Graton. the Dali image, Vivian. The horde of little fat people. The poem a respopnse to misread poem of mine from Portland, "cunt". They called theirs "prick" completely missing the first was about me. Little fat people that now hover in the interface world of surveillance tech.
That night. The next day in the field walking the shortcut toward 116.
the woman, pasty, unwell, she called my name with a question in it as though she couldn't believe it was me and didn't know where she was. that sound - the zip and splat, like bees driving into meat, then in the distance the percussion as she fell.
posted by Juke at 1:11 PM [edit]

Preston
I have memories that don't fit the narrative of my life. The particular memories I'm speaking of here are, among other things, of being at the cafeteria at Preston with my father. I mentioned this to him years later and he denied vehemently ever taking me with him to Preston, which was a reformatory/prison for boys where he worked as a teacher, in the mid 1950's. But I remember vividly being there.
I also remember vividly the shock and undeniable veracity of other memories as they surfaced, one a bathroom, a bathtub which was near chest height to me, and a man in the bathtub and an erect penis coming out of him. This memory is unfixed geographically and chronologically, but it's vivid.
Later, in the first grade, when I was 6 or 7, I drew a rocket ship that was thick and straight up with a big blunt top on it and curls of dark exploding all around the bottom of it, it was clear and well-drawn and the teacher got made at me for drawing it. And for years, until I was 17 and a senior in high school, I hated art class. She humiliated me, but then, because of that, I never forgot it.
I have a memory of being in a restaurant with a man who is/is not my father, there were bread-sticks in a cut glass bowl. I later asked my father about this, in a general way, and he said that during the time period in which I remember this there had been no contact between us. He left the family, my mother and I, in 1955. But I remember clearly having been at a restaurant during that period with a man who was/was not my father, and the bread-sticks, eating a bread-stick in a way that caused the man to rebuke me. There was something wrong with my eating the bread-stick. And there was just the two of us.
I have memories of being in a car with a man when I was in Fresno, driving in the country, I was living at a boarding school/seminary, when I was 14, it was a serious conversation, but I have no idea who that man might have been or what the substance of the conversation was, there is no context for it in the life I had then, of a pre-seminarian in downtown Fresno, I don't know who that was or why he was there, only that it relates to these things.
There was a man, in Ione, who told me his name was "Joe Crossman". He was wearing a suit. He came to visit me while my mother and I were still living in Ione, after my father had left the family. We only lived there for a couple of years. I was probably 5 or possibly 6 years old.
"Joe Crossman" gave me a book, The Silver Chair by C.S. Lewis. He told me some things that I don't remember but his name and the book he gave me I remember, because I had that book through my whole childhood. I can dimly remember telling this to someone who was interrogating or questioning me, in a critical moment, and being scorned for my answer, which was truthful. And the question that came immediately to me of course, that if it hadn't been like that, then how did I get the book, was met with scorn as well. But to a child like I was a book like that was as important as a pet or a school-friend, it was not a trivial thing.
And my mother hadn't given it to me, and my father hadn't given it to me, and there wasn't anyone else who could have. I asked my mother who "Joe Crossman" was, and she had no recollection of anyone with that name. Later I asked my father about it and he insisted he'd never known anyone by that name, certainly no one well enough that he would visit me and give me a book.
I remember being in a room with exposed framing, angled like an attic, with board flooring, in Ione, there were men in a group, and another boy, possibly more than one there too; the man I remember most clearly was tall and thin and scowling. There was what I remembered for most of my childhood as a rabbit. And someone cut open its belly and it was screaming and there was a horrible stink in the room. I also remember telling this memory to someone, possibly on more than one occasion, and becoming terrified while I told it. Later I realized, or concluded, that it wasn't a rabbit, it couldn't have been, there was no reason to skin a rabbit in an attic room that held any kind of sense.
This memory is from the period of time I lived in Ione, California, first with my mother and father then with my mother after my father left the family.
After my father died I had a conversation with his younger brother and he told me that my father had been sexually molested when he was an altar boy, that my father had told his father, who was railroad Irish, working class, this would have been in around 1925, and his father had gone to the monsignor and complained. My uncle was unclear about what exactly took place next but the outcome was my grandfather moved the family to another part of town, either Rochester or Syracuse New York I'm not sure which.
Combining these elements into a counter-narrative leads me to a very frightening place. But it seems also to contain the only light available.
The intellectual elaboration I'd like to add is this, that it was a time when cross-indexing was rudimentary in even the most serious agencies. That the populations of prisons were virtually invisible, prisoner advocacy groups were invisible as well, and child-prisoners, coming from the poor and already invisible, were doubly so.
It isn't at all inconceivable that there would have been a trade in young boys for sexual purposes, and other more arcane reasons, operating in and around reformatories and other institutions for children. A lucrative trade given its forbidden, and highly illegal nature.
And in those days, the mid 50's, it was a subject so taboo there would have been, as there was until quite recently, an insurmountable wall of silence around the subject. Where would those boys go to tell someone?
A lucrative trade in young boys. If I were looking for evidence of that, I'd look wherever there were populations of discarded children, I'd look for whatever procurement processes there were to be active around places where there were surplus populations of children. Where they came and went, shipped in and out virtually unmonitored. Where questioning authority was punished severely. Where a climate of constant fear already existed and the credibility of the children themselves was non-existent.
This is not the first time I've been through this. A kind of awakening and telling, or re-awakening and re-telling. I don't know what happened the other times. Once, I know, I was hypnotized, at my request, by a woman in what I believe was Marin County, California, in 1978; the results of that were unavailable to me as a text I could carry, there was some anxiety on the part of the hypnotist afterward, she was nervous as we parted, though I came away from the experience feeling more calm than I had in an undrugged state in years.
I know that for most of my adult life I've had a deep and abiding fear of dull-witted vicious people, and a burning hatred of smug ignorance. That this hatred and fear were tangential to the main narrative of my life, real, intense, but entirely secondary, and that that narrative itself, the main one, is overlain by a less accurate but more accessible one that has its origin, not in the real events of my history but in the biases and desires, and fears, of other, very present but mainly invisible to me interested parties, may be easier to understand after reading this.
There's more.
posted by Juke at 12:13 AM [edit]

ΩI still haven't recovered from what was either 3-day blitz-flu or food poisoning. It was heavy - nerve-twitchy achey joints headache nausea gas bloat depression lethargy - typical all-round body hurt. Though this bout didn't last the two weeks of the December one. So I don't have a lot of perspicuity. That's a dangerous time to write.
—
I like the idea that religious fundamentalism can be somehow reconciled with a secular state, but then like I said I'm in an ill frame. In the case of American Christian fundamentalism, Catholic and/or Protestant, we're talking about people who believe that when they die their real existence begins. Eternity. That all this is is a test, and all that matters here is how you do on the test. We will leave this troubled world behind. Also dominion over the animals and all.
It's the mirror of God, or a mirror that God holds and people see themselves in it. With all this glory all around it. People who believe that will not be bothered with respecting differing opinions.
To you it's an opinion, to them it's the way things are. Asking someone who believes at that depth to treat their belief as an opinion is farcical. Your life is secondary to that; your opinions are opinions, theirs are truths.
Add in what has become the necessity for delusion, the bitter reality contrasted with the warm glow of Disney-spirituality and mediated family living, and the resistance is total. We're going quickly into an arena of life and death struggle, like much of the rest of the world, but we're dressed and armed as cartoons. A lot of the illusions of right and wrong that have sustained this golden moment in America will become detrimental. But I don't have anything to replace it with. Just animal stuff, growling and snarling, and deceptive cunning. And that's not really a philosophy.
posted by Juke at 1:18 AM [edit]

ΩNow that everybody's getting up to speed on the surveillance thing, we can talk about it without getting bogged down in the prologue, the what, or the why.
We're approaching a moment that will probably go completely unrecorded, unremarked on, when the critical mass of the on-camera and aware tips toward the acceptance of the mediated life.
The concerted effort put into ennabling and encouraging that acceptance by the powers behind the screen, who/whatever they are, with show after show of people getting used to the idea, then begging for a chance to be on; on camera 24/7, on dates, with roommates, in funniest home reality moments, knowing you're on camera from the moment you pull into the supermarket parking lot; all of it, handheld streetlight-mounted built-in or satellite, a burst of divine recognition, only that isn't God's eye up there.
The Broadcast Tower of Babel.
Condominiums and restaraunts and every kind of entertainment imaginable by people like you, all available in the six-sided fish tank of total artifice.
Politicians live there already, anybody with paid security over $500.00 a month lives there already. You wake up to that knowing in the back of your mind the record of your waking up is there, like an echo, someone may be, could be, and depending on your importance, is, watching you scratch your ass and yawn and head for the toilet.
These guys have had to accept the presence in their daily lives of a potential, or actual, someone, passively auditing their every move. The potential for complete control of the human environment that gives is the ultimate National Socialist wet dream. And it's real now. We're doing it. Or having it done to us.
Too many of us still think 'the government' is behind the technology, receiving the images, tracking the plates. Like Ashcroft is anything more than a barking carnie at the entrance to some hastily erected canvas and cheap poster paint. The natural response is to see something mighty, because it's so damned big, and has so much power over our lives and deaths.
But it's more like a bunch of auto-run software, written and deployed by asocial failures, the flagged results getting processed by self-selecting representatives of the commonest denominator. The FBI thinking of themselves as representative defenders of 'normal' people.
But nobody told them that that perfect mid-graph position was moving, was falling, was on its way down. Today's normal is the whining pussy of 10,000 years ago.
There was a little burst of radical optimism back in the 70's at the prospect of the people taking the means of imaging to their own purpose, repurposing the jackbooted lens, but I don't see it yet. The files are there I'm sure, at least some of them. But the total volume dilutes the impact of the specific. I remember the same smugness coming through the walls from way back, back when ashtrays were on each desk of every public official and it was big news that Negroes were buying brand-new station wagons and moving into brand-new suburban homes, or trying to.
The authority-worship and passive surrender to unseen guidance that is a base requirement of too much Christian fellowship has played a huge part in the set-up of this mirror world. This paradise without euphoria, heaven without salvation, without angels and the dear departed, without golden streets and mansions, the heaven of the all-seeing God, the heaven of complete worship and fear, but no eternal bliss, no love, just secure protection and vengeful omnipotence. You just know the young men have evolved an attitude for it, grim stoic acceptance, active participation with the looked-for release of the good boy, that ten day run outside the sweep, the balance being the freed-up strength as the cameras and more importantly the second and third tier auditors clean up the human trash. Just the way it has to be, for now. Trembling with anticipated reward. But the machine's not all that different from the guillotine in that respect, now that it's on it may just keep on running.
Up ahead I see the faces of the subservient glancing back over their domesticated shoulders with accusation and sorrow as they walk the ramp. Because what? Nobody saved them? I don't know. It creeps me out in a pretty large measure though.
The difference between those who are comfortable with voluntary slavery and those who are vitally dependent on it blurs and disappears. Adolescent snickers as people no one wants for sex or labor vanish from the gene pool.
Some of those Wal-Mart shoppers have to be in there, can survive no other way, others still choose it. The ones who never go in are like beatniks, like Rosicrucians, interesting freaks with no real short-term influence.
Long-term we'll have to see.
Something much bigger than politics runs our lives now. Politics is only the interface.
Karma-wise it feels like the peanut gallery in a game show, or like the children of people who got turned down for a spot in the Oprah Winfrey audience. Something a little wrong in the way you dressed or acted, your values and desires are base and small, but now you run the world.

Happy New Year, little men and women behind the camera and the microphone.
May this be the year your treachery gets its due.

posted by Juke at 3:45 PM [edit]

Ω{Hitchiking south on US101 from Salinas in 1979 I got picked up by a woman driving a 68 T-bird. She was very tall, very very thin, ill looking, with black hair that might have been a wig, she had a cosmetic box, a makeup kit, one of those little suitcase-like things, powder blue, it was filled with pill bottles, most of them had her name on them. Her name, what she said her name was, what the Kerr-McGee ID she showed me when I didn't believe her said, was Karen Silkwood, she showed me a driver's license with a Las Vegas address on it. I was on my way to San Luis Obispo, to take part in an anti-nuclear protest, Diablo Canyon, a PG&E power plant, was not yet commissioned and there was still alot of organized resistance to it. It was a two hour ride, 24 years ago, I don't remember a lot about it, the details I do have are the result of one those shocked remembrances, moments of horror when images and dialogues resurfac after being buried, kept away from my conscious mind. I'm not writing this to gain any sympathy or understanding or support. I'm through with all that. No one has anything I want now, and there's nothing I can see to be gained by a shift in the dynamic as it now stands. Whoever it was that did that is still here, whether it was God or the government or some private security hit. And they won't just roll over if the truth is made unavoidably plain. Maybe it's having The Karen Silkwood Story on the TV at the same time as Three Days of The Condor. Maybe it's too much coffee this morning. There is a satisfaction that comes when I've written something I know to be true, though it's tempered by the probability of some blindside reaction being almost inevitable. There was much much more than a strange encounter in a car.
It gets religious in some ways, but ugly ways, nothing pure, the light is profane but so intense it can pass for glory. One technical detail I think is important, there's two or three major events, crimes, failures, whatever you want to think of them as, that make these things somehow appropriate in the eyes of the few people who are actually willing to concede their validity. Or in plainer English, after I manage to slog through the initial resistance to the fantastic nature of this weird stuff, the next layer is all about people saying well of course they were messing with your head, you deserved it. And it goes back just like that step by step into the blur and fog of my younger, more easily re-documented history.
Things were like this BEFORE the events that seem to justify this, I have a real difficult time explaining that without recourse to the paranormal. Something else was going on, but my credibility, my ability itself was compromised so effectively in the crucial time, when it was still possible to change all this, I was mute at best and mostly delirious and poisoned, full of intense gibberish and strange convoluted half-thoughts. So what this online thing has been for me is a chance to demonstrate one thing, and one thing only. That the remnant of my abilities is enough to demonstrate, if you have the willingness and the open mind, that what I showed every sign of becoming was threatening beyond tolerance to something that seeks to control this world. because now there's some wieight behind my saying that I was articulate and intelligent and absolutely unwilling to compromise. That I showed every sign of being able to speak subversive truth.
Around the same time, maybe a year earlier, I had an encounter that blew the lid off the illusion that I wasn't being heard in those late night rants I used to make at the local high school, out on the landing by the drama department. I'd get high and take my guitar, sneak through the fence, get up on the littel platform at the back of the school and let it all out. But you need to understand that was all residual after the break, after the takedown after most of what I could have become was gone forever. I was seriously damaged, trying to heal, and getting smacked down every time I turned around. So I read in my mom's old medical dictionary, a thick green book published in the early decades of the century, a diagnosis for someone who adopted the dress and mannerisms of those much younger, hebephrenia. I was 30 doing a lot of coke, smoking Thai sticks and raving like a lunatic with a guitar in modal tuning, when I wasn't sleeping on my mother's floor, so it hit home a little, was I a man or a boy, was I pretending to be a teenager or was I just being real? I went off on that, one night doing my mad oratory and squawk from the little perch in the back of the high school, alone and mad and with nothing to lose. The next day in a kind of polar-reverse I was back at the school, running around the track after the schoolday was done, it was the early days of the fitness revolution and a lot of people were wearing their first pairs of Nikes and 'jogging' around local tracks. I also sat in the sun and played the guitar a little. This guy approached me, wearing a horrible shirt made out of blue and red bandannas, which was a reference to a shirt of mine I'd had stripped away from me, that my love had made out of boy scout scarves, though I didn't put that together until later. This guy came up and injected himself into my immediate space, strange energy intense aggressive arrogant. At some point he started talking about "Hebe"s. It took a little bit, for one thing because I was very much living in more than one reality, and the boundaries between them were strong. But eventually I got it. We talked actually a little I think I must have made some conciliatory enough noise, he then became sort of excessively friendly following me around the school yard, and up into the stands overlooking the track. I told him to leave me alone, he wouldn't, he was all about communicating and belonging and all, I went down the steps and onto the field and across toward the gym, he followed me the whole time, I repeatedly told him to leave me alone. Finally by the gym I turned and told him I'd kill him if he didn't go away; he started to do the same ingratiating dance he'd been following me with for awhile and I smashed the guitar against the pavement and went at him with the neck of it held like a club above my head. He left.}

posted by Juke at 6:50 PM [edit]

Fun things about this moment in history:
Apocalyptic hysteria means lots of Christian cult splinter groups, and of course the big Mumbo players like the Witnesses and The Saints and the Knights of Whomever, are actively seeking the presence and evidence for the presence of:

A. The great (leader, prince) Michael. A figure burned into the Apocalyptic template in the seemingly hopefully prophetic Book of Daniel in the Holy Bible's Old Testament.
B. The Anti-Christ, and/or The Beast. Not to mention the Scarlet Woman etc. prefigured in the Book of Revelations the seemingly hopefully well it says it is, prophecy of the End Times of which these mindless and tiny tiny hearted individuals are desperately hopeful we are now in the middle of right exactly.
A time of trouble such as the world has never seen.
The Old Testament version of the 'End Times' of course includes the Judaic magical thinkers as well as the Christian.
Those two figures, Michael and the Beast and/or Anti-Christ, though, are highly profiled, in many different and exciting ways, and there are people and I mean lots of people who are actively hungry for some sign of their being here and operating among us in this sad evil place the world is now. And all that yadda yadda about it's always been that way is fine if it makes you more relaxed but the truth is it's tightening the spiral, the feedback loop is in ultra-sonic shriek mode.

Fun things about my life:
My name profiles equally. Michael and Beast.
Happy for me it's relatively common and there's at least two relatively and much more than me famous guys with that name. Though the undergroundy infamous part is way different. But.
It has come up repeatedly starting with the earliest retrievable conscious at this time memory of when I was in Junior College and some dweeby little Jesus pud demanded to know my middle name in an authoritative and commanding tone. I dropped into my interrogation-ready fool mode, something I suffer still to this day, where I'm all helpful and ready to avoid further nastiness like before when they... and I said in somewhat spontaneous and darkly or not inspired impulse 'Stephen' which as some of you know already is NOT my real middle name. But.
The numerological significance and believe me ladies and gentleman no joke I saw the little motherfucker do the calc right on the spot and gasp in horror and back away, the first and last names, of which I am the bearer one among many of, do the number jive to 6, and Stephen spelled thatway also does that. My real name, Sean does not. The number of the uhmm, well, that number.
That is a very true and to the death-wall of permanent insistence it happened to me thing.
That was when I was 21. I am not 21 any more. I am not even 42.
My entire adult life has been a bad dream of dull nothingness and horrifying events far more traumatizing than that little mosquito bite of insanity and absurd nonsensicality. But.
What I want to get into the public record here is these assholes with their God-given sanction will pick up and investigate anyone on either side of that wonderful sporting event who might possibly be in a uniform that is not readily apparent to civilians or those not 'in the know' and investigate them to the best of their instrumentation's and technique's abilities and then if and should the subject not qualify for either the glorious wonderfulness of angelic prefiguration or the loathesome evil and dangerous dark badness of demonic bestialness, should the aforesaid subject prove to be some shlub of no real consequence, after having undergone the disruptive and violating investigation including who knows what kind of weird-ass surveillance and etc. paranoia-inducing bullshit, said aforementioned person will be just set down at the side of the road and allowed to go back to and on about the business of their now forever unavailable normal lives. As it were. With a still careful and potentially watchful eye on things just in case. Not that all the heat in my life is just because some jerk thought I was God's disinherited step-child. But somewhere in here or there somebody needs to face up to how much shit this crazy bullshit has generated on its own feedback cycle. And thus a better understanding of my own particular stance on these things would be more clear and understood as coming from real causes other than my own evil or blessed nature. But more the honest emotional reaction of an essentially basically could have been fairly normal guy with an abnormal intelligence and a bizarre or rather slightly exceptional home life etc. Except that all along there's been this horseshit, and I am so done with horseshit like that. You stole my life motherfuckers. And here's a little prayer I pray most every day sometimes.
Oh fuck you mighty ones all and each I have nothing in my heart for you forever but annihilation, the goodness of my heart is that I never dwell on it being slow or fast just gone get out goodbye good riddance go away. Yep.
Oh yes yes. Whatever it was you thought you did it was not what I would say was something that actually worked. I have seen your little angels here and there throughout this asshole journey from sphincter to rectum, I don't need to see anymore.
I should have figured it out years ago. The parents were full of shit, the teachers were full of shit, the principal was full of shit, the cops were full of shit, the family doctor was full of shit, the mayor was full of shit, major scientists were full of shit, the senator was full of shit, the president was full of shit, the Pope was full of shit. Hey you don't suppose...?

I have seen this following business recently, and before that often, with my own eyes. People having heard, and don't you fucking pretend it's not real asshole, people having heard that there are out there in the fringe of all our loopy profusion, those who have nominated me for the upful mention in that binary roll call, and these practical heavily-invested-in-the-way-things-are folks, these I read the paper and Newsweek and the WSJ, folk, and they look at me and go HIM? Hunh. Never.
And I myself never get a chance to express my real feelings in the matter, which are of an inchoate and surprisingly final nature. Listen assholes, I never once put myself forward in any direct way for any of it. Of course I thought about it how could I not? Shit just kept happening over and over that required massive denial on my part NOT to think about it. You small-minded little motherfuckers have destroyed my life with this garbage. And that's really where I leave it. What I pray for is to have you treated in exactly the way you have treated me. Total disregard for my own person, complete heartless disregard for the reality of my life in the midst of all this nonsense and fear and superstition, and exactly as much forgiveness as you have shown to me.
Right back at ya.

posted by Juke at 12:17 PM [edit]

So Dennett has it that the conscious mind is like one of those Tesla moments held in the brain's armoed pan, micro-managed by itself, like this, these machines here. OK so bigger mind same thing. The cloud of conscious being in loose array, immortal groups, banding together, we, e pluribus infinitum. Because as long as there's a membership, that thing is. Ok so we're looking for not so much why as how, the paternalistic the patriarchal the gynophobic androphilic, the 'boys only' sign halfway up the tree with its Masonic backspin on the 'n'. Not why, how. Think back to the brain, clusters, knots, cohesive subgroupings, monasteries, prisons. Those two places most especially. Think years of isolated meditation. No girls allowed. The powers of the mind developed and tuned to...what exactly? The ongoingness of the self. All the branches join at the trunk but the roots are another thing altogether, maybe. Posit that satanic things creep out from between the pages of the same books as angels of kind guidance. Monks pray like batteries in series. Prisoners, some of them, pray like batteries in series. Weekly sessions on your knees prostrate, the constant affirmation of testerone reflected. God is a man because the men who made him were men, or more accurately, 'God' has masculine attributes because the mind stuff from which 'he' springs is male, primarily. A lot gets explained with that. The emphasis on biological strategies when the dogma is all about non-earthly living. Why that 'God' loves little babies with such desperate passion and could give a shit about the old.
And the secondary inferior positions allowed to women, because a truly genderful deity wouldn't bring these particular men to dominance. So they fight with their all and any to make it real and keep it that way. Baum's curtain nailed to the proscenium with big blood-rusty spikes.
A patient physician would see there's an acceptance of the existence of something here, which I am making as clear as I can. Hierarchies of power. And limits to that power, each step of the way. Need, necessity, form and formation, becoming, being, isness, and pure horse-caca carried to the well of eternity and dumped in.
My vote is the power that has so much influence here, that seems to own the place, is mad, incomplete, protective of its sickness, and hungry to get out.
Machination spreads its willing cheeks to the bump and grind of howling greed, spirits of hedonistic satisfaction living out their last incarnations in those glorified cardboard shacks of flatline stucco and OSB. It looks like the dull fantasies of (Imperial) Roman businessmen to me, a little place by the sea at the end of time.
And China too. Everywhere, every time they got out from under that fine-toothed comb of making-do through the ongoing boot camp of seasonal life, close to the ground. The turning of the world the rock and roll of the planet trims away the fat, sooner or later.
You can't do that adipose longevity thing without slaves, you just can't do it. Not for more than a generation or two. We're taught to load the barrier between our own strife and hope and the above, the grander, the truer sweep of greater destiny, but it keeps coming back around, the witchcraft of the names of the days of the week, the names of your friends, the cold chill of the sea transposed to the time ahead, when this body lays itself down and is no more. It doesn't break, there's no partition, it merges seamless to the ones who see, who know, whatever.
But we are still us, small, weak, and without much time to change our own lives let alone the course of human predestination. Jesus would never insist anyone believe he rose from the dead, without corroborative real-time further exposition—a miracle to back it up—you could put your hand on the wound, watch his feet disappear in the fog above your head. Or not. Maybe all you could do was just listen, to the buddha-truth of what is, compassion and fire from the bottom up, and they killed him for that maybe, and turned his teaching into paddock, fenceline, chute. Building schools and burning books.
Because some road apple says you have to believe won't ever get it, and it doesn't; but then, maybe that's the beauty of it, selecting for progressively more docile less thought-capable workers. That right there starts my schismatic dynamos humming.
—
posted by Juke at 8:48 PM [edit]

Ω{just a thought. There's still a strong contingent of men around I think of as the 'VFW's. Because that's one of the more visible groups of the early days of all this, for me. Vicious ignorant heartless men, with no clear vision of the future or the past, who schemed and dreamed their brutal fantasies, and in that invisible way, joined in with the evil that was so strong even then. Obviously most of the WW2 boys are on their last legs or gone, but their spiritual heirs are around and vocal. And they have this reaction to some of my stuff here and at d.b. because it seems 'anti-American'. But that's only because they have stolen America, what it is and what it was, and I'm full-bore opposed to that. Fighting over it doesn't seem to help much, and I'm not too keen on the stock phraseology of 'This is my country too' or whatever. It's not. I haven't felt a part of anything American since I was 17. But I am part of something else, something that you can't be an American, a real one, a true one, without being part of. And just like the sacrifices that get made on the path to higher things, sometimes the ultimate sacrifice, we may have to give it all up so that what comes after us has a clear shot. That's where it always broke down for me, there just weren't too many of those vicious punks willing to give up much of anything personal to get anything accomplished. For all their scorn and smug ballistic arrogance. So, short form, I'm not anti-American, I'm anti-you, and you're all wrapped up in the flag.}
posted by Juke at 6:42 PM [edit]

{Bob Harris had a post at Tom Tomorrow's about CSI the cop show. And he mentioned Bobcat Goldthwaite being in an episode he(Harris) wrote, tonight. I never watch TV anymore. But my mom fell down tonight and went to bed early. So I watched it. These are my observations:

There was a commercial for what looked like a Carl's Junior or something that had a Bob Dylan song? Or a soundalike. And right after that was something equally jarring I don't remember what and then the in-between shuffle during the commercials I hit the VH1 awards and they made a joke about Barbra Streisand. There was Saturn commercial where there was all these people pretending to be moving around as though they were on foot but onthe highways and byways incar positions. That was incredibly depressing to see. The main dude on CSI looks like that little man from the Most Wanted crime-porn show. The women on CSI are attractive and 'real' looking in that they aren't models exactly but they seemed mighty thin, the female lead is really attractive and non-magaziny at the same time. There was a young black cop, with sproingy dreaditos, which I guess signifies that he's not a Republican. Gilbert Gottfried was there. I'm channeling Wesley Willis as I right this. I thought Goldthwaite was Paul Krassner until I realized I hadn't seen Goldthwaite yet and the show was half over. There was a side plot about an insurance murder. The guy bought himself a Ferrarri. They took it away. They being the powerful forces of good as represented by the combined agencies of law enforcement and insurance. There was a male sub-lead who had that Aryan supremacy jawline and the perfect physical presence of military training. He ripped a towel holder off the wall when the female lead couldn't. There was a 'Doc' character, in brighter times he'd probably have a flask of Jim Beam nearby, grizzled beard, not a sex object, the world-weary old guy. There was a surprising to me amount of corpse exhibiting. Including body cavity color shots. A woman's body, the wife of the insurance killer, was freakishly similar to two bodies it was my misfortune to view, once when I was too young to withstand the shock, and once when I was too near death myself. That was hard. But I'm pretty cold now, there isn't much left of that sensitive guy. I expect shock and that oh wait, let me get it lined up. Up in Oregon a year let's see, two years back, in a motel. The teletubbies. Propaganda warlocks. Dweebish experts at riposte and innuendo. Suck minds working for the forces of good. It was really awful. I'm always so alone when it happens. But it's better that way I think in the long run. I need to be cold-hearted now. I need to hate. Love only gets in the way. Ignorance with firepower is what did it in, if they ask, at the end there that's what it was. The fools had bigger guns than we did, and they won it all. And then didn't have anywhere to go with it, because they had no vision. I live constantly torn in half by that conflict. I want them to take it because they'll die from their own inability. But it means everything I love most about this place will die too. So much that was beautiful about being human is gone already though. Anyway those are the kind of thoughts I get from shows like that. I'm opposed in my heart and soul to the minds behind it, the morality behind it, I don't care if it was made especially for me or for the whole of America. It's evil and far more disgusting than all but the worst pornography. It elevates treachery and lies, after they've happened, when they're invisible. Because of course when there's no longer any reason to be treacherous there isn't any treachery, when there's no one important enough to lie to, there aren't any reasons to lie. I took so much damage it would have taken the last thirty years to heal, if I had had that time, but I didn't. It's over now. There's only one way through this, and in that this show was comforting to see. }
posted by Juke at 11:12 PM [edit]

{twice recently I've come across comments on the 'public' aspects of this, this blogging thing, one I forget who it was, delivered that 'the internet never forgets so be careful what you put out there' trope, and the other was some kerfluffle involving Scripting News, and someone with a grudge against Dave Winer, whose blog that is. these are green room tics from people who are just now getting the hit of this mass mind-meld that's taking place. it's as though Scientology had suddenly become a viable political party. as though Trekkies had taken over all the cable companies in America. weird and/or creepy, with a cartoonish foundation. but it's real. I guarantee you, at least for the near future, if you show up on anybody's radar with any kind of weight, you will have no privacy, no certainty of it, not even a reasonable certainty of it not here, not online, and not within earshot of most modern communications appliances. the feeling that gives me, and I'm speaking from so outside it I might as well be commenting on some Martian news hour, is real close to what I ran into a few times in the mid and late 70's. these college kids who had de-socialized through whatever means, and then re-socialized themselves in strange little clots of ahistoric novelty, pastless and politically correct. novum hominum. whatever. but back then it was here-and-there and a very minor blip, a small phenomenon. now it's Lord of The Flies with broadband. many people yet have optimism around this, that we can mature into the responsibilities inherent in power like that, the responsibilities of the power of unlimited observation, but I'm disheartened, nauseated by it. not for what it threatens me with, that's the subtext here, I haven't had more than a few sessions at a keyboard anywhere online that was clear and private, solo, and the last time was the morning of September 11, 2001, when the auditors were too busy watching other things.
so you can see I might have ambivalent feelings about a lot of these issues. not about self-censoring though. I publish certain things here, and at a couple of other blogs, and I edit them a little afterward, mostly grammar and clarity stuff. I have rules about that that evolve as I go along. I don't have any illusions that anything I do is private. anything I look at, anything I read or watch here, is done knowing there's someone else there watching too, someone I despise at best, all mixed in with 'innocent' children who have no business being here. and of course it affects what I do, but that's the defiance, not pretending exactly, but carrying on as though there was no one evalutating every word I type before I send it, reading each email, examining each web site I go to, and all the invisible work involved in attaining whatever it is the goals of all that are. so at the same time I'm writing as though the surface reality was all there is, that this is being written in a little snap-in created by the Blogspot crew, and that I'm writing it in privacy at home, and at the same time knowing and especially feeling the slimy fingers of prying inferior consciousnesses all over it. and some of the things I do are nothing but a response to that. I'm sure there are ways through all this that would be more fun, but I've made my choice, made it a long time ago, willingly sacrificed a lot of what I was rather than see it used by what was going to take it by force if it wasn't given.}
posted by Juke at 2:59 PM [edit]

imagine Jonathan Frantzen. and Oprah and the Book Club. so that the 'Book Club' had all this power over Frantzen's book, sales, reputation and something harder to define. and then Frantzen rejected it. let it be known he despised it. and it began the slow process of mobilizing its outrage and he began to realize how powerful it was and began to backpeddle, though calmly and in a dignified manner.
and Oprah had that power, not by herself but because of the people who watch her show. that's a 'god' there. in its infancy. it creeps me out so bad I can't stand it.
ok
imagine waking up every day to a life that that 'god' was in. was there when you woke up. every day. in its infant unknowingness and all-powerfulness and neediness and all of that. and the way your book sales could turn to millions at the whim of 'it'. all that power over your life though not your book not something external, your being. your survival, the survival of your self, your inner being becoming one thing or another according to 'its' appetite for or disgust with or concern about or anger at or any of the thousand response shadings of that infant thing. and think how you'd really feel about that. how trying to get away from it would make it hate you. how that hatred would feed back on itself in you, how frustrating would it be? and what would you do with that frustration? who would you go to? what would you say? imagine that power all concentrated in people who knew only what Oprah told them or what someone else told them. imagine your fate in the hands of that 'god'.
sometimes I think I'm enduring more frustration for the sustained amount of time I'm doing it, than any other human ever has .
and oh yeah
and then imagine another crowd entirely, like guys in the county jail, guys who don't even read, but watch out of boredom or some low-level sadism, just because there's nothing else on. watch you live your life under the mindless loving eye of that infant deity, that 'god' that has no past, no history, no sense of guilt or complicity, no sense that its existence might be a gambit from another larger, more invisible hand.
frustrating? a little?
and then these little boy scouts with just enough back story to feel heroic when they spit in your face.
living like that is compromise, and seeking death to escape that is compromise. and those are basically the only two choices available.
so yes well I am, a little, frustrated. yes.
I am.

posted by Juke at 3:14 PM [edit]

up
posted by Juke at 7:07 PM [edit]

{I wanted to get this down while it was still relatively fresh.
back in the day I used to wonder and fret a lot about the incredibly severe proscriptions around herb. weed. marijuana. the taboos and cruel punishments for what was basically, or seemed to be, a euphoric toxin of the strength and danger level of beer.
then today it occurred to me that it was the criminality itself. by keeping it seriously illegal they opened up a wealth of manipulative possibilities. especially in the early days of the American Cultural Revolution, or whatever you want to call that period of time between 1963 and 1973.
by keeping it illegal, and at the same time allowing or even encouraging its underground growth, they created a population of coercible recruits. and it was among the so-called 'early adopters' the experimentals, the pioneer children, those guys. intelligent kids.
so bingo, 'you're busted! but hey if you want to co-operate, maybe just keep us 'informed' you know...', or 'we have these "classes" you can take.'
who knows really. but think about it. fairly innocent sheltered privileged kids slammed from Friday night parties onto the threshold of 15 year prison sentences, and it's the law, the 'agency' involved could almost seem helpful, sympathetic, concerned, offering alternatives, ways out of the maze, a chance to make it through, to have a life, after you lost the other one.[my own 'case' was of course substantially different, I wasn't busted for herb until the early 80's, after it had long become clear I wasn't capable of collaboration]}

posted by Juke at 8:56 AM [edit]

{I tried a few times over the years to catch these bits and pieces of memories as they bubbled up, but it was a difficult thing for many reasons not all of them known to me. notebooks would disappear, reappear without pages I thought were there, often it was my mind that was hiding things, sometimes it wasn't. always it felt like anything I wrote was being read. I've felt the presence for years of a consciousness that would cut into the brain of a living chimpanzee to further its own interests, certainly a mind like that wouldn't hesitate to violate the privacy of another human being.
I don't want to do a long piece here I want to get down two fragments of memory while Ihave them, it's not prophecy or preaching it's me trying to heal myself while being attacked and something I don't know what to call....swarmed?... how's that for the insistent crowding in upon of people who don't see you as an individual with a right and a need for privacy, but rather something they own, something that's 'theirs'?
so, I was riding my bike down the hill on Mill Street as it drops down by Mission High School, and suddenly I was on the ground, a car sped off, I got up and rode home shaken and something else but I can't get to it now. later my Mom took me to the doctor because I had gotten a 'puncture' wound. the problem was I didn't have anything broken on the bike that would have made that small hole, small deep hole in my leg. the doctor as I remember it, asked me if I'd been in some kind of trouble. the problem with this memory and many like it is someone else has been in here before this, before this surfacing time, someone broke in here, back in the 70's I think, though of course I have no way of knowing, and I think also someone has been in here before, that I admitted, but it's the forcing I remember most clearly, murky as it is, the scorn at the memories for which my heart was so achingly longing, the healing touch of being understood.
so that's pretty much it, I think it was a bullet wound, small caliber. I was maybe ten maybe twelve probably eleven.
the other one is undebatable. sorry guys, but this one is real for sure. another doctor. the interesting thing here is the hellish employment I have now requires me to deliver bread to people, not all obviously, some of them are decent hardworking regular folks, but some are the kind of half-kinky jerks who are sadistic to those who they feel can't avoid their sadism, I think this is common in the workplace, the idea being if you were the kind of person who wouldn't put up with it you wouldn't put up with the job you have. so one of the customers I deliver to is especially unpleasant, and is i believe either married to or employed by the daughter of a doctor who was my pediatrician when I was young. I don't think it was the same one who took the slug out of my leg, though. this one was giving me a checkup and during it while I was on the examining table he had me expose my genitals which he 'tickled' fairly roughly, I could feel the urgency, the disregard for me as an individual personality,as though I wasn't really there, and the hard surface of his soul boring in as he did it. I don't think I told my mom about it, I may have told my aunt about it, but she was a little non-acceptable, outside the fence, about sexual things herself. anyway, Doctor Tedone if you're still out there I'd like to say thanks, for that little extra weirdness that made it just that much more difficult to get through all this shit, because of course children who've been discredited, or coerced into silence, are unsure of themselves about things like this, things like what I'm writing here, things that aren't readily believed by others, you know?

next time maybe I'll talk about the wonderful fire ant experience at Camp Pico Blanco. }

{somewhere in there I had this presence phenomenon, but it could be just an echo, that woman, the actress who played Mary in Spielberg's 'The Taken'. just watching, I think wondering, a presence without real prejudice, sceptical, reluctant to let go the ties that keep her fixed in the material, without guarantees of safety. but you know it could have just been an echo, she was so good, they all were, but she was inspirationally artful. really the finest acting I've ever seen on TV I think, and brilliant shading, brilliant nuance. and sexy. real sexy. it hurts, she was so good.}
{probably my mind is playing tricks on itself, on me, or I'm doing it, or maybe it's true maybe I should trust what I feel, it isn't just me. it's real. so I am trying, near tears, and I hate that so much, it's so hard to get real emotions under these circumstances but I hear you insisting, and I will, I am, that's what this return is, grief so close, and trying, it's so easy to give up, and I know you know, and I feel that forgiveness from you, or not forgiveness but insistence, going on, I am. because of you right now, a little coaching, and as it continues because of all of us, but your love was there so strong, a little team, a big team, a huge team, and in the middle if it a little team, and a captain, you, sort of, the reason why. ok. you win. I'm trying. and trying not to whine about it. let's go.}
posted by Juke at 9:55 PM [edit]

{what I was trying to say below is that I really really resent the way people have been taught to demand brevity and clarity above all things, when it's so obvious that anyone coming out of the weirdo programs and death camps of the fascist pyramid-builders is going to be a little or a lot dingy, difficult, and probably not too coherent. it's about the truth as merely more entertainment. if it takes work to get to, if it's difficult to read, fuck it, I don't have time for that shit. so that the real heroes of these past decades were laughed at, even as they were hounded into oblivion. and as always, I'm not copping that for myself. I live in the boundary. on the line. right there between the best and the worst. of both, of neither. but I do know what it's like. a lot better than most people do.}
posted by Juke at 2:36 PM [edit]

{one of the least enjoyable aspects of this public explication is knowing how much bitter criticism it generates in the minds and hearts of people who are still so dominantly present that to revile them, as my heart demands constantly, is to risk losing any further chance at thwarting them. it's like fighting an infant, one whose mind is wired directly to nuclear warheads, but whose grasp of reality is still unformed, whose emotions are still too shapeless, for it to be able to reason. and it's like being attacked by the members of the audience at an Oprah Winfrey show, thousands of well-fed well-intentioned people who haven't got the slightest sense of where they really are or what is really happening around them. and like the infant they demand to be fed, without reasoning, without a rational justifying, the simple cry for existence of any being, especially the new-born. and then to feel the demand by that opposing force for my reasoning to be faultless, when I bear daily the results of years of poison, the blank holes in memory and mind from too many blows from too many unseen hands, and the thousands of self-inflicted temporary blindnesses, and their accumulations. so out of that I'm supposed to be a constant voice of reason. my teeth are grinding as I write this, the rage I feel makes me speechless, but I had to create a false self early on, a mask to offer the men gathered round the chair, and it went as deep as they did. so I can almost at will portray a relatively logical, relatively humane persona. humane in the sense of wanting things to be nice. the way teenage girls get when they see hungry kittens, or starving Africans. wanting it to be nice. and especially not wanting to think through to the larger picture of thousands and thousands of well-fed cats, or billions and billions of well-fed humans. nice. really the healthiest thing is to never think about things like that. but I do, all the time. what should be done? what CAN be done? what would be best? where did it come from? why is it like this? most of those questions are frustratingly difficult to explore, some of them are frighteningly easy to answer. the energy they consume is immense, and at the same time my life is threatened, daily, by the ignorance and superstition and bloodlust for revenge that surrounds me. so I'm mad, in an eighteenth century sense, crazy in a 20 th century sense, post-traumatic in the jargon of my genereation, and every moment of my life now is a locked combat of the urge to welcome annihilation and the urge to vindicate the love that held me long enough to get this far. these are not small easily resolved conflicts. the miracle to me is that I can make any sense at all. and the idea that this is taking place within an arena of complete control, though not predictable in its outcome, that I am strung with the insane rags of myth and superstition and cowardly fantasy, all the while trying to shake off induced lies and delusions, and at the same time the external world hurtles toward nightmarish destruction. well I'd just like to say hey! to all that. hey, fuckhead, how dare you demand consistency in writing that you aren't capable of judging to begin with, except as it helps or hinders your own survival, which is really what all this is about to begin with, survival, in a world and time that are hourly showing more evidence of having been thoroughly sabotaged. well, hey!}
posted by Juke at 2:31 PM [edit]

{we know these things. no one can be made to do anything they don't really want to do. no one can be hypnotised to do anything more immoral than crow like a rooster or pour a glass of water on themselves. but of course we don't know those things. what I've tried to do here is leave a record of what I've remembered as my life drew to a close. and I've tried to hold back the hunger for revenge that is my constant companion. some of this has led me to an understanding of present circumstances I wish I didn't have. an unimaginably vast audience with instantaneous access and absolutely no memory or depth of understanding. my position is that the technical means of controlling behavior is the most jealously guarded secret anywhere at any time, that that technology is obviously more advanced than it's ever been should not need saying, but it does because we've been raised in the dark, where this filth grows best. it's almost impossible for me to think about these things much less write about them coherently, and still less with the psychic jism of the monitors sliding down my throat. I'll try briefly to set down my main points,
a. the technology of behavior modification was advanced astronomically in the camps of Nazi germany. for the first time in history soulless conscienceless 'scientists' had a pool of human subjects that numbered in the millions.
b. the results of the 'research' that was carried out in that time was never made public, but it was snapped up immediately at the end of the 2nd world war. as in a much smaller version, the results of the Japanese experiments on human beings was gathered up in Asia, at the end of that segment of the war. that was over 50 years ago.
c. some of those records ended up in Russia, which had during the 50's and 60's a huge virtually impregnable apparatus for the control and manipulation of its citizens. but most of it ended up in 'the West' primarily the US.
d. at the same time that this research was being 'processed' or whatever the fuck subhumans do with that kind of shit, the US was in the grip of anti-communist hysteria, which resulted in a great deal of restructuring of society in subtle and not-so subtle ways. I can't bring enough energy to this aspect of the whole thing. the essential point is alien life-forms like JEdgar Hoover were given virtually unlimited power, there were many others not so visible.
e. profiles were established, and a cataloging of sorts implemented. especially in the public schools of the 50's and 60's. the idea that the 'men' who would implement this technology would submit to anything like an accounting process, is laughable. so whatever it was however it was done except in a few exceptional areas is pure conjecture by people like me, who have had to turn to this subject for an explanation for otherwise mysterious events in their lives.
f. there is an aspect to my being that I'm still not ready to submit here as accurate and complete description, that made me of interest not just to the guard dogs of democracy, for my intelligence and leadership qualities, my unpredictable and rebellious qualities, my defiance and my 'deviance', but also something so rare as to be almost mythical, though I believe without any documentation I can point to, that it is not nearly as rare as people would like to think, and that there were again 'scientists' who were aware of that, and sought children like me for those attributes, that attribute, we shared, due to an accident of birth, beyond any cultural or environmental shaping.
g. it is my contention that by the time I was a senior in high school it had become obvious that I was not going to be a willing participant in anything that these necessarily unnamed 'men' were doing, I can't name them because I don't know anything about them. that because it became obvious, because my attitude then was, as it is now, accurately summed up in the phrase 'FUCK YOU', I was the...what?...target? subject? I don't really give a damn how you think of it. that's the big irony for me. I finally found a way and a means to communicate this stuff, to puke it all out-truth and madness, and at the same time as each day passes I care less and less about any of it. there are bodies, deaths, griefs, horrors no one could describe without becoming something other than human, and I don't care anymore if any of it sees the light of day. of course I'd like the truth to be known, what's left of my emotional nature would still respond to healing. but it's too late now, for that love I had, for that promise we shared, and there's no one there, she's gone I think. so this is knee-jerk, fitful spite, I don't know. I know that my life was taken, even as I was allowed to continue to go about the world, bouncing from one blindsiding punch to another, and contrary to what the scumfucks on the monitor hope to be the case, taken before I was 18, yes, before that one bulletproof accusation could be made. by the time that happened I was a corpse. it's the nature of people like me to have more than one self to offer the interrogators. that was our value, that was our status among the pool of subjects. there was more, there is more, but that's enough for now. I think what you're hoping for is a kind of remorse on my part, a showing of guilt and remorse, though I think what you really want is what you think you have now, someone running from a simple dark truth, that with your limited vocabulary and your pitiful abilities you could remind and watch with glee the guilt and horror sweep across his face. sorry. not me. I live every day with more guilt and horror than you could ever bring me, and as heavy as that burden is, my accusations are heavier. no not you. you're a dog for the ones I accuse. you mean nothing to me, even as you take away my last fantasies of hope and rescue. it's like being killed by a dog. it's your masters I accuse. so let this be only a recognition. yes I see you. I hear you. I know why you do what you do to me. but be clear now. it means nothing to me. you're fools, in the fullest sense of that word. I have a capacity for guilt and remorse that would shame the best among you. but that can't come until this other, these other matters are clear and dealt with, until those guilts, that remorse is here too, and in the cases of the now dead perpetrators, a recognition of that guilt on your part, yes you, reading this, with your conviction of what is, convinced because you've been led two levels in and shown a place to stop, where there are no more doors, and your innate cowardice and lack of soul and your feeble imagination makes it so much more comfortable to stop there.}
posted by Juke at 12:26 PM [edit]

this will be the hardest thing I've written so far. and my intention now is only to begin. I'm not sure as I start whether to make an outline or begin with details and let it take shape as I go. I guess the latter. the only background I can give is sketchy and incomplete I write this more for the few who have some idea what I'm talking about already this is not for a general readership not for the scummy little boy scouts who monitor this as a way of protecting their scummy little boy scout segments of the gene pool. people who have some idea. whoever that is.
I remember being in a trance state. some kind of inbetween thing whre consciousness was there enough to allow the memory to stick but somehow get access to a deeper part? I don't really know but I remember talking about this memory. in my 20's somewhere.
I was maybe 5. in Ione. just this morning I realized why that was key. Ione. my father was working at Preston. the CYA facility there. California Youth Authority. a prison for boys. the most disposable, the highest concentration of disposable children in the country. two memories really. one that is tangential was being at Preston. a vivid image of a salad in the cafeteria. huge chef's salad. with ham and cheese and turkey all piled on. and scary vibes. it's a long way back in time but still vivid. I remember talking to my father about it, later in my 30's, and his saying that he never took me there, that he wouldn't have for the life of him. but I remember being there. vividly.
and the real one. all I can get to now. an unfinished room, like an attic, exposed studs wood floors like planks or something, other boys there, grown men, thin body types, I can't recall much of anything about it, but at one point what I remembered was an image held as an image of a rabbit being skinned or gutted and screaming an incredible screaming and a stench of overpowering strength. nauseating stink. the two possibilities are of course that somehow I had ended up in a room with some men, there were more than one or two men there, and some other boys, and they killed and skinned a rabbit altho what the fuck any country people would be doing in a town like Ione small rural village really doing that indoors is a weirder and more unexplainable mystery than what I'm proposing. Mengele documented the effect of close-proximity trauma on young subjects, documented it dude, you can stand with us, or stand with them, there is no longer any ground in the middle.
but what I remember most was the psychic vibe of pleasure from the men around me at the horror and its effects on the boys and I was watching watching from a distance and I remember being sneered at later in that trance state, a bogus memory they were sure whoever they were and overlaying that or underneath that a desperate man kind and trying to get me to remember more deeper and this morning I realized. of course. Preston. look for the clusters around places where there were populations of disposable children. kids who could vanish from the system and leave the least amount of trace. Carlyle. that's why the drones those similar recognizable body types half-breeds two or three generations in, the coloring the hair the strength and the complete severing from any prior culture these were boys raised in total cultural isolation I'm sure of it now. servants.
I remember later and it's because I'm down here now close to the original sites of some of this, I remember my cousin taking me out to a barn in Edna I think it was and I remember freaking out and not wanting to go in there, and comfort, and loving who it was that was comforting me, and of course I don't know for sure about any of this, and the liberating thing for me now is every day I care less and less for my personal redemption, vindication any of that, but there are others out there, this is what I remind myself of, what I'm reminded of constantly, and again I remember her telling me about being in NPI, the neuro-psych wing of Westwood, and again a disposable population of children and even more conveniently a budget an institution laboratory conditions and the Igor-level submission of psych students, yes master, yes master, and the huge inertia of the mass, no one to tell, no one not involved already who has the vocabulary, who wouldn't run frantically away,the mainstream resistance to anything truly occult and arcane, anything that isn't all Disney-witches and Anne Rice vampires, and what perfect cover that provides, still.
posted by Juke at 1:05 PM [edit]

{Sam Smith's Progressive linked to the wsws.org on this topic, Project Artichoke etc. only he .com'ed it instead of .org'ing it. so for what it's worth or FWIW as they say here's the Frank Olson site, run by his son, and now I'm off through the archives
now I'm back with:
}Nebel was the Art Bell of his day, and his all-night radio show had an audience of several millions, but that night, his mind was not on Watergate or Vietnam. He had just married a woman whose face had graced the covers of 11 major national magazines in a single month in 1943. During the Pacific campaign in World War II, photos of Candy in a white polka-dot bathing suit adorned the interiors of ships, tanks, and foxholes.

It had been a lightning courtship – barely 28 days – so Nebel did not know his wife all that well. During the reception, he noticed a curious change come over her; within a very short time, she lost all her natural charm and exuberance. Her voice changed to that of another woman entirely and her normally fluid posture stiffened. Dining in the Ho Ho Chinese restaurant later that evening, Nebel noticed the transformation again; it was as if she were uncomfortable with the Chinese decor, wall-mirrors and candles.

While preparing for bed, Candy began speaking again in the voice Nebel had heard earlier. Even more alarming, this strange personality within Candy had a completely different attitude towards him; ‘she’ sounded cruel, mocking and cold. When Nebel asked her about it, Candy was astonished; she hadn’t noticed the emergence of another voice or personality
___________
{then this:
}Curiously, "remote viewing" was an old story, first reported by Anderson himself on 23 April 1984. Other Anderson columns of U.S. and Soviet interest in psychic research date back to 1981. Anderson's October 29 update reported that this project, which for a time was contracted out to the Stanford Research Institute (SRI), had been scaled back and put under Pentagon sponsorship, but nevertheless continued. Although the results of these experiments were reportedly mixed, the project retains its defenders in Congress: Sen. Claiborne Pell (D-RI) and Rep. Charlie Rose (D-NC). By 1995, Anderson didn't have an opinion on the merits of this research, but his 1984 column was supportive. On Nightline, former CIA director Robert Gates implied that pressure from members of Congress drove the CIA's original involvement.

Another of Ted Koppel's CIA guests, identified only as "Norm," was a technical advisor for CIA deputy director John McMahon and, until 1984, a coordinator for the SRI tests. "Norm" did mention the "eight-martini" results from some experiments; this was an in-house term for remote- viewing results so uncannily successful that observers needed eight martinis to recover. Still, the general impression from Koppel's show was dismissive. Only about "fifteen percent" of the experiments, panelists repeated, produced accurate results. Gates argued that such research, if undertaken at all, belongs in the academy.
________
{and this:
}Abducted with the ‘consent by proxy’ of their parents, Lynn and Cheryl Hersha (aged four and six) are put through a monstrous regimen of torture and experimentation (which, oddly, mirrors the conceit of Paul Anderson’s 1998 sci-fi movie Soldier, starring Kurt Russell). The long-term aim of this dehumanisation is to produce adults with ‘designer’ Multiple Personality Disorder, who will unwittingly serve as assassins and spies – the ‘Secret Weapons’ of the title.
__________
and this scholarly collection:
The beginning point for research in this area should be with the material generated by various congressional hearings in the 1975-1977 timeframe. The items immediately below are particularly relevant.
___________
{from there we go to Canada and a clear and concise gathering of unpleasant facts from the Church of Scientology's activists:
}The Canadian Psychiatric Association has put out some disinformation that has been pretty well ‘bought’ by the Canadian public,” said psychiatrist Colin Ross, author of Bluebird: Deliberate Creation of Multiple Personality by Psychiatrists, in an interview on radio station CKLN in Toronto. “That is that Ewen Cameron was just an isolated incident, it happened a long time ago back in the ‘50s... there were sort of different ethical standards back then.

“Well, that’s not true because that research completely violated the ethical standards of the time, but also it wasn’t an isolated incident.”

Cameron was not the only one receiving intelligence funding, at McGill and at other locations. Documents have revealed, for example, that Raymond Prince was funded at McGill through an MK ULTRA subproject; others received funding through Canada’s Defense Research Board.

Cameron’s MK ULTRA money ultimately came from the U.S. Department of Health, Education and Welfare and the U.S. Department of Defense; the funds were channeled by the CIA through a front group known as the Human Ecology Fund
___________
{and a slight tangent, though relevant:
}Of course I was hoping that incest memory was a one-time isolated incident. But the memories continued - and they were not nightmares. I was wide awake. I was also 44 years old. That is not a coincidence. Most multiples, by the time they realize they are multiples, are between the ages of 35 and 45. There’s a physiological reason for that. As we age, the brain begins to be less able to hold in the secrets - or it could be described as the eroding of the amnesic protection. So until we recognize we are multiple, we are actually amnesia victims. Therein lies a Catch-22. How do you know you have amnesia if you have amnesia?
____________
{back to the scientologists:
} The broad strokes are these: wife of an army intelligence officer, the woman had been drugged, electro-shocked and hypnotized in a willful effort at behavioral control—mind control as we know it today, pain-drug-hypnosis (PDH) as Ron would term it. As another relevant word, it might be mentioned that this pain-drug-hypnosis would finally claim several hundred victims from the periphery of the American intelligence community, allegedly including World War II pinup girl Candy Jones and Robert Kennedy assassin Sirhan Sirhan. That Dianetics proved the only effective antidote to the process would prove significant on several accounts, and especially as regards later federal scrutiny of LRH and his organization. But more to the immediate point was the greater pattern of abuse revealed through succeeding cases encountered between June of 1950 and the spring of 1951.

In hindsight, of course, we now recognize the footprints of a highly extensive psychiatric-intelligence effort to devise a means of dominating human will. Variously conducted under code names Bluebird, Chatter, Artichoke and the MKULTRA umbrella, federal mind-control programs finally involved the testing of psychotropic compounds on several thousand United States citizens.
_______________
{so.
a wealth of links in just 20 minutes or so digging. I tried to filter the obviously ungoverned. a thing to keep in mind is that anything way out of the ordinary is camoflaged by that, people are easily turned away by the irrational and desperate, especially when it has no resolve, only that broken spring pleading, the crippled mind seeking validation for something, anything, so that along with a few surreptitious obfuscatory additions to the fringe files, the cattle mutilations etc., not only are the records destroyed on one hand but the possibility of an unbiased hearing is gone too.
elsewhere I wrote a piece about a woman I encountered in Sonoma County back in the 80's. distraught unglamorous middle-aged, she had written all over her white car in black marking pen. I mean ALL over it. it was difficult to read. the smugness that engenders is virtually automatic in anyone. including me. wing nut, with wheels. it had words like CIA and other stuff. I laughed it off. later I thought about it.
where would you go? where could you go? who could help you? what would you tell them? how could you tell them anything?
in the 7th grade I burned through a reading series of 'special tests' and got heavily rewarded for how well I did. I don't remember much about them, but for years, really still, there was/is this hunger for more, the bright future the colorful path opening, and that sense of guidance from a superior loving intelligence. the tests were designed by something called 'SRI'.
about 6 or 7 years ago I started to 'remember' things that were difficult and unpleasant. some of them extremely so. but persevering has given me a kind of depth, a self-knowing I hadn't felt before in my adult life. I have a lot of questions about stuff, but no one to ask. and the world is getting too close to its flashpoint for my personal quest to take precedent. but I thought I'd swing through this and see what came up.}
posted by Juke at 4:51 AM [edit]

the image I have, have always had really, it goes way back, it was the first edge of knowing, so hard, so illusionless, just the chickens in the farmyard, and the way they peck to death any other chicken with blood on it. it's just the way they are, no big deal. unless you're a chicken with blood on it. the non-savage, non-cruel, just absolutely cold way it is. a lot of people live there, not in the farmyard but in a world that has nothing but the illusion of kindness, selfish drive behind anything like compassion, romance just the genes driving forward, all seeming acts of charity or selflessness just more complex versions of the same greedy shit. so I have that picture in my mind, the head of Mangas on a pole in the zocalo. again no big deal unless you're a Chiracauhua Apache, or a sympathizer or something. but that mass that gantlet of ignorance and gleeful cruelty. well that's what it's all about.
most of the time I think it's about not breaking down, because what's there is a prayer for fire, for the complete annihilation of the faces along the way. and that's what in calmer moments I think this was, an effort on the part of whatever it is that runs this hellhole to get someone else to take the blame, so if I break, if I pray, and by prayer I mean bend my will toward that end, then I become the cause or one of the causes, I get to have my name on it. that may be hard for someone outside of all this to see.
so a couple weeks ago, or maybe just one or so, anyway it was a Saturday, yeah a week ago, it seems longer because so much has happened since. I took a load of firewood up to one of neighbors. a load that would fit in my car. because they've been kind over the years I've known them, and he had made overtures of that kind of guy friendship that's safe and reserved, common interests, the barbecue, some beer, maybe a couple of shots at the end of the evening, some herb. loud music and computer games or who knows what, he made the offer I made some noises like I'd be up, never showed, it feels false, it always has, I go through the motions and regret it, feel responsible for the souls of people I can't see any way to help. and don't feel a connection at the level I need it to be at. so it's about some kind of sacrifice, codependency, whatever it is it doesn't work for me. so then there's guilt. these guys are all relatively decent, more or less, at least they're not fully committed to depravity and evil. but it isn't enough for me. so I live in this twilight world, of the monologue when no one's there. which would have led straight to the nut house except that over the years I built up enough high grade material that it became obvious there's something else going on. so that's where I really live, and no one can meet me there, so then it's a condemnation, and all of it the finding out, the screaming in pain, the bitter humor, the music the poetry, all of it takes place at the edge of giving in, the surrender to the evil this world is filled with, or worse, the mediocre delusions, the better among them hide behind. so I ended up trying to do this simple easy logic stuff, to prove why this shit has happened, it's about hey, I had this going on in spades when I was a teenager, you don't think they had scouts? like basketball is more important than what? the safety of the kingdom? whatever it's called. that became the main thing, the demonstration, here. I have this ability. and all I'm asking you to take on faith is that I had it much more strongly before all the nerve damage and post-traumatic stress, and that I was obviously never going to be a party-line boy. so my point, which I think I've made about as clearly as it can be, is they hit me, hard , and continued to until something happened, whether it was they felt I'd been beaten down far enough or somebody stepped in, or what it was I don't know, I don't even know what happened, I just have too many memories that line up too well for me to buy the idea I've made it up out of whole cloth. but here's the real kick, I don't care anymore. there's nothing anyone can do for me now, that would make it even near alright. and aside from actual physical pain and intimidation there's nothing anyone can threaten me with, everything has been taken away from me. including any love I had for the human endeavor. that woody guthrie feeling, that big group loyalty. I can get it intellectually but my heart is cold now.
so I had to go up the hill, to get my anti-virus CD, at a different neighbors, and I thought I'd hit the neighbor I mentioned, see if he had any PC100 memory sticks around that he had no need of, he had a bunch of old computer parts lying around last time I was there, I took a couple, which he knew I guess, maybe I should have left a note or something, I had to do a lot in the next 24 hours because I was heading down here, and didn't know when or for long I'd be back. anyway what I'm trying to establish there is my state of mind, which I'm real clear about, straightforward and no ulterior bullshit. so I get there and there's I think 7 cars there but no one's answering the door, I checked around the back no one. so I unloaded the firewood I brought, and was looking through some old hardware chips and modems and whatnot that he had outside and I hear the generator start up. so I go down toward it, and it's their daughter, she's maybe 14 or so now, but fully developed, and weird attitude, lame and vicious, I used to think he was maybe using her sexually, the wife/mom has a history of that in her family, she herself was abused that way, so it wasn't beyond the possible she had replicated her home life, but it's not a thing that calls from her, I don't feel that from her, that sense of violation, there's power and a strange kind of otherworldly depth. so that in theory, at a distance there's concern, but there's much more empathy in me for her sister who she treats cruelly and violently, than for her. anyway the kid is walking toward the house, I said hi but she was doing that dead affect thing, I asked her if she hadn't heard me, but it was dead affect time all the way, which is deeply insulting, but it's ok to insult certain people at certain times according to the way things are now, like it's ok to insult homeless people, but not people in expensive clothes, so she continues walking toward the house and the whole time in the back of my mind I'm measuring the intensity and danger of the situation, how easily little chumps like Switzer could shift this thing around to fit what they wanted to find, what they found, what they wanted to have me be. and of course that interior state is never public, it has to be spoken or written as here, and rather than defend myself against what is more and more obviously a deeply rooted spiritual incompetence, thrashing against its own chains and shackles, I really feel more and more like saying 'fuck it. let's just take the whole thing down.' which is how I started this rap isn't it.
so I started to become irritated by her insulting behavior, and the circumstances, and the whole thing generally, people don't realize most of them how bitter compassion becomes when it goes unrecognized so completely. then it goes away. so I said something like where's your folks, she said they went to the dump, I said 'well tell your Dad I came by ok?' and she mumbled something. and I asked her how she was doing and she didn't say a word. so into that malicious silence I said 'that good huh?' and the whole time this is taking place I'm walking back toward my car half turned away from her, and she's walking toward the house sort of at 30 degree angle away from where the car is. and that was pretty much that.
later on I realized the wife/mom had said they'd be home but I could call. and I hadn't because I was going up that way anyway and wanted to drop off the wood whether they were home or not, my main point here is I never thought about whether the girl would be there, alone especially, and if I had known I wouldn't have gone near the place. but almost immediately irealized how perfectly that would play into the hands of someone who wanted to run that judgement on me. I am intensely aware of how many fools are breathing down my neck now, at all times, these are simple ignorant brutal minds, there is nothing subtle about them, it's like the smell of a wet dog, psychically it's unmistakable. the same thing happens on the net, when I look at porn of any kind, when there's a picture of a kid, especially a young girl, and the idea that that is happening is not something I am at all interested in establishing with anyone who doesn't have it already. I don't need acceptance at that level. but of course you don't think that through do you? what would happen if I did prove it? hmm? you think I'd get any privacy after that? hmmm? I don't care anymore. that's the thing people won't understand too easily. it's too late. too much of what I loved is no longer possible for me. it's been taken and it can't be returned.
so just now I called up to that same neighbor's because he gave me a bootleg OS that I couldn't get to setup w/out a product key. so I called him to see about that, and his wife answered and where she is usually warm and friendly she was tight and not warm at all. and then he was the same, what they used to call 'not forthcoming' so after a couple of pokes at that to measure it out, I got the skinny on the OS, said goodbye and hung up the phone, and thought well here we go again. only this time unlike twenty years ago, I no longer have the burden of the conflict, in those days I was torn between the fullhearted love of what it was to be human, all of it, the innocence and beauty of the great chain of human being, between that and the immediate hell of ignorant viciousness, the wasps stinging, the chump thug threats and bestial ignorance of the common mind. I don't have that burden now. I realized the other morning when I was thinking about how easily the old poison exhaust scam could be run on me now that I've got a predictable course through the day, and I thought to myself how freeing it was not to care anymore.
but that's the task as they say. to care in spite of that. that's what Dylan did for me, through his work, the recognition, and the personal statement, the despair, the continuing. so I'm continuing. and though I don't care, not in the sense that I have emotions that are loving, at the same time I haven't surrendered to the desire for revenge. I do have fantasies of course. people like Switzer who have obviously gone so far toward stabbing me in the back, and smiled that sick little chump smile to my face, copping the interrogator's power on me, those authoritarian moves that anyone who's been broken in those rooms is helpless under, that does build hatred, and that hatred never leaves, but the job is to fight it, not pretend it doesn't exist, but fight it, keep it from dominating the residue of love, the old innocent songs of hope and promise, things I know now only as memory.
so I wanted to get this down while I had a little time, and while the fire of it, the pain and worry of it were fresh, because there's always things that come up, and tomorrow's burden's won't be the same as today's. though I'm sure today's will be there still.
so it's surface form is social, moral, psychological. but the truth is mostly it's magic. it's really about midlevel wizards flourishing in the absence of their betters, the way sports fans scream for the blood of Saddam Hussein, knowing nothing about him but what they're told by the invisible warlocks who build that hatred in them like a spell. so that the real power here gets its business done for it by unconscious proxy, and although talk of magic has yet to be socially acceptable, that is what it is, but if it helps, think of it as the politics of the unseen, or the gangster rules of the spirit world.
posted by Juke at 7:37 PM [edit]

Prayer, said Mechthild of Magdeburg, brings together two lovers, God and the soul, in a narrow room where they speak much of love: and here the rules which govern that meeting are laid down by a master's hand. "When thou comest by thyself," he says, "think not before what thou shalt do after, but forsake as well good thoughts as evil thoughts, and pray not with thy mouth but list thee right well. And then if thou aught shalt say, look not how much nor how little that it be, nor weigh not what it is nor what it bemeaneth . . . and look that nothing live in thy working mind but a naked intent stretching into God, not clothed in any special thought of God in Himself. . . . This naked intent freely fastened and grounded in very belief shall be nought else to thy thought and to thy feeling but a naked thought and a blind feeling of thine own being: as if thou saidest thus unto God, within in thy meaning,
`That what I am, Lord, I offer unto Thee, without any looking to any quality of Thy Being, but only that Thou art as Thou art, without any more.' That meek darkness be thy mirror, and thy whole remembrance. Think no further of thyself than I bid thee do of thy God, so that thou be one with Him in spirit, as thus without departing and scattering, for He is thy being, and in Him thou art that thou art; not only by cause and by being, but also, He is in thee both thy cause and thy being. And therefore think on God in this work as thou dost on thyself, and on thyself as thou dost on God: that He is as He is and thou art as thou art, and that thy thought be not scattered nor departed, but proved in Him that is All."
posted by Juke at 7:34 PM [edit]

dream 5—6—02
right at the corner. on the corner. in the intersection. kitty corner. driving a 67 blue bug. passenger door's slightly open broken whatever this girl/boy female feminine but with male vibes too bends down to look like a hooker checking for a cop or something gets in and it's fear/tension a little of rejection maybe or wrongness somehow but there's a mutuality of desire or something but it's about money too and we drive off this is in SLO and we head south toward edna and she puts her head in my lap mouth downward and then there's this store like the candy store but different the hill is longer bigger but there's a store we're in there then I leave and as I leave the payphone outside by the door starts ringing and even in the dream there's that recognition the remembering how often how many times and there's this new feeling of so what so I go on up the hill more payphones but they don't ring and then it's night a bigger place same street now in a city and there's traffic thick but it's dark can't see the drivers and then thru the traffic come these ships these massive tall like four story greyhound buses and they're roaring silently past the traffic really fast and it's like watching an invasion or something only they're greyhound buses bigger than three semi-trucks and there's two of them and something about me and the little pickup should be on them and there's these middle-aged 'Watchers' women who just monitor things and have no judgement no investment no bets on the outcome and I'm ok it's not about I missed it but there's a redirection of the journey more like that then we're going south in the car and then we're in somebody else's car and it's this guy 'Nail' and he's this writer he lives like south of Santa Barbara only it's all different and it's in the country only there's neighbors and we get there and he has all these antiques only it's somebody else's house now where he just stays and then he shows me a bunch of expository prose he's famous for, getting a lot of government heat and all but lots of blows against the empire in it and it's all tightly written and packaged and the little pickup is in another house close by or upstairs in a different apartment and I'm alone Nail isn't there anymore and I get up from this antique chair and walk toward I don't know but I step on or previously stepped on somehow this plastic beige-colored violin on the rug it's broken only the top half is there and there's a dim regret or remorse but it wasn't me exactly that did it it was already broken and then I see Nail in another room driven to the ground crouched and lit up by thousands of watts blinding light all through the room and all white like a laboratory thing and he's insisting in this broken voice 'but I'm clean. I'm clean now!' and I think how to react but I'm just staring feeling the otherness of watching someone else break and be broken then I can't remember the transition and it's morning a sweet country morning Nail is making breakfast and coffee with that almost singing bustling that some people have as they cook breakfast and the little pickup comes through the screendoor all ready to go in the bright soft morning of a new possible day


{none of that is fiction. it's all I can recall this afternoon, from a dream last night}
posted by Juke at 3:46 PM [edit]

there was a thing in the news the other day about some science guy saying that time machines weren't that far off. that time travel was closer than you might expect or words to that effect. and like a lot of people that just kind of rolled off me. but I was thinking this morning well they do have this clone guy running around. I mean the 'Italian' doctor who's got x many pregnant women carrying little clone feti. and then a lot of the old time weirdness came back. I mean to me, I used to think about this stuff a lot. and lose a lot of the thoughts I had. still do really which is why all this writing so-called gets put here. to keep it b/c I forget. so much I forget. so there's all these science fiction cliches that come up. the dodo one of kill your granpa but even more the limits of the actual doing. the boundaries of time itself. I think the evidence points to a necessity of human mediums. the way the discussion is framed makes you think of a device, a machine, but meditative process seems much more likely. b/c really we're talking about two things. perception, that is viewing other temporal landscapes, and expression, doing things there. so people are natively reluctant to surrender the concept of self as body. but it seems pretty obvious to me that that's not all that's up with that. so I imagine a meditative state that transcends the 'fixed' zone of temporal experience. 'disembodied spirits' is the way the Victorians described it. cuts down on the hardware overhead dramatically. but requires a 'medium' willing or not. that is, there has to be some form of human consciousness to receive the 'traveller'. b/c what they're gonna figure out is not a machine, but a mechanism. a means whereby. rather than a mechanical contraption imagine a meditative process that allows the subject to transcend subjective temporal flow. so they pop into....well I don't personally have a term for that, but I think that's what's going to have happened. and there's more. there's always more. like I said the closed system aspect. they can suddenly manipulate the whole arc of human endeavor. but then after a while, you know, that was....all. so it becomes again a question of alignment, of joining with, of whose side are you on? there were signs all along the road. I seemed to have missed most of them. but it's always been, to me, a very interesting 'co-incidence' that the word 'evil' is spelled the way it is.
posted by Juke at 1:39 PM [edit]

I've been thinking about writing this to you for a couple of days now. one thing and another and mostly it's so hard to face these doubts. not the horror not the weird nightmares but the doubt that any of it was real that any of it really happened. somewhere back there was a woman, a girl at the time who told me about being in Westwood. in the top- floor of the UCLA psych ward. there was a name for it I can't remember right now. it's linked with driving down Orange boulevard in Pasadena or close by it. and a shock a realization that the woman who lived up on Sierra Madre in the mansion wasn't the same woman that i was riding with. it's you. but who are you? or who were you? and how will I ever know now? I've made a kind of peace with not knowing but it's dark. evil. bitter and weak is how it feels. but something is gone from inside me now. a control. an implanted command I have no way of knowing. that there was so much of that I haven't the slightest doubt. I remember being in the basement of the house across the street on Barhite or what I thought was the house across the street, but it wasn't was it? and that woman that was shot down behind me that bright day in Graton? was that you? is any of this real? did they win? is it over? or was it ever about winning? was it just that thing that knew it would never live and destroyed so much that it wanted someone else to carry the weight of that? that's speculation. see? I can tell the difference. the part about UCLA is a real valid memory. as is the driving part. and the bitter scorn from someone's bitter heart as she gloated over what they had done to me talking about the german shepherd and it's pavlovian electric simplicity. but that means nothng really. so much in the past. and I always seemed to fall back into that mindless trust. that it would all work out all be OK but it didn't and it isn't going to is it? where are you? how can I tell it's you? was it you that promised a bridge that would hold us, no matter what? I saw so much in those days. but there was false confidence there too. pretending to have a vision. I don't pretend anymore. but I'm blind now.
posted by Juke at 6:29 PM [edit]

water and glass heroes are made not born
posted by Juke at 9:54 AM [edit]

I got a thing for here but I'm in a college library comp room and it's crowded and noisy and all. but if I don't get to it for god knows why... a lot of all this started in Salinas. at Carl's Garage. on North Main street. when I was 15 and had red hair. a car pulled up outside. a fall day in central california. 1964. a blue ford station wagon. maybe a 54-55. two dudes get out a fat guy with red hair and a beard another guy I don't remember too well. later this little skinny guy gets out of the back wearing motorcycle boots and jeans. really skinny. but he reminded me of my mom. not visually. some other way. they had a fucked up carburetor. ended up giving me the car. or trying to. that's what the story is about. I'll try to get back to it later
posted by Juke at 2:40 PM [edit]

woke up to the phone ringing and when it stopped I remembered coming into Denver back in 76 couldn't remember if I was heading out or back to the coast but I was picked up outside of town to the north by a dude he was a nice guy friendly Scientologist talked about checking it out and I didn't see anything too weird about him and said why not I'll check it out so we were driving into Denver and he said someone was tailing us. I don't make this shit up Timmy only what I accurately remember no dressing no supposition unless so identifeied as such so he says we're being tailed then I swear to God we get a flat BAM and another one? I think so. anyway it was like we were being what you call it fired upon so we took off on foot at his suggestion fast and I had all my shit which was a lot and heavy and i said go on go on he ran off I remember all that pretty clear he ran off quick I felt the weight and stupidity of all that stuff trying to carry it not travelling light enough and that presence right behind me. they wipe the memory after they come in that's how they did it how they do it I kept waking up to the aftermath blank but knowing they'd been in there again and nothing I could do about it couldn't really see it coming. and the memory goes blank right there. just stops.
that is not a delusion. not a fantasy. and just one of a bunch that all tie in. but to what? to who? why etc. fuck all of it is mostly how I feel these days. until real recently I thought this was my life work to figure this stuff out that the answer to my guilt or innocence lay here.

posted by Juke at 2:57 PM [edit]