The tragedy of James MacRyland Crary is a tombstone western told twice by persons who buried it into anonymity along with the life they stole.  It was a poison crime that is still lingering that took place in The United States of America, City of Pittsburgh, in the shadow of social change.   It was told twice by a series of abstractions arranged by powerful men who kept it out of publishing and currency. They called it I am the Walrus and authored it themselves, along with the poison tragedy.   In this sad arrangement the character was said to have missed his chance in the world by being a 60’s child all confused by sex and drugs who didn’t realize he had a script that could have been used to save his world if only he had the character to have understood it, instead the authorities took it away and made the situation for him what it is today, an experiment in a secret Death Row by the NAACP directed against a white hate object they consider deserving.   No one denied that the stricken child was in the hands of the KKK, or that his father, Ryland Wesley Crary, Chair of Philosophy of Education at the University of Pittsburgh, an Iowan, had authored a book dedicated to Martin Luther King after a term of service in the Peace Corps and as a Naval Lieutenant on the US San Jacinto in the radio room contact with George Bush, nor that his mother Nancy Jane Moore of Wichita, KS whose father Ward worked on the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, mysteriously looked away and ignored Jimmy’s disappearance from home and the school for a month, as did the school, allowing only that it happened years later as she blamed her son to the authorities about things she said she’d forgotten, who assured her they all agreed.   The story they tell remains what it always was, a nightmare and a fraud.

         A few people object that the death of millions is at stake, that if anyone deviates from the story line it is a way of changing the script concerning the mental health processes deployed by the NAACP computer in City of Pittsburgh that sent the individual away to Mt. Desert Island to play a role as unreportable atrocity voodoo doll in the events of the 80’s that must never be reported to or referred to by name.   To do otherwise would be to allow the question as to whether the authorities who found the script did the right thing in failure to warn as the hurricane made landfall, vowing instead that the blame was over the loss of life they claimed to one another man who had notoriety in the drug craze. The script ran that James cudda saved John Lennon and therefore the authorities did the right thing by making him an object of a series of poison crimes earned by having, they said, lied about following John Lennon in his ways, always adding that Lennon was much more noble and talented.

           Again, no one, to be fair, ever said that the murder was the doing of Crary, who these days goes by Mac, as a senior citizen in a Community College, deaf and very bereft.   The publishing industry claim that the issue isn’t James knowing but that he cudda known, and was negligent. This experiment in slavery turned him over to the Warhol estate in secrecy who used him for the manufacture of many outrages against his person authored in pursuit of their satisfaction.

         The second telling is a little bit different.   Not a real long time after Dr. Gregory Chin examined Mac’s eyes and told the scientific tale of scars to the eyes from terrible childhood beatings, a local well-loved International District/Chinatown volunteer Security guard, Donnie Chin the local Bruce Lee with an antique store was gunned down in a hail of fire that I believe originated in the City of Pittsburgh under the pretext of avenging a poison crime towards me, Mac Crary, by the UW Administration in sympathy with Warhol, an act of chemical castration.   The beatings testified to horrible torture and crime by Warhol that is criminally insane. They never bothered in any way with addressing the true author of the script Gail Carolyn Burstyn, graduate of Bryn Mawr, because she was their agent all along. Already I was deafened by their poison crime, a nerve agent forcibly given to me when I was beaten terribly, held hostage to armed men, forced to use inhalants in a dark garage, and subjected to unbearably humiliating and degrading acts. It defies logic and reason because its only purpose is extermination of a mind.

       Among the terrible offenses committed as reprisal towards me by the combination alliance of the KKK and NAACP who have worked this situation as a sort of feudal and derisive claim by Hollywood on a Tombstone story, part of their prison strike glorifying the bad boys of Warhol, was the a.m. rape of a deaf girl with Downs Syndrome, who only very recently became a U.S. Citizen, a Korean orphan who came here in 1976, for unknowingly, out of her humanity, breaking the Union line against teaching me sign language which had held from 1972 when first the agency attacked and poisoned me, as all the evidence shows.   This mission isn’t about Evidence for the raiders, it’s about the power to do telling. Chin I’s humanitarian act allowed me to re-enter school where I was recently inducted to Phi Theta Kappa, but not before being poisoned in the mouth by the authorities in Seattle who have marked me for UW Sociology with duty to the psychopathic rendering of the Warhols.

        Although the murderers from King Crimson behind this hostile and tawdry tombstone western have repeated issued the claim and the challenge that it is a duel they are determined to win, I deny wrongdoing.  I was a 98 pound grade school child in the honors department at Fulton Elementary of Pittsburgh when attacked blindside by armed men working for them. Far from being negligent I went to the Principal’s Office when instructed after crying in class and biting my fingernails bloody, begging to be walked home for protection from a gang of men that were waiting and going to kill me.  They laughed at me. I crawled into the top shelf of my towel closet at home and stayed there in terror. When I recounted this to a Black man he shouted at me, “Don’t say like Anne Frank!’ The men found me, walking freezing in the cold, afraid to go to school, kidnapped me, and inflicted such a terrible brain injury that I didn’t recall what had happened for over thirty years when, screaming and screaming and screaming by the Des Moines River in Iowa, my eyes nearly separating, the coma broke and forced its way into my facial nerve where it can be seen today.  Fulton Elementary never called home or reported my absence.