The 80’s under Reagan’s Cold War demagoguery painted the 50’s as a dominant trend certifiable in the election of Trump. The colorful 60’s were provided the concession of Obama for whom Geffen Corporation (also publishing John Lennon) was a key contributor as he was to Clinton. Joe McCarthy however is shrewdly in sympatico with Lennon’s legacy. Indeed, the song Heroes by Bowie sings, “Though nothing will drive them away, we can be heroes,” cramped by the crowds who Lennon described as “peasants” while framing his achievements in fearful egoism as an Us vs. Them walled bubble where nothing mattered but winning by might; it didn’t even matter if he was wrong, he sang.
The Chair of Philosophy of Education in the Cathedral of Learning at the University of Pittsburgh in the 1960’s, a Peace Corps leader, radio room lieutenant from Iowa who served at war under the Texas Flag and Admiral Rickover on the USS San Jacinto whose pilots on the carrier included future President Bush, authored a text in the 50’s titled: How to Teach About Communism. Family narrative, in other words, spans this ideological era in terms of public commitment.
While a person might wryly accuse me of making a comparison more on style than substance, I feared, investigated and proved a much more dangerous game is at large. One that might well be termed: The Don’t Go There Game.
The ideas of Logic of Difference and Logic of Equivalence are crucial, and intuitively ambiguous to understand how propositional similarities key the subject to a mutualism. The word “difference” intuitively suggests that it emphasizes conflict, when, in substance, Logic of Difference is a theme of tolerance and acceptance of diversity, while the idea of “equivalence” may evoke a notion of equality and equity, the reality of this theme, Logic of Equivalence, is authoritarian, othering and in Joe McCarthy’s case, evinces a Jack Ruby style Southern intensity suggestive of brawling.
At Tacoma Community College, Marxist texts were required for at least one class I’m taking in Winter 2018. Ironically, because she is a darling of the Libertarians, the effect of the reading was shockingly similar to a description given of long suppressed text in Ayn Rand’s fiction. There was something luminous about the long forbidden. Even when allowing for the forbidden right to read them, you are tarred in the McCarthy vernacular as totally surrendering and associating entire, just for one peep. Dr. Crary’s text attempted to argue that substantial understanding was needed to contradict Marx and that academic readings were valuable. Whether he was contributing to the problem by ruling out agreement with Marx, I won’t judge. He had a Marxist friend who helped him move. Those who do not run on sight of Marxism can usually be counted on to safeguard their investment by disapproving as he did. What happened in the 60’s in which Marxism played no meaningful role except as a bogeymonster to be evoked by the McCarthy faction led by President Nixon, is a harder nut to crack.
Whereas my father travelled to England and saw The Silver Beatles in an underground nightclub before their rise to fame, I hitchhiked from Pittsburgh to St. Louis in 1979 to hear an attache of theirs, Robert Fripp from what MisterRogers called in a letter to me (he went to the church where my mother remarried) “the King Crimson Band.” Growing up my sister Laura Jeanne was a maniac reading all sorts of Seventeen Magazines when she was about nine years old, and telling me about the Clues (Kluz) in albums like Magical Mystery Tour. Her guide, Greg Karl of Central Catholic, told me that numbers and riddles could be derived from the stars on the cover, but I looked and found nothing, probably a learning procedure intended to make me believe that nothing was there. This was the onset of a maelstrom of self-deception. Nothing has made me weep with hatred like finally understanding the book by Gail Burstyn, which is the long suppressed Texas Schoolbook, written in a language code, by those who killed John Fitzgerald Kennedy twisting this narrative to make saleable to blame me for the appearance that John Lennon was murdered, and then erasing it from American History while cunningly angling for representation of the text by other means, like a secret treaty. In this treaty they subjected me to no end of permanent injury and terrible fraud rendering their escape, success and denial something of a personal matter in American jurisprudence.
This is an epic of false love that came as a lesson plan from the religious extremists in the Cold War, endorsed by Ringo Starr, Church of England, and enjoying the nightmarish levity of otherwise adversarial powers abroad. Neither the African National Congress, nor the Sandanistas saw anything to gain by telling it like it is. Seattle Art Museum was the epitome of the marriage between Lennon and McCarthy, selling that Reagan had it right, appointing Elizabeth Taylor to guard the Ayn Rand Queers of Carnegie Mellon and The Rockefeller Times (NYT). Queerbait, I was nicknamed when they kidnapped and gassed me, by the Israelis, the Pitman gang, the Quarrymen and the King Crimson gang, adjunct to Aleister Crowley and the Gurdjieff Society. Learning the history of King Edward’s involvement with Nazism and the trace of his hand over the death of JFK has woken me up to the Arnie Sacnusums demanding an exhumation of the case from Nov. 22 (tutu, too little, too late) based on morphemic language codes and Linguistic Anthropology, to put it in brief.
Fascination with the endless gyrations of Beatle hypocrisy will doom my defense in a community college Honors Program, but I am a better person than Peter Gabriel of Geffen Label made me out to be on his song, That Voice Again, after three years of personal engagement with me in private. He used me to sell the attack. How he issued a major divorce from reality is a testament of despair in our social history, but the least I can do is show why the impossible is the only resolution: Lennon staged his own death with Pentagon-Disney, and the common denominator of Reagan’s attorneys for the war game involved, in which I was bullied into service of his Reykjavik nuclear debate team under the FEMA authors at Pitt (one of whom is from Cologne, Germany of the 1920’s, Adolf Grunbaum) and was used as a singular exampling to recruit the Black intelligensia, as a quid pro quo for the end of Apartheid, and then taken to D.C. the night before Hinckley moved for the Hollywood machine gathering, Mr. Reagan waving to me when his attorney’s brought me through Foggy Bottom to the Plaza, testified that Phil-adolph-ia was the City of Brotherly Love for Reagan and Lennon in a plot code named: Kasper.
Offering fight, flight or a cup of tea, they simply coded it as a logic of difference and offered their victims Peace With Honor and a select grab on the ideological estate.
Education about Hollywood, its role in the Warren Commission, events in Pittsburgh, and the meat cleaver of success and failure in our renegade society where slavery is now one possible outcome of the game, has potential to contribute to recovery, but I am not sanguine about that. Black social norms have embraced this titanic, contributing their belief that change-will-only-happen-through-fear campaigns, in suppression of the text. The dialectics of commodification between the Left and Right, in areas like vice, have made the AIDS attack resemble a Hitler-Stalin pact. Putting Lennon’s face on it is just prettyfying.
They went about this through a solidarity towards Dear Leader, Sir Paul McCartney, that couldn’t possibly be undone by anything so subservient to taste as mere truth in digest. Robert Fripp and the Beatles have a language code. In a song by the King Crimson Cluque, called Happy Family about the fab four, they refer to a mirror that spins in Pepperland pointing outward, guttersniping “look at yourself”, to anyone peering in with disgust or revulsion. The profile developed by Pener Gabriel about me for blackmail to do his incitement of terror, which they used as a misconstruction about matters of taste for an excuse to irrevocably sicken me is telltale. Spinning the mirror is a hypnographic language code about how they spun gyrations of slander about me to fulfill the nightmare rendering of social storyline they made into a ludicrous happening, and which they pulled while orchestrating home invasion to attack me in a pre-existing head trauma they first inflicted and now continue to lie about. Their counter attack is full of the myriad that Oxford snarls, while containing fabulations about the numbers and puns in the stars of Magical Mystery Tour, but some of them are there, Richard Starkey (Key star, Gister) and Carrie Gister conveys the doom of the parochial savage: Crary kissed her (Crary gassed her), leaving me messages with scabies in my clothes, “we pour it on you steaming, hope it’s enough.”
The Beatles pulled this all off with a spell of God in a song about abandonment, the sorrows of passing up obligation for love of life called She’s Leaving Home. This captured their solidarity with the modern age and gave them ascension over the hearts of a new wave generation, borne aloft on the wings of Kennedy desire, whose mind was blown out in a car and life’s meaning erased by men who are lying through the teeth. When I cried for dear loss over their Hollywood jest who I thought my fiance, they grimaced deadly at what they construed as guilt and an absence of magnanimity, pulling away the attack prostitute, as I lapsed into seizures on the streets of homeless for years, they proceeded to occupy my father’s old offices with the man who locked me out of a church while being threatened by an armed gang as a child, now working with my fiance there whose hireling names, Rosa and Evangelia Karmas, announced their agency, before attacking and raping the deaf girl (Chin I) who taught me sign language, advertising it in the name of New York Times writer Cameron Brown for all the world to see at Carnegie Mellon Underground Times where I dated J.P. Morgan’s grand-daughter shortly before my father washed up at the hospital, withering away to die.
The attorneys for Reagan, Patricia Fripp, who appeared on 60 Minutes with Colin Powell, Amanda Harcourt of Hidden Pun Records, and James W. Child of Iceland Debate, put my father’s legacy on trial at the Post Gazette as a Red Witch, pitting me against the Right Wing Taliban of the Cold War, while graffiting his obituary with the name Donahue (don’t know who) and his statement about “injecting parochial values” over a message from the German Green Party.
The doxical processes of critical imagination are closed. Yoko Ono has taken revenge.