Foucault was a suicide bomber of the AIDS attack. Along with Reagan, he secured assistance from Iran. His occulted disciple Sean Strub was outside the Dakota with Lennon's double, Ono and Chapman when they shot an unknown double for symbolic manipulation of Seattle Left and to create a hysterical atmosphere of Klondike Gold Rush style profiteer around extermination. I had a profile of Strub, who worked with Burstyn, the author of the script, on record at The Stranger Newspaper before he was identified outside the Dakota. Despite this, the little shilts in the Seattle Left continued to cooperate with Geffen Corporation in the slasher murder of Shannon Harps they called therapy. Which shows the degree to which Marxist cover stories are worked by British fascism in a tagteam of good cop/bad cop, making the AIDS attack a modern Hitler/Stalin pact.
During the Middle Passage, slaves were not allowed to commit suicide. A device (orum speculum) force fed them if they refused food. By variation on that theme, for me to be read is to live therefore: thou shalt not read me is a predictable injunction. My being in school at all is a test of boundaries. Seattle Central after all banned me; the Pittsburgh community college (CCAC) where I graduated had its own way of interpreting my brag about making Honors. Seattle Police psychiatry have probably already told my new school in Tacoma, okay but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Prior scrutiny follows me like a laser.
Realism denies me the right of answer. My Latin professor puts it very well in saying people discriminated against sometimes look for a place to hide within the system. In arguing that I think I am special, the Black Studies back home seek to cancel my cry of a right to self-definition as a victim of violent crime. If I were not realistic I might say people who don’t understand what I went through sometimes say they wish their lives were as interesting. It would be unrealistic because it implies some idea that they should or could understand. When in reality the unknown soldiers of any cause outnumber the martyrs, the heroes and even survivors are usually nameless. While I have no doubt in principle that my concerns are disturbing and relevant, their politically forbidden status has won.
To humanize Frankenstein requires acknowledging that one has been created. This isn’t so easy at a college surrounded by the neoliberal biosphere so to speak where it is impossible. Teachers do not judge but they exercise discretion. To acknowledge any of this is indiscrete. Yet what I learn in school goes directly into this loop because the quality of education in Tacoma is very good and this creates the paradox of my condition as a student as well as its legitimacy, because there are things I need to know and I do need to defend my views despite having little but eccentric feedback loops and raw intelligence allowing me to maintain general interest participation in common studies.
Meanwhile everyone holds their breath waiting for me to crack. Therein lies the folds of a gigantic miscarriage, enveloped in folding doors of perception able to close from three to two to one dimensions and crawl up into the holler of a point to disappear. Poetry is its own reward, clap, clap.
Unpardonably, my acumen seems too keen, there is a fear there of human interest and the consequence being empowerment, a fear of escape or seeking retaliation. After all, if what I have to say can’t possibly be true then the fictional relief shouldn’t be a cause for melodrama, much less fear of a meltdown. It’s just one more pastime for someone carrying a touch of habitual tendency to read things about with themselves. Obviously, nothing yet has been communicated but why stall? The bases are covered.
I know the electrifying paradigms about what happened, what I went through and witnessed, and how they are necessarily negated. It makes me Einstein. Both my schools have channeled red hot material through my academic lens. I’m on the up and up, resulting in what Chairman Mao would call a contradiction among the people. This creates no crisis because the battle is already lost. Even reviewing it would cause student revolt. It would require collegiates to check a premise firmly established in what they consider a duty of sophomores: to identify jealousy as detestable. This results in comic art however deadly some of it has been. It does not explain the Frankenstein condition, which does not mean that cannot be explained.
Bluntly, I am the walking issue of cultural defeat concerning the 60’s and 80’s in the AIDS attack and this is denied by the victims who would rather be dead than side with the hate object of the script found at Pitt. The plan was safe as milk. In the plan (which worked) by the time I realized that my injuries were testifying to human agency behind the AIDS attack, particularly on Mt. Desert Island where I was lured by the FEMA in 1988, I would already be a marked man in kinship secrecy as the runt of the litter to blame for the death of John Lennon, a widely accepted media event (attended by the scorned non-event) despite all the peculiar evidence that the primary tragedy was a feint and staged by Pentagon Disney (literally). Reagan even waved to me in D.C. the night before they say his own agent shot at him. Disbelief about all this consolidates my status as a rat.
I am Frankenstein, in other words, because not carrying AIDS and therefore not the real Walrus, a coveted status in the script allowed only the sacred, insider true victim faction in the London Arts Council assembled by Lennon’s Spirit Foundation attorney Amanda Harcourt and Peter J. Sinfield, a prominent prog rock lyricist, who spent a good deal of their dotage obsessing over me during the making of Peter Gabriel’s SO (testified to by the Honors Department at CCAC who witnessed this danse macabre). The sophomoric grant of sibling status in dialectical atrocity is withheld by a fiat based on a script that predicted I would be unworthy, and while this is a known, and demonstrable by the evidence, it is also a done deal that necessitates denial and negation which in turn is a tale of two cities. One city is made up of those who cancel it out, either for having done it or refusing to believe it was done, the other justifying going along with it as though collusion was an honors society, and a form of rebellion, after all the pale white thing chosen for class hate object represents the hated idea of The White as privileged and detestable for failure as a boyfriend, ideal for compensatory coding. Even shown right, they sigh, ego satisfaction cannot be granted (craved due to horrid bullying) because that is how they compensate the real victim insiders and memory of the dead, betrayal of whom is too heavy to consider; an outlawed consideration, since associated with me who after all isn’t one of them, at least not yet, by self-quarantine you might say, since after all they are human, not Frankenstein.
Which leaves an intellectual silence about which our society has decided we are not answerable. Instead they have a fib and proving that it is a fib is not enough they say to prove it in service to a lie, it’s just a fib and an honorable fib since it shows that my grotesque ideas are totally fanciful and should if protected at all be granted the status of art; mental illness, gestating psychosis, lack of insight, best kept under watch.
So for fun let’s prove it a fib, before showing what lies underneath, because if I cannot at least prove it a fib for fun then there is no lie underneath, all is understandable, even their war game on Mt. Desert Island. This practice can yield considerable academic notoriety, even capture a place in studies for a Pantagruel grotesquery, satire that doesn’t recognize itself for satire, a complete vindication of the sorcerer’s hoax. The debate becomes tolerable as the lesson objects against what merely appears to be a mandatory misinterpretation.
The hoax, you say, get to the hoax, what is the fib, prove it or be squelched as is fitting. The fib is jealousy, a fibonacci fib in its bio-gestational magnificence, spreading wings of victory and allegiance. Yet so easy to prove a magic trick. A nerve agent was used. It was? That’s it? That’s it.
Much like the Sapir-Whorf Theory which insists that our minds are landlocked in our language, it is adaptable to enforcing blind spots and remains something of an Orwellian media darling. The same game is played against JFK. Ideological blockage is the Red Scare mechanism against which brazen semiotics are played (taunts) leading even the most astute to tactical evasions that lead my generation of pedagoges (I’m an elderly student because I am deaf, not a teacher, of course) to resemble Czech intellectuals during the occupation, dissembling wisely for their own safety. I’m not grudging being read, that’s for sure. Sadly, those justifying what happened, also the same generation of teachers, many of them formerly in the Student Left, are not dissembling, they are justifying. I changed schools hoping for a respite from Angela Davis.
Returning to our remorse we do have this question still: is the obvious fib about jealousy enough to discredit their other claims? Most notoriously the war game on Mt. Desert Island? This is the dialogue that wasn’t, in large measure because my role was assigned. Some people still just don’t know and their admiration for even the planners, the thinkers who did it, is very sincere.