2/18.Sun.19
I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of a clerk at the Klondike State Park yesterday and it abashed me a little that I came to make fun of Donald Trump’s legendary history with Soapy Smith, a bit of fake news in a ways, abashed because for a moment I put myself in her shoes, whose admiration for Trump was obvious. She’s a picture of beauty, youth and health, built for prosperity, granted rights by recognition of God’s purpose written in human law and protected by Our Commonwealth. The only reason anyone could possibly wish her harm would be from their foundation of their own evil. She is the sort of perfect stranger our armies bear burdens to protect. I could see myself in her. If you look at a picture of me as a child, you see a shining, loveable white child, fair haired, shy, eager to smile, the sort of child that no one uncorrupted would harbor a single thought concerning other than how to ease their way by favor. The clerk didn’t see that, of course, she saw the aftermath of a man brutally targeted for being like her, a man destroyed, whose gawky mirth about Soapy and Donald seemed to her to reflect sour grapes, a loser making fun of a winner, the real Soapy familiar. It’s not what bothered me, although I am certainly in frightful pain from my plight. What bothered me is that I could hear it cross the mind what others said when they saw me, ruin that one, or they will never understand. I’m not psychotic. I object.
I rather liked Ayn Rand for one of her books, the Fountainhead, more than anything else because of a scene where two men who fought hard for their vision of beauty help one another through a hard time, something that others constantly beg for, while giving no reason why anyone should. It comes naturally to them because they love each other’s art, and understand the struggle involved in realizing it. Such a wonderful moment of significance in the brotherhood of man seems chained to a lot of complexity that is ripe for misunderstanding. Ayn Rand’s followers range from sensible, understanding, patient teachers, to wild gangs of hatters on a rampage from the nuthouse. The complexity is numbing.
Adolf Hitler used to wax poetic about the struggle involved in daily existence. It is a reason he was popular. The German poor would read him and nod, saying, he put that so well, here is a man who truly understands me, and he bit them in their hate and showed them to the dungeon of malice and cruelty. We live, said Herbert Agar, editor of The Southern Review, in his wonderful book, A Time for Greatness, that gave JFK his campaign slogan, in the same old world. Letters and articles like this one are complicated, they come from notes, I’ve very poor and working full time, deaf, in school, written while walking hastily between classes, or on weekend jaunts to shop or visit beloved Chinatown. They don’t synchronize easily. I am sometimes accused of being overly credulous towards my own perceptions, but the fact is that most of what I write about is witness, not invention. It’s just way too hard, with carpal tunnel, sometimes even to decipher my own notes, and with insight, things are caught in process or they are gone.
No one ever did anything about what happened to me. They treated like a story by Soapy Smith. One of my arch tormentors, Matt Marcus, called my revival poetry, “soapy and dumb.” I always wondered, before coming to Seattle, where he got that word. The ravages, to put it simply, were a torrid Manson ordeal as though a frankenchild was held in a vat of Amon Dul. They had used a nerve agent and were incubating a neuroplasm, but best of all, they had me pigeonholed, another Marcus word. I was THE WHITE! In the coded drama of Granger Morgan at Carnegie Mellon, nothing obsesses more than the sacred task of the gobbler ripper that the white must not get away!
The trickery and eccentric Texas Schoolbook that Joan Crawford who was in Dallas with Nixon the day they used JFK, working with Nancy Moore, who birthed me for the toilers, giving me the military birthdate of Oct. 20, 1960, six months from Hitler’s and the Soc. Sec. number beginning 1984 for the AIDS attack, while hotwiring into my psyche the purple blasphemies they extruded through Natural Language Research while making psychiatric pornography with Warhol beginning in battered, hostage childhood, extruding them for Zappa’s production team of Jimmy from Hell, Jazz from Hell, Marriage From Hell, as Catholic Worker and Thos. Merton put it, a prize fight over Midori Goto, Two Virgins Pussyball, clocked to the AIDS attack, found King Crimson working with Akrim Midani, whose signature I found in Caliban Books on a biography of Ionesco, author of Insulting the Audience, a store owned by a local author from Celeron Street of a Mayor’s History During the Plague Years.
They towed me to Mt. Desert Island during the sagacity of Koop for a game of chicken about AIDS, then put out the franchise Ezell’s chicken after I proved the agent, Will Zell, was talking about this crime back when I was recovering from childhood kidnapping attacks, but before AIDS started. Warhol had Trump Queers hollering the money is theirs and carping about the poor sisters as Pittsburgh had service me in coma trauma. Midori Goto brought in Rosa, after the Green Donohue murdered my human rights author of a father from Bush’s ship in the Navy who worked with Eisenhower at Teacher’s College, divorced, a real hottie, no two like her, to test the radiation of her violin weapon, splitting the neuroplasm like an atom smasher, leaving me screaming by Des Moines River in seizures while they raped my deaf advocate, blew up Oklahoma Federal, killed Tupac, and made off with my prize, a girl I thought I’d earned from years of loyalty to King Crimson, having even hitchhiked near deaf and in high school from Pittsburgh to St. Louis just to hear one of them solo.
The solo history of David Bowie and Gail Burstyn the author of the script goes way back to before Diamond Dogs when Warhol and the Spiders From Mars kidnapped me as a child, promising a bullet for pretty boy. They had in the script, I introduced this person I liked to my best friend, now they’re going out. After many gyrations to get attention and impress his girl, Bowie is seen in a video mockery making off with his suffering fans lover leaving him speechless. The murderers came from Neva Pornography with a man named Kasper who King Crimson said was my friend and WQED’s Black leaders said I must forgive and die of AIDS while he enjoyed Midori Goto. This hits the Ayn Rand register of cruelty you find in her villains, and I believe was financed by Donald Trump. DIA whose namesake called me when they staged Lennon’s death for the double suicide plan is photographed outside the World Trade Centers with a stiletto and with a Queer claim team about AIDS I warned Seattle Central about so forcefully before they rippered Shannon Harps I was banned and had to go back to Pittsburgh to go to school. I achieved Honors and Tacoma accepted me.
Dr. Ralph Proctor had the NAACP masquerading as friendly to humiliate me with Rosa. Everyone raised properly knows what a secret is worth. However, after my anti-Apartheid campaign, white men close to Marcus and Proctor told me secretly, “If you try to help black people they will only turn on you.” They took great spite in seeing what Proctor was doing. Proctor worked at Pitt and was well received for his scorn towards Martin Luther King, deriding the blacks who didn’t fight back to defend Emmett Till. James W. Child from the Iceland Nuclear Debate Team, living at the house named in the script in association with Julie Sellers, a scriptwriter working with Genesis, next door to O’Bannon Carpets, approved Proctor’s take on slaughtering those who crossed the line. He chided Dr. King with a work called Pacifism is Immoral.
When I complained the State of Washington that people who were licky chops about this irregular situation had killed Donnie Chin, the organization of Jay Inslee poisoned me in the mouth. Meanwhile, Pittsburgh had the drama division promoting the new black stars of Trump health and unrivalled perfection in productions by the men who tortured me, now forgiven, and who once called them jigiboos. It is the white who cannot forgive as must pay!
James MacRyland Crary
Victim of political torture in America
