King Crimson for a while made it as easy as going to the store to come and talk to them which I did bringing down on myself an enormous enemy machine of yellow journalism. It is discouraging that police officers in our commonwealth woke up to the fact that I was tortured long before the counterculture that never did and that fact also requires a concern for due explanation. I, James MacRyland Crary, will humbly submit to public scrutiny as usual my level best to understand. One of the things I have learned through copious evaluation of what seem to be cross-purposes in the currents of domestic terror in Pittsburgh and Seattle is that seemingly irrational politics often mask the art of playing both sides by a hidden hand. Seeing how this works straightens out a few things, but leaves questions above and beyond I will attempt to answer. As a literary stylist I am at a tactical disadvantage. Poor, and answerable to the next person on the road, I have to be lucid and persuasive, while evasive of charges of misreading due to schizophrenia, dissembling, lies or bad blood of my own, where by contrast the rabid King Crimson are widely believed to be paranormal, their word salad and psychobabble infallible while answerable to no one. They are in a celebrity elect where it really doesn’t matter if they are wrong (nor who dies) they are right. Claiming to be bottomless aggrieved and wearing their horns proudly, they cannot even be bothered to delete proven lies or admit evidence of any sort to their copybook. While I am unarmed, non-threatening, informative, seeking checks and balances by proper review, they need only signal their Confederates or Isis to use my work mean-spiritedly to appear an incitement, while hissing their National Security grip on loyalty. Strange powers for a man as gifted at being a gangster as he is a rock star like Penis J. Sinfield.
It can be made to appear that New York City, Penis Gabriel and Yoko Ono made a bad mistake in listening to City of Pittsburgh back in the days of Miles Kirshner and Wesley Posvar. One of the things I propose to do is to close this escape valve. This means of course saying no to Obama which isolates me and turns them into cornered rats. My school is partially in sympathy with me back home in Pittsburgh in large measure due to my Hippocratic Oath idealism. Their position resembles Ivan Svitak during the repressive era of Soviet control of Czech universities, a condition visited upon the best minds I know, including Steve Thompson, by the AIDS configuration protecting HitlerReagan and his attaches in the Beatles and pervert media like The New York Times, all of which characterizations go against the fornicated grain of Warren Commissioners in office and propagandists at Warner Brothers, Disney and SONY. There have been very heavy penalties for challenging them in semi-coma, and they availed themselves of my trust once by the taserbolts of their syphilitic misreadings. Recall that Lew Lapham of Harpers brought the yellow journalism of slander mania down on a battered child hiding in a towel closet in tears beyond tears (don’t say like Anne Frank!).
The ideological soothsay of the Euro-extremists attacking the United States, largely at the instigation of Patricia Fripp, a cunning British friend of Colin Powell, arrives like the macho of Charles Bronson. No fear, preach the feminist nazis around Ono. Fear proves wrongdoing. Nevermind that to sell this fraud they brutally impacted a severe nerve injury. Terror, from a Manson ordeal impacted in frozen neurology, which they admit knowing when I didn’t through asides like Roland Wesen’s comment, “it grew rancid in the refrigerator of my brain,” in the lead up to Mt. Desert Island, the rocking Rollie lesson of virgin oil. They lit off firecrackers like the stormin’ oil jamboree of Iraqi, cloaking Operation: Death Seed in the mirror mastery of the pun Operation: Desert Shield, from Bush in Kennebunkport (Kennedy debunk deport), the 444 syndicate of Dearborn, Chicago and Marilyn M. (Mueller) where Mi Yung Joo hailed from. It is tiresome to accept the disbelief when the evidence is so sickeningly brazen. Yet they claim they were wronged. That’s why the men who tortured me and who called me to tell me what was up with Lennon get to be behind anthrax and 911. Because they were the ones who were wronged. Well, how? Well, by being unconcerned and unaffected by AIDS for whom all victims of which they speak as one for profit. If that bothers you too much, you’d better hire round the clock guards for your next of kin because Ringo Starr doesn’t play. His forces in pervert media estate like The New York Times are also in bloodoath and death vow never to tell the truth about Sean Strub and Michel Foucault, suicide bombers in the AIDS ring.
A little bit of curious resignation arrives of course with the certain evidence of Hitler’s escape, that the CIA knew, as did Reagan’s Hollywood, who made the crime into a semiotic game in their movies of racist legacy. Reagan brought in the good kind of blacks, the ones who saw Dr. King as a traitor to black patriotic achievement in the Armed Forces, and so on. Discovering that Penis Gabriel was lying, spending millions on brainwash routines, sniveling in derision at the truth, as I say causes a little bit of curious resignation, well okay, so Hitler killed JFK and released the AIDS attack, but where does that leave us without these backstabbing princes of deception we have long called friends? Where is the friendship now? Israel? There is an escape valve even more sensational than Reagan didn’t know, even more soothing than, oh well Pittsburgh lied to us (which they did), and that is their mission: Just come on back here on account of its safer, we didn’t lie to you, queerbait is mistaken and was being given good treatment for the good of the Ku Faithful. They said I would die trying to gain recognition that the laws of this country are a social contract to be aspired to and appreciated, but I haven’t yet so if they don’t mind dragging this out a little longer, I don’t either, whereas if they do, as they like to say about my whereabouts, you know where I live. There are after all headache topics to be covered because in their ranting and derision they consider them unanswered and actionable, as usual against the innocent and unsuspecting.
The demons in the imagination of those who believe Penis Sinfield are said to be his own. I will describe them as their demons, gifts received from his ingenuity, because they are devilish concoctions of his aspect as a brilliant. He is counting on them. They need him more than he needs them. They have committed many agencies of misdeed following him in loveslavery, which brings us back to Mark Mancine, who loved the story of Thufir Hawat, the super-intellectual called a mentat in a science fiction novel who was held captive and given critical misinformation which enslaved his mind to the will of his capturers. Unlike Hawat, amended digest will not avail you with Seattle queerdom. They are deeply flawed men. Mancine also liked to talk about having puppets and recounting a story he read of a newspaper who always got there first because well they had an arm who authored the crimes, and in house monitoring clocked the police division to make sure of the getaway. This wouldn’t sound familiar to a government and states who deny that there is any reason to be concerned that the Texas Schoolbook was found by its true authors, which brings me to another local light of catcall, someone Erin Bush of the Students for Peace, contingent of Vince Eirene. Erin Bush, or her namesake, was arrested for pilfering a purse of $120 magic dollars, denying it and attempting to skip out on the court house call. She said on the phone intending me to hear and understand to someone she spoke to while I was being led around, oh so innocently, by the vanisher like tricks of Eirene, “They torture one of our so we torture one of theirs.” This was meant, wink, wink, to suggest I tortured someone, something that Rosa’s mother in fact shouted at me over the phone, the same phone on which her father called me, “Connie.”
Sinfield’s cyberstalking syndicate claimed that I bit a girlfriend’s tit, a lie. I had a childhood scare when my mother got banged by me on the couch accidentally, and under the rules of the Taliban of Fripp, the fact that my mother lost both her breasts in life to surgery for cancer would qualify in his syphilis for compense to his deranged ideas about my lovemaking sensitivity. The Quarrymen/Pitmen pitbulls who mauled me after all forced me to steal from her to buy my life from them in the days of Ask Andy and Shuman Center showers. Fripp will claim that because I didn’t therefore I did, just as he intoned for the Patrick Henry society of Atkins and ATS of He’s Dead, Jim, back when Britain didn’t know, “that is except for Mary.”
In arriving at renewed interest in the death of Antonin Scalia it is a curious riddle of semantics and sophistry how the question of mystery in the matter somehow reflects proof that those who could conceivably have done this proved their National Security patriotism from abroad. After all, their entire showboat derives from the notion that their power was in his interest and at his pleasure. If the idea were to hold that I inspired the killing with my talk of disallowing the Supreme Court to sit on a Tribunal at AIDS Nuremberg, an idea I presented to Congress, you would have to believe that the killers wanted AIDS Nuremberg when, in reality, they released AIDS and are play acting as being avengers, a strange act then, in keeping with the logic perhaps of Hitler’s Knight of Long Knives, which the penis Penis Gabriel has turned into a tactic of chapter house and Penny Histories, hand in glove with Lew Lapham, a fact easily proven, obviously forever to be dismissed, since nothing is real.
They are avenging John Lennon as sacred symbol of the AIDS plague mass, they finally declare. Well-luh, what an interesting story to hear from Gail Burstyn and multicultural Ku Kluk o Gram from the Ark of Colorz and Green Party. Dina Michels once intoned about a fragmented child lacking what she called internal consistency. Baruch Fischoff called it a disaggregated personality, Feminists are known to call it practical academics, but whatever else, it is the hidden truth of the game that makes it appear that ways.
On and on they will bounce the rubble with their patterns of misinformation resulting in deceit and semi-satisfactory temporary solutions, a slasher here and a slasher there, Pittsburgh, Seattle is the place where, plastic reality from Barbara Bach and Bowie Overdrive.