Even a person who really knows what they’re doing in dealing with the American intellectual political class can get hurt real good.   That’s why a fair number of people who know what’s going on keep silent. It isn’t strictly speaking fair to the people who need them but lacking control of their lives, and a little bloated in the budget of ego, fickle power tends to get off listening, learning and then spurning good sense.  Who needs the insults? The one thing that is certain is that I respect my audience.

      The way I see their lack of respect for me I don’t think about.   I don’t know what I think. I don’t allow the phenomenons to mingle in my head.  One hurts, the other sets it right. I don’t envy them. Sometimes they think I do.   

      I used to work with a librarian who didn’t like fiction.   Not that I cared, but it was interesting to explore his reasons.   I don’t remember his exact wording of the sentiment, but to interpret it from the general sign language of the ideas, he didn’t think that it focused a person on understanding the real world around them.  Oddly enough, he hated Kennedy research, too. There are facts, the doctors saying, at first, the gunshot wound was an entrance from the front, but nevermind all that. The issue goes to my respect for peers differently.

       There isn’t about it, any lack of proof.  That was the point of my investigation on Mt. Desert Island.  I was controlled and raised for sex, when they put me in the Medical Library in 1984 for the first obscene photos of AIDS war, I knew they meant to use me for testing.  Screams did nothing to help me. I continued with the program for proof, and they gave me the truth. Now they want 50-50. Whatever, the point is that I didn’t try to explain without evidence.  I secured evidence. It wasn’t easy. However not everything that can be told is evidentiary, so when I say I proved AIDS manmade, an attack, that’s easy enough, but there are other things about the problem to disclose.  People have stopped suggesting I write fiction, although this librarian might.

        You might want to call my disclosure creative non-fiction.  If you know me well, you can say, he wasn’t the type to lie about such things, you can say you believe me but you don’t have the right to say I tried to make you believe me, I never would.  There are some things going on that lack evidence, but thinking and exploring, talking about them, don’t require any evidence, just freedom of thought. For me, they are very real and persuasive on some level.

       This isn’t to say the rabid, meaning UW and all of that, like me talking about it.   I thought it might be fun not to bother you with hard evidence for a change, it might even relax the murderers a little to let go of their bystander hostages, after all the whole point of the British claiming a spoil for Hollywood is to keep the complexity away from the light, so that people get confused, for example, about the fact that I was investigating AIDS, not John Lennon.   Poe used to invent people the adversary says are like me, with refrains like, “the disease has sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them.” Agents seem to think the creepy side of what I do is a liability.

      I’m not down with what goes on in the mainstream.  I don’t think people really like Donald Trump. I think the boisterous and loud right wing in Europe are fooling themselves.  So are the FBI and CIA. Americans want things explained to them by an American. They love JFK and Woodrow Wilson. They elected Trump as a joke, just to see if anyone had something on him, like Bill Cosby.  It’s sort of that rotten streak in us.

        A few people a little afraid that when they get in the theater a surprise is waiting for them, like the blob.  They wonder if the gargoyle that Trump’s wearying countenance hides will turn ugly and they will be too close to get away.    A Liberal doesn’t need to fear that. We have freedom of speech. What’s wrong with us?

        Maybe we just get worn down from being told by people who don’t like Kennedy research that they don’t like fiction.

       But enough, I’m finished being cute.

       As everyone knows the Black Power Movement who helped set up the AIDS attack claim that Mt. Desert Island was an experiment and that the experiment was justified and they have their so-called psychological profile and the firepower to control dissent.   They circulate the idea that everyone is sick of a self-inflicted humiliation. It galls them that after coming out of a coma, while they gathered to eat me, I keep managing to prevent that outcome just barely.

       Union Bank has taken to wondering out loud how I propose to pay back student loans by looking at porno?    Even though I am magnanimous myself, an underdog, and not armed, they don’t care to say, you go first. It’s just not in character for them.   Or maybe I should say those a group like Union Bank are likely to prefer, since I don’t know them all that well. Those heroes call their blindside attacks by names like dueling, and their facelies by things like pro-active resistance. One smirks thinking they lipread “best friend,” and they get mad sure you understood what they were saying, even after you told them you are deaf.

        Keeping up with the Joneses in other words, is taking a step down in the dignity spectrum.

        The mystery of the AIDS attack is clearly and certifiably resolved by the reality of the fact that Lennon now only and exclusively has definition as a DisneyWorld Brothers Grimm satire about his wee wee whimpering fraternity with HitlerReagan and the prerogatives of Christian redemption, satirizing the extreme ghastliness of the pain by circumventing warning for a fit of rage, unleashed by the cosmic empire of the hidden Peacock.

         It’s ugliness.   That they can’t see that is astounding.   And no one dares say it to Ringo Starr, he’s a thousand times worse than the naked Emperor.

       Lennon realized that the sexual liberation he was espousing as a plot of espionage, recall King Crimson’s tombstone with the letters USA after the initial stages of the crime, he realized what he was setting up to delude the very young was impossible because of the traditional view that a disproportion of the suffering and burden in sex falls upon the weaker and fairer sex.   This fact wasn’t there to stop him only to make his strategy brilliant in his own mind. This also allowed the well-known play and ploy of “indigenous people,” by which we mean sacred celebrities around UW, and Columbia, go around professing protection of the symbolic Jewish virgin of Political Correctness its very self as time and era, all jam packed with Hillary Clinton’s “Sadistic Village” P.R.   Always the fox in charge of the henhouse, Lennon sprang the trap, and cleaned up with the cryptic taunt, “beat Les” adorned with the stripe on his chin i chin chin.

       An absurd little twister for the ages.

       It’s a very little known fact, largely because of how Cornel West operated, that the film The Matrix was pro-Trump.    Also, people are not really on the up and up about how far back he really goes, about the role of Klondike gold in what happened in Dealey Plaza for example.   Nor about the way that Lou Reed and George Bush, twins of the term transformation, worked together to produce the transvestite scene from which arises Gail Burstyn and her fashion of mysterious violence in the name of P.C.

        It’s all the Neva Corporation can do to keep from bubbling over with laughter at how brazenly they control the film cameras of police vice operations.    UW would have it that this isn’t so, that women aren’t for hire, that they don’t play games to get gratification and money from law firms on their climb.   If a lie like that can sell, bless me, but it’s called a trick, if you don’t know what that is you won’t get anywhere in this world, not even as a dishwasher.

        Another little known fact about Donald Trump even to those playing nice, who voted for him and secretly can’t wait to see him captured, is that Trump has legal aliens who are citizens now that represent him, and we don’t know who they are any more than we do the honest ones who he has sex imagining their children vomiting to death about, and these alien chums of his are his kind of guys and gals, they are in his dollar diplomacy, they are like him, murderously unethical, and like him they hate nothing like they hate the USA.  For that final kill they will play act like no tomorrow.

       I know you don’t realize this, but Trump’s cult that included David Bowie who had his operation at Fifth and Madison in New York put the Seattle Public Library at Fifth and Madison in Medicine Man town.   Mary McCarthy, writing in 1963 about Vietnam was indexed categorically to He’s Dead, Jim, Salt Chunk Mary, and Joe McCarthy in their exotic claims about a neuro-golem crying for love. It’s not for nothing that Nancy Moore mispronounced my mispronounced first words to call me “Laura’s little grudder,” because she knew about Donald Gruber and had his painting of HitlerNuns, nor that when my church was torn down to make way for a library did I really call Forbes Street by Forbes Crete.

      The British are a curious set of operators, slurring my writing as flawed because a sermon meant to persuade and therefore not issuing as if automatic writing from the Ultrahigh guiding hand of an impacted neuroplasm, their deceits are infinitely higher than the mess they made of my life.   But the case is clear, what they are calling divine inspiration is little better than nauseating backstabs by pathetic and putrid rivals like the penises in the Beatles.

        I live in Tacoma now.  I see Johnson Candy on my way home and remember cracking my head open on cousin Candy’s radiator before they moved to Texas.   I see Stop Mart at Martin Luther King Blvd., stop M-Art. Stop Murder Art, around the corner from the river C at Cedar clinic.   I remember Migliosi’s slurred jests, and Vermouth garbling Fennel Bournemouth, and although I realize that I put up a NO SALE sign right from the beginning, I note that Jagus, the doctor who preferred insects to people, was a Brit who mingled with the Mengeles of Petrone and Donald Gordon.

      We feel, feeeeeel-luh….that Penis Gabriel so-called, “Time….table,” from the record played at T’s ACID party, wowing little Jimmy with the patience of a rock tumbler, was Holy Light that struck down the Diane Walls of jealousy like a macabre nerve agent with a hollow tip screwtape.  Yak Yak, ya commie. There’s a carrot in your nana hex, it cartesian, you think, not pork therefore ya are, it may be cart eerie, but it sure is MacRonald Donald McCartney.