In an effort to deter investigation into how special, singular, unique, ferocious and diabolical the attack on The United States of America, which targeted me as a child, has been, Pittsburgh relief syndicates have claimed that I am trying to make myself look special, apparently thinking by this sly means to hide that was why they made me what they called, “the chosen”. In reality, when I thought I was the only victim, I accepted being mauled in what appeared to be random street crime, only to be hogtied by a blame operation for doing as I was told and accepting it, a two-tongued dimension that unleashed when I learned there were other victims and started really trying to get help. It may take a few readings to grasp the ideological consistency of that arrangement.
Today’s mission by the self-absorbed, always preoccupied, cabinets of the government is to suggest that I went about this the wrong way. True, they admit I was just a grade school child when blindsided and deafened, but this new tack is part of an ongoing conjob I am addressing in this letter to such institutions as Texas Symphony Orchestra, UnitedHealthCare, and so on. Contrary to the doctrine from Cities of Pittsburgh and Seattle, it concerns you despite the fact that it concerns me. If that were not so, you would gladly change places. I invite you to do so.
The attackers have made a long-term conjob into an alternative national narrative. At times, you have may have worried something more than military censorship was going on in the press, what with fake news being bandied, and men like Oliver Stone muscling in on JFK while advertising the very sort of crazies he has unleashed for his own purposes as a domestic terror operator. Crary is a name older than Harpers Magazine in America and this caused a great deal of unprovoked, spoiler’s bad blood towards me by Lewis Lapham, their former editor. I cannot remedy or recount everything now, although I have chronicled events despite traumatic brain injury, deafness and other crippling impairments from torture. This letter is only to topic the potentially fatal, but relatively inconsequential question, of whether I owe Sound Mental Health my paintings. Because you are concerned with the dignity of Tacoma residents, and artistic rights, the problem of murder in a false witness campaign being foolishly attributed to Marxist habits of mind in Seattle Green Party’s movement, has to be addressed before it blows up in the face of the hoodwinked.
It is rare that I am appreciated in the manner that Sound Mental Health demonstrated their appreciation for me as an artist. The pattern holds in both Seattle and Pittsburgh, where I have been made folklore civics. I would like to describe for you the beauty and dignity they have bestowed upon me in public. They have printed my poetry and prominently displayed my works of art, but behind my back they have lied to milk my brains of my labors, helped advance child traffickers who used me for museum chop shop movies in which rapes were filmed, people were killed and they have outstanding black market contracts promoting me as their property.
My father Ryland Wesley Crary was a Naval Lieutenant in WW2 stationed off the coast of Japan when the war ended. He became a Peace Corps leader and Chair for Philosophy of Education at the University of Pittsburgh after turning down the Presidency of University of Georgia when they refused to desegregate. He approved of my letters to the editor in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and after he died, I wrote an influential article asking Pitt to divest from South Africa, which they did. Wesley Posvar, who wrote the Federal Emergency Management Agency program for Reagan’s Administration, visited South Africa first and returned with a message resembled Walter Cronkite’s after visiting South Vietnam. Posvar also seems to have arranged my being an office assistant to James W. Child of Bowling Green on a Philosophy Fellowship, a man who served on Reagan’s Iceland debate team in consultation with Russia about nuclear weapons. Far from going about things the wrong way, I made clear I was in over my head, and contacted such institutions as the Saint Louis Post-Dispatch where my grandfather Ward Moore had retired as an editor. Yet because these assassins respect no one, words mean nothing to them. Their sway over the Post-Dispatch has gravely limited my access. When being allowed a short-lived access to their Off-Topics forum, I wrote the following to their Online Opinions Editor after he castigated me for speaking of my experiences, in language filled with contempt for me personally.
“Permit me to thank you in all sincerity for allowing me to discuss some current affairs with old friends and familiar antagonists. I think you realize I am beyond the breaking point and whether I have such contacts or even should, is beyond my ability to correctly assess, however I do want to thank you, and remind you that all of my testimony is sworn to. I cannot make such things up, that would be beyond me. That the authors of the crime have pretended it is performance art is how they could do it. Maybe you are a different generation than me, but AIDS really tore me up emotionally. I was put through ordeals of absolute horror by murderers who somehow sang themselves invincible. Since the fact that they are acid rock gaslighters and obsessed with me is a matter of public record, I can almost understand that you believe them it was just cruelty. On the other hand I am in the Post Dispatch immediate family and swore to my testimony in a polygraph room before a Maine State trooper. These Satanists do not love me, although they insist they do. They are playing Xiu Xiu, the terrifying film about misplaced trust and murder banned in China”. By claiming love is a right to theft, they have strengthened their position lying about their authorship of the script narrative.
I was attacked blindside as a child walking to school. They brutally kidnapped me and took me to a place called Kings Estate where they drenched a rag in paint thinner and said they would kill me if I didn't breathe the inhalants. Then, while I was semi-conscious, I was held in a sexual slavery safehouse. My father was Chair for Philosophy of Education at Pitt. After they killed him, I was horrendously slandered and sexually vilified by their vivisection company who attacked and raped the deaf girl who taught me sign language hoping I would escape. I fled across the United States where I am an old man in Community College, soon to be inducted into Phi Theta Kappa, while stalked by the criminally insane.
I’d like to share a vignette from the hostile agency of Peter Gabriel. I was a child who had moved to a new neighborhood after the Ku Klux Klan had kidnapped, brutally tortured me, and their car theft partners in the Black Panthers had kicked my notebooks of poetry into the sky of tears. My mother was screaming and screaming at me, as she always did, even though I would climb from the top shelf of the towel closet when she came home where I had hidden in trauma from everyone else. It would be decades before I knew that she was a Midwest crone who had sold me into slavery as a child to the dreams come true of watching neighbors. Why was she screaming this time? I was crying outside the record store to please, please let me buy From Genesis to Revelation it was the only thing I trusted. In rage she finally threw the money at me with the remorseless words, “You have hurt me so badly.” When I got home, I went into a recovery trance hearing the fatal words sung so prettily, “once upon a time there was confusion, disappointment, fear and disillusion, now there’s hope reborn with every morning.” I would play it over and over and over again, trying to stifle my terrible trauma and fears from kidnapping, mutilation and Black Panther stalking. Little did I know that the beguiling false tongue of hate was wooing me into a silence of brain coma from which it could watch and wait, for Peter Gabriel himself was behind the waylaying of the crying child in a hippy construct avenging Hiroshima for Yoko Ono, as has all be proven by the script they are hiding and you are denying to support them. In his clowniac brilliance as a member of the Royal Family he knew that Black hate would far more prize a white to destroy than care that they are serving a Ku Klux Klan Hollywood guild, offering them some. In a prison, the bunkmate is an informant. In a school, the teacher is a casino shark.
To this day. To this second they are watching with hate and sinister intention. Sneering that the white suck won’t admit it is about the money. The money machine that continues to grind as they lie about the substance of the play, the meaning of the prank, the fact of AIDS as a plot of Reagan and Ringo Starr.
The snivellers of hate are certainly lewd enough. They have confirmed much to their satisfaction that I was held prisoner in a CIA safehouse after being nearly killed by traumatic brain injury, forcing to use inhalants, cocaine, powerful hallucinogens, and surrender to fondling. They admit it involved brainwashing services by the US Military who watched from the next room, demanding would I rather go outside where the kidnappers waited to kill me? They admitted this was sexual indoctrination by pedophiles who worked for them. That doesn’t matter they have said again and again, because I think I’m so special. One of their child molesters on special assignment from NAAMBLA, DeDe, was payed off by Neva to seduce me as a child in trauma so that Pittsburgh could sell this tragedy as a sex story, but because their callous world crime was eugenic in nature, they have to argue against their own eugenics when rejecting my right to an unmolested home. Their cunning leader, Midori Goto, who I thought might help me when I was in Amnesty International, who awarded me a Certificate of Merit, couldn’t just say, sorry slowpoke, I don’t want to sleep with you, she had to dress up all sorts of terror crimes in a stupid and libelous yarn about me being an undesirable boyfriend because of having fantasies about Asian women. About the Korean deaf girl they had raped to brutalize me? About seeing her again after being driven thousands of miles away? About chatting concerning our unfortunate, but occasionally sweet lives, as best friends, over tea? That’s the reality of my so-called Eugenic fantasy. Midori Goto was feeding the lobby of KKK and Black Panthers. In her attack prostitute contract with those who tortured me as a child, she had escalated to monitoring of home pornography. Her parent company, SONY, who presided over the government’s plans, replete with experimental SAT questions about troubled neighborhoods asking you to choose if it left you with “detached amusement” or “sympathetic involvement,” know that my condition is state of nearly catatonic, total defeat from being serially mutilated in a vivisection outrage, but that’s not, of course, how they are selling it.
To them, their criminal satire is incredibly funny, and it has the perfect ending, just as it had an airtight alibi. In their finale, a panic-stricken individual, innocent of a beastial Beatle frame up, pleading for his life, and announcing the rights of an individual, is accused by an angry mob of seeking to profiteer from the AIDS attack, and the true assassins, armed with a pistol to the belly, punish the fink to the tune of a suspended Constitution. Yielding to the do-or-die of their arrogant plea for humanity makes one accessory to the AIDS attack in all its dirty premises, even when funding attempts to help the victims. They stood for it, too, sabotaging years of labor trying to give early warning, so they could loot and leer, and justify being just as lewd as the killers. It’s deranged mania. Set to the age old fraud of constructive engagement. Don’t listen to me. Give the million dollar hustle to the idealists working with Oliver Stone. If the Beatles can’t put the U.S. Constitution to death, what good are they?