The request, “well, you’ve studied it, could you simplify it for me?” isn’t unreasonable. In fact, there is an old saying, variously attributed, “I’m sorry I wrote you such a long letter, I didn’t have time to write you a short one.” Probably, a very canny person might say to a friend, “I don’t have time to read one of your long letters and I CERTAINLY do not have time to read one of your short ones.” To be sure, though, a short letter that explains is probably more welcome (unless the goal is dissembling) to a long letter that doesn’t. It is also reasonable and compromising to note that a person who may acknowledge that something isn’t quite right about our understanding of the big event in Dallas, Texas in November of 1963 isn’t extending a license to conscript them into occult masterworks about banking corruption, merchants of death and CIA intriguers. They just want to understand and are truly sorry that they don’t.
In order to narrate what happened from a knowledgeable perspective you have to make choices, and risk losing people along the way. The mechanics of the Kennedy assassination and its pathway to the present were not put together by KnowItAll children you have to teach from scratch even if at best the class includes a thirty year old millennial still capable of learning anything at all. It was paranormal in its impact. Ivy League adventurers in the mysterian aristocracy in banking and Hollywood thought it out from many perspectives as a statement of great intensity. They were studied men. It wasn’t all Skull and Bones in their dissertation. Some of it was practical intelligence. They knew not just about power but about types of power, so the feeling of spectral evidence that comes through as crank ideas and witch-hunting is a radiance that it is entirely faithful for investigators to detect. It is categorically unsafe to ignore those facts in evidence that don’t seem to fit. It may be the premises we are trying to fit them to which are at fault. These were experts from cinema who had worked on the Twilight Zone. We know this now from discovery of the Texas Schoolbook. The crime was a call from the Dark Shadows of Collinwood in an age of black and white television.
Intruding from a staged ransacking of my dresser by an agent from 20th Century Fox who was married into my family for the plan through klan drama club arrangements, the staged and plotted discovery of the Texas Schoolbook itself should have immediately been recognized as a message in a bottle by the killers. Instead it was embraced as a special relic granting Kennedy and his doomed contemporaries three last wishes. In testifying to the order of recordings calculated in rate, time and annuities, in the change of hands between 1963 and 1993 when I found the schoolbook, to 2023 which is looming, that is already faraway and where totally lost opportunity took place, will likewise be displayed in the funhouse of distant history if it is admitted into history as evidence at all. As maddening as it is, this makes the matter very urgent. An enormous counter-sale was made. As I write, un-noted, the last shards of opportunity to find solace in knowing what happened gets ground out.
The assassins managed to render a beautiful boy into a grotesquery. On my own terms nobody thinks I’m that bad. Deaf, middle-aged, early senior, I got enough sign language education to return to a community college as an old man and triumph in the Honors program in Pittsburgh before embarking for Tacoma with diabetes. I continue to paint, attend community groups and debate philosophy and politics online. In other words, as one of the pedestrians standing in line at a bus stop I don’t stand out. You say hello or ignore me and your life is still exactly the same. The assassination schoolbook and the media empire that issued its proclamation does not work that way however. It is not the half-concerned eye of a man or woman on the street, at the bus, or fellow student in the library. It has a much more mythical standard. I am, in this evil tract, being compared unfavorably to Kennedy and Lennon, while being taunted as trying to get ahead illicitly in grandiose self-promotion. I am, in all this, a white hate object, too. I didn’t even serve in the Armed Forces, scream the haters. What’s this moonshine celebrity, you holler, grabbing the script and sneering, “Why I know what we’ll do!”
So this happened and it was in place to happen. All it took was Jim Marrs and Oliver Stone to laugh that all off as “finders’ keepers.” Even though the late Jim Marrs puts at the epigram of his tome about the big event, “do not trust this book,” the exact same forces, the exact shibboleths that existed to prevent the questioning of J. Edgar Hoover now protect Jim Marrs. His is the godparent who profited from the Texas Schoolbook and mysteriously enough, he danced at Jack Ruby’s Carousel Club the week of the big event. It is no joke to say he should be suspected. His intercession defined failure to warn in a critical turning point of human history, about which the Texas Schoolbook is also a relic: The AIDS Onslaught. JFK led the liberals into the pit. This is factual record of the mind at work in the tract by Hitler and Reagan. The door of Jim Marrs’ legacy should be kicked down and trashed in pursuit of his true purpose.
Knowing the throwaway line mindset of the assassins, agents from Britain like Petis J. Sinfield, I’m sure the toast to Venus and Marrs was perfunctory but D-Day was very painful and personal for me. To commit (knowingly) a monstrous fraud is a grim turning point all its own as a place mark in such a significant page from the book of time. I am not the first person to compare schaedenfreude, juvenile sadism, malicious envy or any of the other base characteristics of pack animal culture, spiteful children behaving as depicted in Lord of the Flies for being like jackals. The similarity is gloomy enough when it is nativists spitting at immigrants or throwing rocks at peace marchers, but to find it in the faces and writings of what should be a very dignified sect of researchers, the men and women who still care about Kennedy, and are still appalled by what our society can do to a very special woman like Jackie Kennedy, all in service to a deeply cruel FRAUD authored by the killers which necessitated my defamation is a priceless doublecross. That King Crimson are behind it is especially hard on the nostrils. What a smarter man would have recognized for a soundtrack, I took for my salvation.
So because of this, America now has its own genre of holocaust literature, a semiotic brought together by a forcing house administration of absolute gall, using me for not one but two cold blooded special education ordeals, the first in the holy terror, kidnapping and gassing me in the name of Jewish survivors that found me cowering as a child on the top shelf of our towel closet like Anne Frank and the second as an object of parochial scorn used by a child pornography ring, brutal in their doctrines, for an example of blaming the victims in the AIDS attack, cleverly connived to include a panel of victims in the secret trial. Johnny Rotten’s No Future rhetoric received consummation when I was chemically castrated by a shadowy hospital orderly.
The crime committed by Rosine Monteleone would be serious even if it hadn’t happened to me. She covered for the AIDS attackers and promoted the idea that the aggressors were a mythical lobby of heroic symbols, Hollywood in awe of its own dirty. Martin Sheen, who made sure I knew it was him by introducing himself to me in Pittsburgh, who in those days was led by Bill Clinton, made quite a show of the fun to be had lying through the teeth. They called it the principle of the thing somehow.
From a scientific point of view the lies were quite obvious, putting aside Yoko Ono’s wall of sound about sexual inadequacy and the simpering of the sub-prime Beta Male, promulgating dark comparison to the heroic men of memory, the murderers impacted a neurotrauma and then dared to say their ruthless study and tampering upon and sabotage of the hardship of a stricken deaf man’s dire labor seeking to warn others was an issue defamatory of the content of ...his... character? I can understand a man like Dexter King when baited by his father’s killers saying give him the money anyway, even knowing how the killers got it and where it came from, but to do it as an investment in lies about the AIDS attack takes work to accept. So the neurotrauma became a multidimensional necessity and parallel program in preference theory. Our society isn’t a society of laws. We pick and choose, giving criminals superior legal status to their victims.
Rosa had been hired by child mutilationists, beyond molesters, for vultures on high. I saw my heart, the heart of my children from another possible world, my love for King Crimson, my faith in my society, all the self-deception that kept awareness of the sinister side of my family at bay, my work investigating AIDS, my victim status, my life’s work as a poet, taken and physically destroyed, spiritually soul murdered, in a deadly ordeal of homelessness and seizures where I was pitilessly tortured yet again. The plotters fulfilled the ultimate thrill of stealing my fiance, raping my deaf advocate and laughing when I was unmanned, saying the case was proven? By a hidden nerve agent? Because I cried?
We know now (from the Texas Schoolbook) that D.W. Griffith was staged managing the evolution of a cult that produced Reagan’s war time films and put Hollywood in charge of Radio Free Europe, after rescuing Hitler and penning it: the Texas Schoolbook, a ransom from the sex chambers of Elizabeth Taylor, the Old South, and Argentina. The reason why we need to look more closely at what once seemed just curiosities, like the photo of John Wayne with Oswald is that Wayne’s first movie was was Birth of a Nation. Melvin Belli didn’t just represent Ruby and appear on Star Trek, he represented the Goering Estate. So this helps us see that how Robert Fripp cruelly manipulated me into position for execution illustrates the way that innocent people caught up in events can serve a utility to a powerful patrol subtracting our freedoms piecemeal.
It didn’t end that day. It was just beginning.