A feeling of rejection, pity, remorse, unwanted presence, and resignation emanated from a Chinese store of wickedly expensive medical herbs, where I enjoy a cup of ginseng tea as a gratuity when I attend the park extension, because, well, everybody knows me and has digested some things about me. It tugged on my heartstrings.
One should neither inflate nor underestimate the American intelligentsia; meaning no letter. Open ideological combat on their own terms can be necessary at turns to restore meaning and understanding from knots of ridicule and blind faith habitually demeaning public discourse. Speech to the other collides with the voice of the other which never gets processed as communication. This can be very degrading of intellect when a term like pity becomes invested with dogma. The centrality of Ayn Rand to monetarists like Trump isn’t advanced by shunning her as morbid, which is how leftists often impeach her. Her notion of pity as a monstrous emotion is a lock on the door of perception precisely because it can be. Her drama about it disallows the attending truth that it isn’t always. The resulting feeling that something isn’t right is right.
The vacancy of the unaffected new world building their morning and guiltless horizon on the burial ground of dead souls awakens such feeling of lost potential among mourning preservationists who are restrained by bulldozers over the past that seeing me is a moment of slipping on the ice of existential nightmare so profound it can leave you quaking. One can hardly expect people as wise as the Chinese American not to understand that, after all they have taken root here under the bludgeon of felony allowed by the trick of judicial formality. It wasn’t that long ago they didn’t have rights. It is the discovery of mass graves having been refinished so it wouldn’t be discovered that they were discovered at all that sticks in the throat like a chuke. The casting mirage gives to queerbait himself the awful shadow of a reluctant Mengeles, laboring under an attempt by the brass to manufacture a Nosferatu. Obama has directed administration to validate the shadow cast on an impacted persona and to never ask what the element of slander really is and where it came from.
The thinking of course emerges from the truly piteous, so we are told that to think about the truth at all means engaging in a monstrous emotion. Dogma requires uniformity of application. How could Adolf Hitler be said to be of the same species, so to speak, as a child yanked from its mother, aware of its fate, but still uncomprehending, crying with horror and gasping from incomprehension? We find this note arriving in the name of Nobuko, star of the film: Children of Hiroshima and are asked to do its bidding so that a crime becoming another crime forces a school of curiosity catering to endless fascination and British fetish. The red herrings devised by King Crimson, notoriously CMU’s Carrotgate, were accompanied by evidence of planning, Radio KKK in the Studio Theater, Sore Throats in the ROTC Shooting Gallery, and therefore they say nothing is real, it never happened. This gobbles up time and scuttles academic discourse over the meaning of pity and its necessary context.
There is nothing monstrous about the love and pity evoked in a tubercular child accepting her fate in a famous Japanese film about such a little girl, excepting that the usefulness of such a life is all that Hollywood sees, a play for drama. Likewise, there is a tyranny of forgiveness pulling at the necessary hate in the act of an Italian girl weeping as she fired at a mother-raping Nazi. One hears the cries of incomprehension and remorse, “Mother it is right to forgive! Right?”
I was called Satan by this society for being seduced as a child by a hired underage agent from the Neva Corporation working with Reagan in preparation for the AIDS attack, and this was dubbed a Mutual Assured Destruction program, because of the reputation apparatus in play, which allowed the rape of my deaf advocate and chemical castration to punish two-timing. The glee club attending this mission by psychotic seducers were rewarded handsomely for their set up. Several prominent Blacks, my senior by many years, knew and gloated, but there is more to seeing someone’s life snuffed out in a terminal attack, from which I am coffin-ready now, similar to what happened to Kitty Genovese, prolonged so that each and every citizen in freedom and consent could line up and take their turn. Yes little Jimmy we hate you; you are the hated.
The insane child abuse was mocked by the FBI and British Intelligence. Lennon’s whisper was called forth to paint the town with derision, to cheat, to mock, to lie. What we find in these Chinatown moments is the outcome of Sir Paul and the Riddle Klan, the effect is existential remorse triggered by rationalized accomplice. My soul did this to him, they sulk, I am guilty of looking away, they mope. It’s sad in the manner it would be were Audrey Hepburn left tragically disfigured by a brutalism from compensatory coders in junior high. The tragedy is considered such a juicy and valuable New York museum mafia masterpiece that it is held frozen for public scrutiny to reflect on queerbait, an assembly to fingerpoint and see their own death in the mirror of the murdered, like children watching me test for diabetes.
To have such a beautiful letter to my credit is mawkishly redemptive. University of Washington caused me terrible suffering by giving me mortal injuries to stomach, heart and general well being, after I was promised sanctuary from torture. That it was added to prior macabre is beyond North Korea for its demented sadism. Calling medical violence a prank, one opens a course in college referred by notes about historic injustice scribbled in the margins of a book by French teacher Jacques Racine on the philosophical questions attending politics and disagreement, written by the reader intended as object of a monstrous emotion. This passage belongs in the Encyclopedia of Sociology, redeemed by a pinched nerve from the toss away bin of laugh in the box schizophrenia doctors.
An Imagined Community of the Wronged was a historicity in the AIDS attack. This formation of common cause between brotherhoods of the wronged brought together such groups as Jews, Blacks, Gays and other minorities in a rainbow coalition that was conspicuously contrived by those behind the attack. The NAACP were among those selling this program and enlisting the victim establishment into Confederacy. It was conceived of as a more inclusive community of the wronged led by the assassin group. This fact is no longer possible to hide. There were voices but never coherent speech. The omission to our history is very grave and also very droll. The perverted twist this represents was uploaded with a political correctness movement that forbade admonishment or judgment, ruling that insult. Factual history so voided allowed Queer Seattle to side with those behind the attack and evade cross-examination.
It still isn’t possible to make known what happened. By sheer force of malice Pentagon-Disney crushed academic discourse, watchdog networks, newspapers, police station detectives and Congress. Poetry they tortured and crushed. My efforts online of writing bearing witness to the AIDS attack, which still has parameters unexplored, is a mere datasheet by popular standards of entertainment (which it isn’t meant to be by anyone but the attackers and their admirers). No one wants to know I suppose because even wanting to help is punished so severely.
The truth was known by British prog rockers in 1974 and the execution was uploaded in 1984 by those admitting their insouciance, so to be able to read of it at all in 2017 may explain the explosive frustration that is evoked by the blaze at Grenfell. Having been horribly deceived by the British did survivors of the betrayed strike a pyre? This is the obvious question, but it fails to reckon British deviousness. Because this question is so powerful the impact of the question and the perception of a statement, a horrible anger, enlists by the act itself. Therefore our first question should be: was creating this perception the aim? Was it a Reichstag Fire construed in the hopes of a masterstroke by the AIDS attackers themselves? They’ve done it before.
Tormenting the mind is the absolute reason to live for the ugly partnership of Peter Gabriel and Yoko Ono who twisted the back-knife throughout the whole long ugly affair, while being assured safeguard by the White House. They evaded recognition for being involved in shaming a victim of the attack, working out a sadistic calculus and promoting the attackers by plan and execution, professing it Found Art with a snicker. Their correspondence to my desk in 1984 when I was a Medical Library Clerk working for the authors of the Federal Emergency Management Agency was telltale. They were unconcerned and unaffected but also on high, that’s bad chemistry. As academic and high falutin as all of this may sound, the aggressor lobby did not fail to include the ingredients of their own disturbing juvenility.