talking about UFOs.
He said he believed life existed on other planets, that it had visited us, that maybe it was observing us right now. He took me to a quieter, darker table, lit a cigarette and pointed its glowing tip at my face.
“You believe in this stuff, right?” he asked me. “Well, you ain’t f—-in’ gonna believe this.
“About six months ago, I was asleep in my bed, with Yoko, at home, in the Dakota Building. And suddenly, I wasn’t asleep. Because there was this blazing light round the door. It was shining through the cracks and the keyhole, like someone was out there with searchlights, or the apartment was on fire.
“That was what I thought — intruders, or fire. I leapt out of bed, and Yoko wasn’t awake at all, she was lying there like a stone, and I pulled open the door. There were these four people out there.”
“Fans?” I asked him.
“Well they didn’t want my f—-in’ autograph. They were, like, little. Bug-like. Big bug eyes and little bug mouths and they were scuttling at me like roaches.”
He broke off and stared at me.
“I’ve told this to two other people, right? One was Yoko, and she believes me. She says she doesn’t understand it, but she knows I wouldn’t lie to her. I told one other person, and she didn’t believe me.
“She laughed it off, and then she said I must have been high. Well, I’ve been high, I mean right out of it, a lot of times, and I never saw anything on acid that was as weird as those f—-in’ bugs, man.
“I was straight that night. I wasn’t dreaming and I wasn’t tripping. There were these creatures, like people but not like people, in my apartment.”
“What did they do to you?” Lennon swore again. “How do you know they did anything to me, man?” “Because they must have come for a reason.”
“You’re right. They did something. But I don’t know what it was. I tried to throw them out, but, when I took a step towards them, they kind of pushed me back. I mean, they didn’t touch me. It was like they just willed me. Pushed me with willpower and telepathy.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know. Something happened. Don’t ask me what. Either I’ve forgotten, blocked it out, or they won’t let me remember. But after a while they weren’t there and I was just lying on the bed, next to Yoko, only I was on the covers.
“And she woke up and looked at me and asked what was wrong. I couldn’t tell her at first. But I had this thing in my hands. They gave it to me.”
“What was it?” Lennon dug into his jeans pocket. “I’ve been carrying it round ever since, wanting to ask somebody the same question. You have it. Maybe you’ll know.”
I took the metal, egg-like object and turned it over in the dim light. It seemed solid and smooth, and I could make out no markings. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Keep it.” John told me. “It’s too weird for me. If it’s my ticket to another planet, I don’t want to go there.”
When we first met on November 28, 1974, almost exactly 30 years ago, he was suffering terribly from his separation from Yoko. His drug abuse and drinking, linked to the sorrow of Yoko’s recent miscarriage, had driven them apart, and John desperately wanted to mend the relationship.
He just didn’t know how to make the first move. The night Lennon and I were introduced, Elton John was playing at Madison Square Gardens. Elton was trying to persuade the ex-Beatle to get up on stage with him, and John was torn — he wanted to perform but he was scared.
Finally, he turned to me and offered a deal, as though I were a negotiator sent by God: “I’ll sing,” he said, “but you have to make Yoko call me.”
Like all of John’s jokes, this one was a plea from the heart, wrapped in a sardonic quip. Yoko phoned John out of the blue, 36 hours later. I think John always believed I had beamed a mind-control ray at her. For my part, I think that of all the synchronicities that have shaped my life, that was one of the strangest.
John Lennon was a compulsive doodler. The last autograph he ever signed, 15 minutes before Mark Chapman gunned him down outside his home at the Dakota Building, on December 9, 1980, features a double portrait of himself and his wife, Yoko Ono. The drawings are done in a couple of lines — the style is unmistakable and so are the faces.
I always marveled at John’s skill as an artist. There is no doubt that, if he’d been tone deaf and tuneless, the boy who created the Beatles could have become a successful painter or illustrator. During the last year of his life, we met most weeks to chat over a coffee in one of the hotels near our New York homes.
Sometimes John would bring Sean, who was about four years old then. The rocker had put his music career on hold while the child was small. John once told me how bitterly he regretted that while his first son, Julian, was a toddler, he himself was devoting his energies to the stage or the studio, or would be out partying with friends.
“You don’t get those years back,” he said. “I’m not going to miss a minute while Sean is growing up.”
That is the greatest tragedy of my friend’s death. He had finally learned what made him happy, and then he was robbed of it. What really interested me about John was not his incredible life, his fame or his talent, but his deep spirituality.
I too was working out what made me happy — I’d realised at last that buying watches and eating six helpings of dessert before making myself throw up was not the path to nirvana.
The shock of Lennon’s murder was one of the powerful forces that drove me to quit New York and spend a year in Japan, undergoing a spiritual detox. John spoke with passion about Japanese views of life, and I am certain that Yoko’s philosophies were at the core of his last years.
I was woken on the day John was shot by a call from a friend, Roland, a publisher who lived opposite the Dakota.
“He’s dead,” Roland sobbed. “They killed John.” I dressed in a few seconds and ran across town: somehow I had to see the house to believe the news. The radio reports weren’t enough.
If John really were dead, if this wasn’t some sick media hoax, then there would be people outside his home with candles and prayer bells. They were there, in their hundreds already.
I didn’t have to push my way through the crowd; I simply stood and stared across the road, and then walked away through Central Park with the tears running down my face.
Now, 24 years on, when I hold the cold, metal egg in my fist, I have a strong sensation that John knew more about this object than he told me. Maybe it didn’t come with an instruction manual, but I think John knew what it was for.
And whatever that purpose was – communication? healing? a first-class intergalactic ticket? — it scared him. I wish I could have warned him … that however scary aliens seem, it’s the humans you have to fear.
It is anyone’s guess as to whether this strange ET encounter in 1975 and subsequent UFO “presences” (John believed UFO’s were stalking him, too) had anything to do with Lennon’s death five years later. When Lennon was killed, George H. W. Bush had just been elected vice president. A former CIA director and a devoted Nixonite, Bush may know more about UFO’s and ET’s than any living public official, indicated by the fact that as CIA chief Bush withheld Blue Book files from then-President Jimmy Carter, who claims once to have seen a UFO, when Carter asked for them.
Some people have speculated that Bush, once back in power, exacted the revenge on Lennon that Nixon and elements in the FBI and CIA wanted. Prompting such speculation are some telling facts regarding Bush, assassinations and famous assassins: Both Bush and Nixon were in Dallas on the very day JFK was assassinated, though Bush claims he was in Houston. Documents and statements readily found online confirm otherwise. Nixon, vindictive and ruthless, certainly had a motive for wanting Kennedy dead. Most telling of all is Bush’s link to John Hinckley Sr., the father of John Hinckley Jr., who nearly succeeded in assassinating Ronald Reagan, which, had the attempt been successful, would have made Bush president. Neil Bush, one of the elder Bush’s sons, was to have had dinner with another one of Hinckley’s sons on the day Reagan was killed — though this report was quickly quelled once it broke on network news. That, too, can be verified with a search. What ties all this together is the fact that Hinckley Sr. was president of World Vision, a Christian charity alleged to front for CIA operations, when both his would-be assassin son and the alleged killer of Lennon, Mark David Chapman, worked for World Vision. The two shooters reportedly knew each other. And then there is the matter of one Jose Perdomo, allegedly an ex-CIA hit man and anti-Castro Cuban participant in the Bay of Pigs, reportedly recruited by Bush Sr., who served as the Dakota doorman on the night Lennon was killed. Of course, all of this adds up to nothing but a lot of conjecture, but because of our affection for Lennon, whose death we still mourn, its therapeutic to speculate on who might have brutally and in cold-blood silenced this special man and why.
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