A local tragedy is filled with people who have their own take on the subject and who could no more contradict an official report than derive meaning from one. The rest of the world do not know who it is about or anything about the subject. If a very talented writer comes along, perhaps they can make it entertaining enough to read in leisure, usually by altering significant details, changing names and calling it fiction. How they paint the details may vary, but in Pittsburgh anyone who knew me growing up knew I had nothing but kind words for the band King Crimson. When I was in my 20’s it was largely the only thing left that I had anything resembling faith in, and the discovery that I was being lied to by them, and the form it took, hostilities from the hand of a woman I believed my fiance, left me so shattered that I cannot finish the sentence in a way necessary to express the crime. It has been, ever since, for the last thirty years, as though I was hatcheted into a million pieces, each left alive and writhing to be eaten by ants.
From the point of view of money and time invested on their part it would have been a lot easier, saner and more productive to take cognizance of a deaf man with grandfather at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and father in Chair of Philosophy of Education at Pitt. They knew about the impacted nerve injury, to just rehabilitate me, give me medical therapy, and say, okay, you know sign language now, go back to school and write your sociological beliefs about the contribution our dark band made to American society. It wouldn’t have made me an over-achiever but it would have brought a note of humanism to a situation from hell, considering how viciously I had been tortured as a child. But King Crimson were not that sort of people. They hated themselves and anything who admired them was suspicious to them to an insane degree. They sided with truly depraved rivals who offered them a menu of criminal perspectives to choose from instead of helping me, which they decided was beneath them.
Neither sociology nor history was irrelevant. We were coming out of Nixon, a nefar-sidious age. To a great degree these insane pygmies with their guitars were exploitative of the Red Scare paranoia and gave it high anxiety substance in their deafening screams of hatred and bullying on vinyl. They made a mockery of tin foils hats from the civilized dream of peace that was ravaged by drugs when Martin Luther King was done in. The generation was completely defeated and these lizards, as the liked to call themselves, set up shop in the peculiar domestic habitat that was laid waste and subject to forgetfulness. No one seems even now to see what was really going on. It only makes sense in a world where meaning has completely fled, the way those who exists on the fringes of study concerning JFK, who, while of a different heart, amount in some ways to being like the lost ark of the Thule Society burning candles for the day that the fuhrer regains his shade.
The Kennedy assassination is absolutely relevant to what King Crimson did to me on many different levels. First the insane and murdering humiliation is so serious that any reflection on the subject finds even the most honor-bound former associates of my father and grandfather capitulating the issue into a state of eternal retrogression. The divorce from me as a human being with cultural capital is written to disgrace by that very gesture. All of which testifies to a dark and fatal plan. I did not want to have to prove this. I was accepting and took all of this in silence until the sad day I learned I wasn’t the only victim, by then the character assassins in London had it all set up for peer derision towards me as a deaf man screaming in seizures by taking my girlfriend away from me, sending me packing into homelessness, raping my deaf advocate and chemically castrating me, without trial and I deny wrongdoing.
The whole issue of better-ness our society lives by is turned upside down when you look at this hegemonic irregulars. They are callow, spiteful, super-achievers. Jeannie has no teeth, literally, she’s been raped, she’s Korean and orphan. She doesn’t understand English and only knows sign. She’s deaf. Yet thanks to her I was inducted last week into Phi Theta Kappa. You can’t imagine how hard that was, and god love her, she never asked me for anything in return. I would look with genuine pity on someone who passed up a chance to meet her in order to meet Donald Trump. Literally. As human beings, in the vein of better-ness, there isn’t any rational basis to compare the two of them.
The English eccentrics wore the mask of lampoon that allowed them to adjust the assassinations to fit our convenience as a society. The behemoth of the script about AIDS written by gleeful Israeli exterminationists took the lead as the proper place of liberals was established by a sort of French ironicism, allowing our enemies to inflict a monstrous humiliation on our society we failed to see the fingerprints of their personality on their follow up attacks even as they escalated deeper into the unspeakable.
Meanwhile they have been anything but idle. They used the historic tactic of Yojimbo from British Labor, playing on the dandyism of Lewis Lapham’s disregard of JFK they struck from his dark fantasy of New York City as the heartbeat of American heritage getting a volunteer community assistant in Chinatown of Seattle named Donnie Chin assassinated, totally without tears. This Yojimbo business, hitting one side, then the other, which comes from British Labor and Penis Gabriel, has for thirty years worn the giggler’s mask of poetic justice, and the stupids bought it, gobbled it up all the way to laughing mania. The humiliation by and of the police department is surreal.